| "Black Out" (the nineteenth ACW monthly writing contest) |
Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Black Out" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), March 15, 2003 |
| Black, Out by walshnyc@yahoo.com (Entry #15) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| My father reacted pretty much how I
expected he would. "You’re what?" he bellowed. He grasped the corners of the dinner table, causing our plates and glasses to rattle slightly. I expected him to stand up, becoming a six-foot-two exclamation point to the shouting that was sure to follow. I had come to dinner at his house to break the news, and brought my partner, Rob, along for moral support, so I guess I knew things weren’t going to go over too well. "Dad, I know what you’re going to say," I started, attempting to get a word in while I still had a chance. "No, I don’t think you do," he interrupted. "I don’t even know what I’m going to say, so how in the hell do you-" "Leon, calm down," my mother told him. Her voice direct and even, but her expression one of subdued disbelief. I had considered telling the news to her first, and to let her relay it to my father, but it seemed unfair to burden her alone with his reaction. "Did you not hear what our boy said?" My father barked. "I did, but if you don’t take it easy, we’ll be discussing it at the hospital and not the dinner table," she replied, offering an explanatory glance to Rob; "High blood pressure," she said, nodding toward my father. My father seemed to respond to her warning, releasing his grip on the table and settling back in his chair. "How did this happen? When did this happen?" he asked, his ire toned down, but still prominent. "I think I first knew when I was in college," I said. "It was the first time I’d ever been exposed to African Americans who were a lot like me. The big difference was that they lived their lives doing and experiencing things I’d always felt attuned to, but kept repressed because I knew how you felt about it." "College? The college that we sweat blood to get you in to? And this is how you show your appreciation?" "Dad, you know I got through college on scholarships," I countered. "We would have paid for it if you didn’t get the scholarships," he snapped. "Besides, we did everything we had to in order to make sure you had a chance to get those scholarships. We kept you out of the public schools, we kept you away from the bad influences, and we made sure you had everything you needed to excel as a student. We supported your decision to go to law school, we supported your decision when you left the big firm to start your own practice, but if you’ve coming looking for our support for this..." His words trailed off, and he stared down at the half-eaten leg of lamb and mashed potatoes on his plate. "I need a beer," he said abruptly, and stood. "Why don’t you just drink the wine Donald brought for us?" My mother said. "No, this situation definitely calls for a beer," he replied as he disappeared into the kitchen. There was an awkward moment in which we could hear him mumble obscenities in the other room. Rob offered a weak smile and kept on eating in silence. My mother turned to me, reached across the table and lay her hand atop my own. "Donald, you know we love you, and support you no matter what you do," she said; "but this is something that is going to take a while for your father and I to digest." "I know, mom," I said, feeling small and childish before her. "I’ve been wanting to say something for a long time, but I knew it wouldn’t go over well, and I didn’t want to hurt you." "Then you must have a good reason for choosing this time to do it," she said, fishing for answers. Her eyes left mine briefly as she watched my father come back to the table with a bottle of beer. "In a couple of weeks, I’m going to participate in a rally at City Hall," I explained. "I just didn’t want you to find out from the five o’clock news." "Great, just great." My father took a long swig from the bottle, and turned his attention to Rob. "And where do you fit in to all of this?" Ever the diplomat, Rob dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, and sat up straight before answering. "We’re in this together," he said with conviction; "Whatever Donald does, I’ll be right behind him." "That’s what I’m afraid of," my father grumbled. "You know it’s going to be rough, don’t you?" My mother said, rejoining the fray. "You’re an articulate, educated African American man, and those people are going to want to exploit you for all you’re worth. You may think you’re doing this for personal reasons, but they’ll use you whether you want them to or not." "I know, mom, but I have no intention of letting anybody use me. I know I’m a commodity in the public eye, but I think I can use it to my advantage, not theirs." "You keep telling yourself that," my father said, "and maybe your new friends will let you keep believing it while they make sure you have a high profile spot in parades and press conferences." He had resumed eating, each chew projecting his acrimony towards me. Rob put down his silverware, then emptied his wineglass. He decided to seize the lull in the debate as a good time to make his exit, and I signaled with my eyes that it was okay with me if he wanted to leave. "I’ve really got to get going," he said as he stood. "Mr. Miller, Mrs. Miller, the food was delicious. Thanks for having me." My mother nodded and smiled. My father snorted and glared, his mouth full again. "Let me walk you out," I said, pushing my chair away from the table. I got Rob’s coat and held it while he slipped his arms into it. We stepped outside onto the front porch, and I pulled the door almost all the way closed behind me. "Are you sure you want to go back in there?" Rob asked, noting the muted sound of my father’s resumed tirade. "I need to see this thing through, whether he accepts it or not. Will you be at the office early tomorrow?" "Do I have a choice?" he joked. "Your name is on the door just like mine; that makes you as much the boss as me." "Yeah, and that makes it even more important that I maintain a high profile around the place, especially since you’re going to get pretty involved in your extracurricular activities, right partner?" "You said it, partner," I echoed back to him. We could hear my father’s voice reaching another crescendo, and I opened the door so we could listen in. "My own son- a republican! Where did I go wrong?" he yelled. "Wow," Rob laughed, "you would think you had told him you were gay!" "He wouldn’t have had a problem with that," I grinned. "I know if I can win a seat on the City Council, I’ll be able to show him that I can use the position to do some good for the community, and it won’t matter what my political party affiliation is." "Yeah, well I hope you’re right," Rob said, then turned and headed down the front walk, waving good-bye over his shoulder. I turned and stepped back into the house, toward the maelstrom of my father’s anger. I knew that no matter how I fared as a politician, it seemed unlikely I would ever win the popular vote in this house. |
| Black Out by Eric Ayers LogDogY2K@yahoo.com (Entry #3) |
|
| ~Runner Up~ | |
| "G 59! G 59!" the announcer’s
monotone voice droned. I usually fall to sleep at more exciting drivel, but not
today. This was the 44th number called on the final game of the night. The
growing tension here in the recreation hall had half of us tenants downing
their heart medication, the other half sucking their oxygen tanks dry. Mabel Porter elbowed me to show me she was down to four numbers left…on all six of her goddamn cards! That bitch is always getting the good cards! It’s just amazing she hadn’t won one of these super prize blackout games yet. "N 33! N 33!" Damn, I didn’t check all three of my cards for, what was it? Oh yeah, G 59. Nope, no G 59, but N 33 was great! All three cards had it! And I was closing in this time! Only two left on the right card! Only three on the center! Could this be my day? How many numbers had been called now? Am I too late? "Your 46th number is O 74, that’s O 7-4," his tone now betrayed that he sensed people getting close. His eyes darted over the crowd like he was looking for his lost child. ‘Don’t let him know,’ I tell myself. ‘If he knows, he won’t call my numbers. Hold the emotions in check, dammit, or risk getting careless! I know I lost that game last July because I called Bingo early. God, I honestly don’t know how I lived through that night. O 74, let’s see. Yes! Here it is!’ I had one left! I whispered a quick prayer. "Oh, Lord, please let me win! Please let me win!" "B 5! B 5!" The announcer took several moments now to scan the room looking for an old hand to shoot upward or a feeble voice to call out "Bingo!" It didn’t come, and I start breathing again. No real help that time, but just one number and I’ll do it. I’ll win! I absent-mindedly mark B 5 on the center card without noticing it was also now down to two numbers. "I 18! I 18!" The announcer’s voice is now dripped with anticipation like caramel off a fresh-baked sticky bun. I scanned the crowd and saw where Jules used to sit before he won, and Monica’s place, now occupied by that cow, Beth. Again, I whispered to now one in particular, "Oh, if only I could win this blackout and get the freedom they won! Oh, to be able to see the blessed sun one more time, to breath fresh air again!" Crap! I 18 only marked on that crummy left card. What a waste! "G 60! G 60!" I marked the center card and it was down to its last number. Oh my God! Only one more… "BINGO!" I looked up in horror as Mabel nearly toppled me when she stood up holding a bingo card in her left hand. The flabby tissue that used to be her left triceps knocked my hat off. "Oh God, no!" I stammered. Mabel! I’ve always hated her, especially since she I decided she was responsible for my turtle’s mysterious demise when we were living in the same room. "Hold your cards, people!" blared over the speakers. Here came the obligatory "not over ‘til it’s over speech" spewing from the announcer’s mouth. Of course, last July, when I screwed up, half the players didn’t listen to him and cleared their cards…but now everyone listens. "We need to check this card out. Don’t clear your cards until it’s official. The call came on number 49, so there’s still a chance for the 50-number blackout if this is not a real bingo." After about 12 numbers were confirmed I heard the assistant call "G 46." I stared in disbelief as that was the one number I needed on the center card and was also still open on the left card. I noticed others gasping and whispering as that number wasn’t lit on the board and not marked on their cards either. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is NOT an official bingo!" the caller, now animated for the first time all night announced. "G 46 was NOT called and this game will continue with the next number being the final chance for the ultimate reward blackout. If we don’t hear a bingo on the next call, we’ll revert to the consolation prize, which is, of course, getting your own room for the duration of your stay here at Peaceful Coexistence." The caller continued. "Everyone will please calm down as we remove Mrs. Porter from the hall. She is no longer eligible to win today. Please escort her to her room and allow her to prepare to receive the penalty for miscalling a blackout." No one but I seemed to notice Mabel was now openly sobbing. I shuddered to remember just how I suffered through that ordeal in July. I can still remember the feel of the scratchy leather restraint straps, the taste of the antiseptic on the bite block, the shuddering pain of the electrical shocks. I remember the exquisite pain when my knee was damaged during the convulsions. Hell, I’ll remember that pain every rainy night until I die. For the first time I could remember, I felt a real sadness for Mabel. I wouldn’t send my worst enemy to that fate. Now she’d gone there by her own actions. A single tear escaped my eye for Mabel, but only one. After all, that was the rules. Besides, the contest was starting again. "Ladies and gentlemen, the final number for the ultimate prize blackout is…." I stared at G 46 on the center card. A grin escaped my as I thought, ‘What an irony if I win it on the same number she screwed up on!’ "I 29! I 2-9!" As I cursed my luck that G 46 was not the number, I glanced to the right card and…’Oh my GOD! I won!’ the thought screamed through my mind as I marked the last number on that right card. I stood up and screamed as best I could, "BINGO! I got a BINGO!" But everyone looked at me with deep suspicion. Even the caller wasn’t quick to acknowledge me. He readdressed the rules that the bingo wasn’t official until verified. But I didn’t care. I knew it was real! ‘Oh God!’ I prayed deep inside, ‘Please let it be real! I can’t take another shock session!’ After an eternity, the announcer said, "Ladies and Gentlemen, Annabel Costas is confirmed the winner of this year’s Peaceful Coexistence Ultimate Reward blackout prize. Next week will begin the buildup to a new ultimate reward blackout. We’ll start with the blackout prize of one extra meal a week for a year. For now, thank you for playing, and good night." It was true! I won the ultimate reward! I would be allowed to leave the home and again bask in the light of the sun. Where would I live now? Oh well, they didn’t need to know that right away. The Bahamas would be nice. Maybe just in Vegas. I’ll tell them later, but I’ll enjoy this moment now! I’m a winner!!
|
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Black Out by Christopher Perham chris232310@yahoo.com |
#1 of 16 |
| 1591 words | |
| The only thing Mallory liked better than a game of
hide-and-go seek was no one finding her when she played hide-and-go seek. She
took pride in her ability to completely stupefy everyone looking for her. Her
record stood at three hours and twenty-two minutes: she had the time on her
watch to prove it. School was out for the summer, and Mallory, a twenty-year-old in a ten-year-old body, decided to have some friends over. Of course, Mallory was the only one in her whole family who knew she was as mature as she was, but to everyone else, Mallory was still the girl who played games. The witching hour had long since passed, and the grandfather clock rang three times, signaling the start of another game. The windows were drawn and a corner lamp threw a great shadow across the room, spilling its luminosity on the wall like a painter’s canvas. The upstairs door creaked open, and Jennifer--a taller, prettier version of Mallory—emerged and clutched the balcony rail. "If you don’t go to bed right now," she scolded, "I am calling mom and dad." "You won’t call them," she taunted. "They’re in Europe." She darted out of sight, giggling in the shadows. Mallory’s friends sat on the couch and watched benignly as Jennifer threw her hands in the air and stormed back into her room. "Let’s play," Mallory stated from the kitchen. "It’s my turn to hide." "Where does she get this energy?" said a girl named Shelley. Her bouncing blonde curls agreed. "Okay," said Rachel, the other girl. "We’re counting." Jennifer sped through the house nimbly on padded feet, careful not to make a sound. She would not be found this time. She tucked away into the pantry and started her watch. "Here we come," the girls chimed. "Shut up!" Jennifer screamed from upstairs. "Or you’ll be sorry!" Mallory didn’t secure the lock on the door so the girls could look inside. Mallory had squeezed in behind the washer and dryer and covered herself with towels and sheets. She giggled to herself when she heard doors open and shut around the house. She swore she heard the refrigerator door open. Mallory found the pantry uncomfortably warm on this June evening. She looked at her watch: 42 minutes. She fanned herself with a towel and wiped her face. She hadn’t heard giggling in about twenty minutes and wondered if maybe her hiding spot was too good. When her watch marked one-hour, she figured the girls had gotten tired of looking for her and went to bed. She tossed the towels and sheets aside and went to the door, but as she turned the handle, the sound of shattered glass pierced the quiet and the two girls screamed. "Oh, God," was her first thought. "What did they break?" She started to open the door, but something made a tremendous thud and a shrieking sound that made every bone in her body shudder. Every hair on her body stood on end as if her teacher had just scraped all her fingernails across the chalkboard. She locked the door, held her breath, and listened. Nothing. The silence was terrible. The room was completely black. No windows. No lights. Black. She wiped her forehead with a dry sleeve. She dared not move for she might be heard. The screams came again, not from the girls, but from something otherworldly. Then came the thuds, one after another, like heavy boots. Mallory closed her eyes, using her ears. She pressed it to the door. And she heard clicking. It was not a sound she recognized. The clicking sounds were distinct and awful: Click-Click-Clickety-Click. Mallory recoiled at the sound of ripping. What was that ripping noise? Her heart pounded her chest from the inside. She couldn’t think. What was making that sound? What was out there? "It can’t be human," she thought, but reason and logic waged a war against her imagination, and her imagination was winning. What was out there? What was making the awful sounds, the clicking, the screaming, the thudding, the ripping? God, what was that ripping noise? She walked backward slowly to her hiding place, back between the washer and dryer, quietly thankful for her talent. She covered herself with the towels and sheets and thought of good things: her parents, her sister, her friends. "Jennifer," she thought. "God, I hope Jennifer is alright." She checked her watch again: 82 minutes. The tearing continued as Mallory listened from the pantry. She closed her eyes, but images of huge, scaly creatures with sharp teeth filled her thoughts. She added crunching and chewing to her mental list, but she tried to erase them and couldn’t. Bones. The crunching sound was bones. She didn’t know for sure, but she was almost certain. The crunching and the clicking stopped, as if whatever out there was listening. Mallory held her breath again. The sound of heavy boots echoed in her ears. It—or they—was moving. "They’re looking for something else to eat," said reason from somewhere in her brain. It had sided with imagination. "They want you, Mallory." She shook the thoughts from her head, but they were still there, like real voices. Thud-Thud-Thud came the sound of boots. Click-Click-Clickety-Click. "They’re going to find you, Mallory," said the voices. "And when they do, they’re going to chew up your bones too." Mallory thought of her family. She thought of school. She thought of anything that would take her mind from here. But it was useless. Her brain was a kaleidoscope of black madness. It whirled and spun visions of horrible things, things she saw in movies and television, things of make-believe. She tried to reason with the voices, but they taunted her even more. "They know where you are." She heard another voice and they spoke in unison. Thud-Thud-Thud, Click-Click-Clickety-Click-Click. The noises became louder, closer. The battle in her mind waged and the voices grew in number, culminating in a terrible chorus of prophesy. Thud-Thud, Clickety-Click-Click. "They’re at the door, Mallory. Did you forget to lock the door, Mallory?" Then the voices stopped. "My God," she thought. "Did I forget to lock the door?" The creatures screamed and sniffed at the door. She closed her eyes tightly, listening. "Did I forget the door?" "You forgot to lock the door, Mallory," came the voices. "They’re at the door." She couldn’t remember. Did she or didn’t she remember to lock the door? She was sure she had, but what if she hadn’t? They were right there, outside. Sniffing. What were they sniffing for? "Because you smell like food!" the voices wailed. She made her decision. She would look, just to be sure. But before she looked, she checked her watch again: 114 minutes. She moved slowly, deliberately, trying not to draw attention. The creatures were outside the door, sniffing, waiting. She moved the towels. She moved the sheets. She slowly peered around the corner of the dryer, her eyes wide with terror. The handle began to move. It jarred from side to side. The sniffing and clicking was a cacophony of madness. Clickety-click-click. "You’d better lock the door, quick, before they get the door open." The voices were calm, logical, and persuasive. She had locked the door; she remembered now. The brass door handle turned from side to side, creaking in the recesses of her brain. She watched it turn; it moved slightly, then more aggressively, shaking the foundation of the door. Something slammed the door hard. "They’re breaking it down!" screamed the voices in her head. "You can’t let them get in here!" Her bones were poles of ice inside numb flesh. She stood and walked toward the door, slowly, but with resolve. The door shuddered again. She grasped the handle to keep it from turning, but it slid beneath her grip. She held it with both hands, but it was moving, moving more forcefully than she could hold,and the door whisked open. Mallory fell back from the force, terrified, shaking. Her sister stood at the door—hands on hips—her eyes speaking volumes of untold tales. "What the hell are you doing in here?" Jennifer said. Mallory looked behind Jennifer, but saw nothing. She stood and walked cautiously to the door. Holding the doorjambs, she looked from side to side. Nothing. Quiet. "Where’s Rachel?" Mallory said slowly. "Where’s Shelley?" Jennifer pointed upstairs. "Go to bed, now!" "Where are my friends?" Mallory demanded. Jennifer knelt down and looked Mallory in the eyes. "Listen you little bitch. Mom and Dad may be in Europe, but while they’re gone, I run this house." "You can’t talk to me like that!" Mallory huffed. "Where are my friends?" Jennifer moved to the window. Mallory looked around, but Shelley and Rachel were not there. "They’re hiding aren’t they? I’m supposed to find them, right?" Jennifer stood beside the window. "Mallory," she said. "This isn’t a game. You’re friends are gone. They won’t ever be back. Now go to bed or," she drew the shades and two hideous creatures leered in from beyond the glass, unleashing terrible screams. "I’ll have to let them back inside." Red eyes glowed in the darkness and one of them had something hanging from its teeth: it was round at the end of a flaccid tangle of hair—bouncing blonde curls. In one gulp, it crunched and swallowed the head and unleashed a maddening howl. Mallory screamed as Jennifer closed the blinds. She fell to the ground, clawed her way back to the pantry, and slammed the door, concealed by the perfect darkness. |
|
| Black Out by lee10@host365.com |
#2 of 16 |
| 1353 words | |
| The man had been waiting for half an hour. His eyes
were accustomed now to the thick blackness of an unlit night. He pressed his
bulk deeper into the recessed shop doorway. His feet were cold slabs of
unresponsive meat, but he dare not stamp them for fear of giving his position
away. Across the road, a door opened briefly. The postman slipped through, almost before light could seep into the street. The door closed behind him as he carefully counted his way down the Post Office steps. The watcher heard him mutter, "It's as black as Hades out here. Never known it so dark." The air was still. There was no breeze to snatch the words away. There were few people about. Those who had no need to be on the blacked-out streets were at home, in front of blazing coal fires, or in bed early, catching up on a little sleep before the inevitable sirens, screaming out an air raid warning, brought them out, running for shelter. The postman walked up the street, guiding himself with fingers that lightly brushed the rough brick wall on his right. The watcher began to move from his hiding place, began to follow his quarry. At the corner the postman stopped and reached into the bag slung over his shoulder for the packet of letters he had to deliver this shift. His torch, property of His Majesty's Government, had been specially adapted for blackout conditions. The glass was taped so that only a slit of dim light was available for reading the addresses. The postman started to cross the road but stopped at the kerbside when he heard a regular clank, clank, clank coming towards him. "Evenin' Sidney," he called. "When are you going to get a proper bike and give that thing back to your missus?" The blackout warden stopped. "Evenin' Joe. What d'ya mean? There's nothing wrong wi' this bike that a drop of oil wouldn't cure." They laughed companionably. "Bit black tonight, ain't it?" Joe continued. "Can't understand as how you never fall off your bike in these conditions." "Oh, I do. That's one of the reasons it's so noisy. Got the front wheel caught in the grating outside Mrs.William's last night and went a right cropper. It's the pedal you can hear, clanking on the chain-guard. I'll have to fix it at the weekend before Dorothy discovers it's bent, or there'll be trouble and I'll be in it." "Will you be in The Black Horse later?" Joe asked. "Depends. Dora Blockwood in Curzon Street wants me to help her put her curtain rail back up after me rounds. It fell down this morning on the cat's head and she's a bit upset." Sidney chortled. "Didn't do the cat much good, neither." "Ok. Maybe see you then." The blackout warden clanked off into the night and the postman crossed the road towards the first address. His eyes were not yet used to the dark and he stumbled up the kerb. "Damnation," he swore. The watcher kept a good distance. He knew these streets as well as the postman. He could probably do the round himself if he had to. It was just the full name and address of one of the deliveries that he didn't know. He had done this type of work before. He was quite skilled at his trade but this time was different. This time it was important to him personally that his prey remain unaware of his presence. He was nervous and wiped his sweating palms on the legs of his navy-blue serge trousers. The postman made his first delivery. It clattered through the letterbox at No.3 Wharf Street. The watcher suspected that the special letter would not be delivered just yet, not in Wharf Street anyway. This was a mean street, full of poverty. The terraced houses, poky little boxes, leaned against each other as though too tired to stand much longer. The postman began to whistle. The notes hung, flat on the damp February air. The watcher recognised the song. He had heard it at the Music Hall only last week. It was catchy tune and he quickly found it running through his mind, over and over. They were approaching the shops at the corner of Wharf Street and Cavendish Road. The watcher slid into an alleyway between two blocks of houses. The postman shone his torch onto the letters and selected three that he pushed through the door of the Pawnbrokers. He tried to peer in the shop's windows for the watch he wanted but it was too dark so he gave up the attempt and continued round the corner and into Cavendish Road. The houses were bigger on this street with tiny front gardens and dusty laurel hedges. The watcher closed in on the postman. He'd suspected this was the street for the special delivery and he was right. The postman put the bundle of letters back into his bag and reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out a slim pale envelope and took a step towards No.14, gazing up at the windows on the first floor. No light escaped from the house, the blackout curtains were too secure, but he was sure she was in there. He put his hand on the garden gate. "Not so fast," the watcher said. He was near enough to the postman to put a hand on his shoulder and to halt the delivery. "You can't do that." "George," the postman whirled round and gasped. "Where the hell did you come from? What do you mean, I can't do that?" "You cannot deliver private letters while you are working. It is theft of Government time. Worse, it is theft from His Majesty. You are aware of regulations. You are breaking them." "Come off it, George. It's only one letter." Joe laughed harshly. "What are you going to do? Arrest me." "If I have to," George replied. Joe glared at the policeman in front of him. "Hand it over," George put out his hand, "and nothing more will be said." "No, please," Joe whined. "Don't take it off me, George. It's important." George's hand remained outstretched. Joe slapped the envelope into George's palm. "I'll get you for this," he said petulantly. "Finish your round, Joe." George instructed. "Before there's an air raid." Joe turned and stomped off up the street to continue his deliveries. George took his own torch from his pocket and switching it on, through the slit of light, read the name of the addressee; Miss. Clara Overton. "Perfect", he whispered. "Just perfect." He reached again into his pocket and found an envelope, similar to the one he had taken from the postman. It was difficult holding the torch, the envelopes and a pen but he managed to add 'Overton' to the second envelope, to the words that were already neatly printed. 'Miss Clara Overton' the name now read. He looked around. Joe had disappeared round the corner and there was no one in sight. All that disturbed the peace was a 'clank, clank, clank' from a street or two away. George slowly opened the gate to No.14. Like Joe had done, he looked longingly at the windows. He imagined he could see through the darkened glass. He pictured the pretty young waitress who'd served them tea when he and Joe had gone down town a couple of Saturday's ago to the Lyon's Corner House Café. He held the letterbox open and slipped the Valentine Day's card through the gap. He heard it drop onto the hall tiles. Quietly, he closed the flap and crept back down the garden path into the street. Pleased with the success of his mission, George reached into his pocket one last time, for a box of matches. He struck one and held Joe's envelope to the flame. The paper flared up quickly, warming George's heart. He'd got the better of his rival and it felt good until, "Oy," a raucous shout came from the end of the street. "Put that light out. Don't you coppers know there's a war on?" |
|
| Black Out by Eric Ayers LogDogY2K@yahoo.com |
#3 of 16 Runner Up |
|
| 1540 words | ||
| "G 59! G 59!" the announcer’s monotone voice
droned. I usually fall to sleep at more exciting drivel, but not today. This
was the 44th number called on the final game of the night. The growing tension
here in the recreation hall had half of us tenants downing their heart
medication, the other half sucking their oxygen tanks dry. Mabel Porter elbowed me to show me she was down to four numbers left…on all six of her goddamn cards! That bitch is always getting the good cards! It’s just amazing she hadn’t won one of these super prize blackout games yet. "N 33! N 33!" Damn, I didn’t check all three of my cards for, what was it? Oh yeah, G 59. Nope, no G 59, but N 33 was great! All three cards had it! And I was closing in this time! Only two left on the right card! Only three on the center! Could this be my day? How many numbers had been called now? Am I too late? "Your 46th number is O 74, that’s O 7-4," his tone now betrayed that he sensed people getting close. His eyes darted over the crowd like he was looking for his lost child. ‘Don’t let him know,’ I tell myself. ‘If he knows, he won’t call my numbers. Hold the emotions in check, dammit, or risk getting careless! I know I lost that game last July because I called Bingo early. God, I honestly don’t know how I lived through that night. O 74, let’s see. Yes! Here it is!’ I had one left! I whispered a quick prayer. "Oh, Lord, please let me win! Please let me win!" "B 5! B 5!" The announcer took several moments now to scan the room looking for an old hand to shoot upward or a feeble voice to call out "Bingo!" It didn’t come, and I start breathing again. No real help that time, but just one number and I’ll do it. I’ll win! I absent-mindedly mark B 5 on the center card without noticing it was also now down to two numbers. "I 18! I 18!" The announcer’s voice is now dripped with anticipation like caramel off a fresh-baked sticky bun. I scanned the crowd and saw where Jules used to sit before he won, and Monica’s place, now occupied by that cow, Beth. Again, I whispered to now one in particular, "Oh, if only I could win this blackout and get the freedom they won! Oh, to be able to see the blessed sun one more time, to breath fresh air again!" Crap! I 18 only marked on that crummy left card. What a waste! "G 60! G 60!" I marked the center card and it was down to its last number. Oh my God! Only one more… "BINGO!" I looked up in horror as Mabel nearly toppled me when she stood up holding a bingo card in her left hand. The flabby tissue that used to be her left triceps knocked my hat off. "Oh God, no!" I stammered. Mabel! I’ve always hated her, especially since she I decided she was responsible for my turtle’s mysterious demise when we were living in the same room. "Hold your cards, people!" blared over the speakers. Here came the obligatory "not over ‘til it’s over speech" spewing from the announcer’s mouth. Of course, last July, when I screwed up, half the players didn’t listen to him and cleared their cards…but now everyone listens. "We need to check this card out. Don’t clear your cards until it’s official. The call came on number 49, so there’s still a chance for the 50-number blackout if this is not a real bingo." After about 12 numbers were confirmed I heard the assistant call "G 46." I stared in disbelief as that was the one number I needed on the center card and was also still open on the left card. I noticed others gasping and whispering as that number wasn’t lit on the board and not marked on their cards either. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is NOT an official bingo!" the caller, now animated for the first time all night announced. "G 46 was NOT called and this game will continue with the next number being the final chance for the ultimate reward blackout. If we don’t hear a bingo on the next call, we’ll revert to the consolation prize, which is, of course, getting your own room for the duration of your stay here at Peaceful Coexistence." The caller continued. "Everyone will please calm down as we remove Mrs. Porter from the hall. She is no longer eligible to win today. Please escort her to her room and allow her to prepare to receive the penalty for miscalling a blackout." No one but I seemed to notice Mabel was now openly sobbing. I shuddered to remember just how I suffered through that ordeal in July. I can still remember the feel of the scratchy leather restraint straps, the taste of the antiseptic on the bite block, the shuddering pain of the electrical shocks. I remember the exquisite pain when my knee was damaged during the convulsions. Hell, I’ll remember that pain every rainy night until I die. For the first time I could remember, I felt a real sadness for Mabel. I wouldn’t send my worst enemy to that fate. Now she’d gone there by her own actions. A single tear escaped my eye for Mabel, but only one. After all, that was the rules. Besides, the contest was starting again. "Ladies and gentlemen, the final number for the ultimate prize blackout is…." I stared at G 46 on the center card. A grin escaped my as I thought, ‘What an irony if I win it on the same number she screwed up on!’ "I 29! I 2-9!" As I cursed my luck that G 46 was not the number, I glanced to the right card and…’Oh my GOD! I won!’ the thought screamed through my mind as I marked the last number on that right card. I stood up and screamed as best I could, "BINGO! I got a BINGO!" But everyone looked at me with deep suspicion. Even the caller wasn’t quick to acknowledge me. He readdressed the rules that the bingo wasn’t official until verified. But I didn’t care. I knew it was real! ‘Oh God!’ I prayed deep inside, ‘Please let it be real! I can’t take another shock session!’ After an eternity, the announcer said, "Ladies and Gentlemen, Annabel Costas is confirmed the winner of this year’s Peaceful Coexistence Ultimate Reward blackout prize. Next week will begin the buildup to a new ultimate reward blackout. We’ll start with the blackout prize of one extra meal a week for a year. For now, thank you for playing, and good night." It was true! I won the ultimate reward! I would be allowed to leave the home and again bask in the light of the sun. Where would I live now? Oh well, they didn’t need to know that right away. The Bahamas would be nice. Maybe just in Vegas. I’ll tell them later, but I’ll enjoy this moment now! I’m a winner!!
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| Black Out by AWritingLyfe@aol.com |
#4 of 16 |
| 722 words | |
| Lacy lay very still, fighting the urge to move or even
open her eyes. She knew something was terribly, terribly wrong, though she
wasn't sure what it was. Still, something cautioned her to remain still, to
perhaps hide that she was even coming out of--whatever it was. A black out? She
couldn't remember anything after… "Hey, she's waking up," a male voice said, alarmingly loud, seemingly right in her face. Yes--right in her face. She could smell rancid breath as he hung over her, breathing heavily. She gave up the ruse and moved her head slightly, unable to stifle the moan that escaped her. "Hey, pretty lady," the voice said, "wake up, pretty lady." He said it in a curiously sing-song way, in much the way that some people talk to their pets. She groaned and tried to turn her face away. Where was she? And who was this detestable, smelly creature in her face? She had yet to open her eyes, not wanting to look upon him until she took better stock of herself. Was she injured? Had she fallen? She remembered… She remembered taking a walk. Actually it had been more than a walk; she remembered that now, too. She had left the house in a huff, furious over her sister's apparent lack of concern over the incident. Damn her sister! When had she turned into such a bleeding-heart namby-pamby liberal anyway? Only a year ago her sister would have been as furious over it as she was. But no, since the accident the year before, her sister had changed so much. Lacy frowned, thinking about poor Muriel's disfigured arms and legs. She'd never be able to wear a sleeveless dress again, much less a swimsuit! The poor dear. But what was worse was the other changes that had come over Muriel since then. She'd become (gasp!) a vegetarian, started hanging out with that hippie do-gooder crowd, had even encouraged Lacy to stop wearing fur! It was if she blamed herself for the death of all those animals in the van she'd hit, and wanted to make up for it somehow. "Come on, lady," the voice crooned. "I know you're awake. Come on now, it's time to open those pretty eyes of yours." Lacy cringed, squeezing her eyes shut harder and trying to shrink back against--whatever it was she was laying on. The ground felt strangely soft beneath her. She wondered if she was laying on her ruined fur, the one that those horrible animal-rights people had thrown paint all over, the one she had flung across the couch onto her sister's lap that evening, raging against the injustice of it all. Only to have her sister grimace and leap up, throwing it off as though it was infested with vermin, and worse, looking at Lacy as though she was infested with something. But of course she couldn't be lying on the fur. She'd left it at home. It was completely ruined now; they had gotten what they wanted. Suddenly she couldn't take it anymore; she had to know where she was and what had happened. The last thing she remembered was hearing a sound in an alley as she'd rushed by, her ire at her sister blinding her to everything around her. Still, the sound at penetrated the red haze in her mind, and she had turned her head to look down the alley and she had seen… Lacy screamed and her eyes flew open. Suddenly she knew what felt so wrong to her--her arms and legs were completely numb. They were strapped down, her legs spread, her arms splayed. And standing above her, breathing into her face, was the last thing she had seen that night--the face of a giant rat, its yellow teeth bared malevolently, its black eyes glittering with alien intelligence. And in its "hand" was a straight-edge razor, its edge gleaming with some dark liquid in the half-light of the chamber where she lay. She screamed again, the sound echoing off the rough walls dimly visible as she turned her head frantically from side to side--and realized just what it was she was laying on: her own skin, peeled neatly away from her arms and legs in long, smooth curls. "You'll make a nice human-skin coat," the rat said. Mercifully, Lacy blacked out once again. |
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| Black Out by topcat@spiritone.com |
#5 of 16 |
| 2089 words | |
| It was the nicest day any April could be expected to
come up with. Villagers from all around the province poured into the ancient
city of Zhangzhou to barter their millet, barley, wheat, pigs, and sheep, for
clothing, spices, tools, pottery, and strong wine. Striding at their forefront
was a brash young man, barely twenty years old, who looked neither left or
right at the sprouting greenery, nor at the fluffy little clouds that gamboled
across the bright blue sky like wayward sheep. The whisper went around that
this was Yuan Tsen from the little village of T'ian, who had come to challenge
the hated Shen Wang in the annual championship of GO. A warm spring day like
this would normally find Yuan in the barley fields, scratching away with his
wooden hoe. Not today. His stride was long and sure and as confident as his
belief he would win this match and thus avoid the penury of being a lowly dirt
farmer. The stakes were high this year. Not only was the loser traditionally beheaded, but this year the Princess had come of age and the winner would have her hand in marriage. This did not matter as much to Yuan as the thirty bags of rice and three dozen pigs he and his family would recieve as the winner's share. In his twenty short years, he had never been to Zhangzhou. In fact, he had never travelled more than twenty miles from his village. Zhangzhou bustled with eager visitors for the celebration of the Solstice and the beginning of a new year: the year of the Rabbit. The heavy gates were flung wide for three days of gaiety, and all the houses were festooned in multi-colored banners. The common people engaged in revelry, music, gossip, and dancing, with joyous abandon. The nobility, presided over by Han Wu and his beautiful daughter, Princess Hua Wu in her delicately embroidered silks, watched it all from the balcony of the palace, while sipping the finest wine. Yuan Tsen took all it in with a certain sense of wonderment but was not to be distracted from his purpose. GO, with its 326 squares, eighteen by eighteen, and seventy-two black or white stones, thirty-six to a side, had existed for more than a thousand years, even before the Shang dynasty took power in 1,700 B. C. It is a complex game of strategy that to play well, takes many years of study with a master. Yuan Tsen had learned GO from Chang Peng, a revered master from the northern provinces, who was living out his final years in exile from Peking, not far from Yuan's village. Yuan played GO with the master whenever he could spare time from his work in the fields. After a few years of guidance and playing, he even began to win a few games from Chang. He was usually the winner in the spirited games the village children played and his fiercely competetive nature and high intelligence made him wise beyond his years in the subtle nuances of the game of GO. Many evenings would find him lying prone, practicing by flickering candlelight on a GO board he had scratched out on the packed earthen floor of his family's home. Shen Wang, an ugly, battle scarred man of about forty-five years, had taken up the game in earnest twelve years before, after his foot was severed off in battle. His teacher, Hung Kwok, was the finest GO player and teacher in the province, but now growing old and lacking the stamina required to sit for hours before the GO board. The townsfolk gave Shen Wang a wide berth whenever they saw him hobbling down the street, bitterly remembering his years of cruelty as Captain of the Guards. He had somehow won this annual tournament six years in a row now. A lavish reception was held at the palace on the eve of the festival, and Yuan and Shen, as the honored contestants, were invited to attend. Shen Wang was his usual blustery lugubrious self as he limped around on his crutch, greeting important friends, and vying for the Princess's attention. She politely ignored him with ill-disguised disgust. Yuan was quite taken by the strength and loveliness of Princess Hua, resplendent in a delicate yellow silk bound by a wide red sash that accentuated her form. He observed that they both shared a wry indifference to the pomposity of regal ritual. Still, he bowed humbly when presented to the royal family. When she complimented him on his past achievements at GO, their eyes locked for a brief, but electric moment. Princess Hua Wu was always loathe to pursue many of the genteel arts of music, art, poetry, and social graces that women of royal blood were expected to learn. She instead preferred horsemanship, archery, ju jitsu, and other sports where she was nearly the equal of any man. Even though all of her palace clothes were a stunning array of the finest silks, woven from silkworms fed on a diet of mulberries, she felt happier in the leathern tunics and breeches of the sportsman. After the presentations and opening ceremonies, a sumptuous feast consisting of pork, lamb, and duck in special sauces, various breads still warm from the ovens, and many spiced vegetables and fruits was splendidly served; more food than his entire village would eat in a month, thought Yuan, irked at the extravagance. Some lilting singsong music followed from long flutes carved of polished mahogany and bamboo, accompanied by melodious drums made of animal skins stretched over gourds and turtle shells. Yuan Tsen had exchanged a few smiles with Princess Hua Wu, which were gracefully returned, but nevertheless excused himself early to study and rest for tomorrow's big match. The Princess was far too young to have thought much about love or marriage. She had at times looked favorably at some of the young swains in her circle but was unaffected by their interest. The thought of being married off to some repulsive old cripple like Shen Wang and subject to his vile attentions, made her proud heart and very being shudder in revulsion. The fearless Yuan, however, sent unaccustomed flutters through her heart with his confident bearing, simple clean clothing, and handsome looks. She noticed that he bowed to no one except when required to by protocol. A subdued buzz from the crowd of onlookers in the corner palace room where the match was being held, was muted somewhat by the rich tapestries on the wall, lavishly woven in patterns of hunting or battle scenes, setting off the intricately carved tables and chairs made of finely polished wood. The room bubbled with excitement from the expectant crowd and many wagers changed hands. On the first day, the crafty veteran Shen Wang, playing the white stones, easily won the game with a surprising series of brilliant manuevers, despite a valiant inspired effort from the upstart, Yuan. Shen even wished him good fortune next time, though with an obviously insincere smile. There was a murmur of disappointment from most of the assemblage as the results were shouted out in clarion tones. "Black Out!" The cry rang out from the game room to the festival celebrants: those who weren't busy with drinking, gambling, and women. Runners were even dispatched to the outlying villages with the day's results. Yuan Tsen winced at this, knowing the anguish the news would cause his family and the village of T'ien. On the second day, the game favored old Shen most of the way. Yuan patiently countered his every move until Shen became a little tired and careless in the fourth hour, and then Yuan seized the opportunity for a devastating running attack that Shen could not counter. The crowds were atwitter with excitement as the resultant call sang throughout the city - "White Out!" The next morning, Princess Hua Wu consulted the carved oracle bones, thrown high in the air, and then interpreted by the cracks they made on landing. Sadly for her, they portended that Yuan was not likely to win the match. Still, she secretly wished with all her soul that they were wrong and somehow he would prevail. Now a tightly woven rope soaked in creosote was slowly burning towards its fifth knot, the fifth and final hour of the third and final game. The throng in the hall was packed in so thickly that the palace guards rudely shoved a few dozen of them back into the street. Princess Hua Wu was in the back of the room on a raised dais draped with bright banners and strewn with fragrant orchids. The few times Yuan glanced up at her, she gave him a smile that shone as much from her sparkling ebony eyes as from the slight upturn of her red oval lips. Yuan's heart filled with renewed courage at these little exchanges but it didn't really matter much. He was losing. Every move he made was countered by an even more brilliant move by Shen. Yuan had never seen the old reprobate play so well, especially in this suffocating defensive style. Exasperated, he noticed that whenever Shen's eyes left the board, they would dart in the direction of his old teacher, Hung Kwok. The next time Shen reached for a stone, Yuan feigned a cough and caught a glimpse of old Hung shaking his head imperceptibly. They were cheating! The old master Hung Kwok was slyly directing Shen in which moves to make. They had been cheating all along! There was little Yuan Tsen could do now but accept his inevitable defeat. When the chilling call of 'Black Out' rang through the hall, he gave the Princess one last despairing look. To his surprise, she gave a little nod of her head toward the outdoors, and quietly slipped out the back. Yuan was unsure what to make of that but he was sure of one thing, his bloody head would not be rolling on the ground because of these corrupt cheaters - honor be damned! As they led him out through the door, Yuan suddenly ripped the heavy spear from the hands of a surprised palace guard and smashed him over the head with a sickening thud. He ducked as he turned, avoiding a murderous sword slash from the other guard, and drove his spear into the fat belly, disembowelling him. Yuan grabbed the man's Shaanxi sword and pushed his way out the door as Princess Hua trotted into view astride the finest Mongolian horse in her stable. She frantically beckoned him to her. Yuan bounded off toward her and was astride the huge stallion in one mighty leap. She spurred her mount towards the city gates as the startled peasants scrambled out of the way of its deadly pounding hooves. Alerted, the half a dozen guards at the city's gates had them nearly closed and hastily formed a menacing wall in front. The startled steed reared up, throwing them both off as Hua just barely managed to hold on to the reins as she fell. Yuan dashed in among the guards, his sharp sword, striking left and right in lightning leaps that would have shamed a panther. One by one they fell, screaming in agony at his furious desperate onslaught. As he spun around to face the last man, he had to spring back as a deadly uppercut from the man's curved sword swished an inch from his belly. Yuan's own sword was knocked from his hands as he stumbled and fell backwards on to the dusty ground. The guard towered over him, his glittering sword poised high to apply the death blow. Yuan spat and cursed at him, but then saw a strange expression come over the man's face as a bronze spear tip suddenly protruded from his chest. The lifeless body fell forward, narrowly missing Yuan as he nimbly rolled out of the way. Princess Hua was the one who had run him through with a superhuman effort and was now springing lithely for her horse's reins. Yuan scrambled to his feet, vaulted atop the snorting stallion, gathered up the Princess with one strong swoop, and spurred the charger onwards. Hua wrapped her arms around him, laughing merrily, her silks dancing in the wind behind them, as they galloped out of the city to whatever future lay ahead of them. |
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| Black Out by Mike Reid mreid2366@hotmail.com |
#6 of 16 |
| 2141 words | |
| Winston Underwood, the 80 year old Englishman lies
there motionless. The little lights that flicker above his head show the nurses
and doctors what is working and what is not while the tiny screen beside the
bed displays varied lines of life. Soon the cancer will render the variety into
a mono tone but for now, life remains an option. The lengthy mesh of plastic
tubes that enters into his thin blue veins are more of a nuisance than a
necessity and a painful itchy rash is forming on his arm. Winston fast becoming irritated can hardly muster up enough strength to scratch the itchy spot. In a frantic motion, he calls for the nurse by pushing the little button above his head. Two nurses enter into the room in a scattered frenzy and begin to move a few pieces of furniture out of the room. In a huff, Winston yells out for the nurse but she is too busy to notice. "Nurse, My arm is killing me! Can’t you do something about this?" Winston yells. "Yes Mr. Underwood, I will be right there. There is a young boy who will be coming in very shortly and I need to prepare the room." The nurse calmly replied back. "What do you mean prepare the room?" Winston asks. "I am supposed to be the only one in this room. This is my room." he barks out. "I am sorry Mr. Underwood but the snow storm has brought in quite a few patients and we are trying to make do with what little room we have. Your room is large enough to put another bed in here. Until we can find an open room, you are going to have to be patient." The nurse spoke as she quickly left the room. The door swings open again. Two more nurses wheel a second bed into the room and proceed to draw the curtain closed which separated the two beds. In the other bed lies Tommy Cooper, a young boy about 11 with his face and arms wrapped in bandages. Five hours ago he was rescued from an automobile accident and in a frenzied pace, the doctors repaired his shattered arms and the fracture to his skull that has left him temporarily blind. With hours of surgery and a day in the Intensive Care Ward, Tommy is finally upgraded to a stable condition. Tommy is afraid of never being able to see again and it is evident with the sobbing that is heard across the room. Perturbed at the boy’s presence, Winston calls for the nurse and asks for him to be removed from the room. He doesn’t want to listen to the crying from the other side of the room. The nurse walks back in and tries to calm Winston down by turning on the radio next to his bed. A tinny woman’s voice can be heard from the radio’s speaker, "You are listening to WKDL, The Curdle on 102.5 FM, and we are America’s Golden Oldies from the 40s and 50s, your favorite songs of yesteryear. We will be right back after these messages." After the many commercials and a few choice words from Winston, melodic notes begin to float into the air which creates a less hostile atmosphere inside the room. Winston closes his eyes and begins to drift off to sleep. A young squeaky voice calls out from the other side of the curtain. "Hey mister, you asleep?" Tommy asks. Only the music from the radio can be heard. "Hey mister, you asleep?" Tommy asks for the second time but with a little more insistence. Tommy begins to feel scared as the growing feeling of being alone creeps up into his thoughts. His shoulders block all of any comfort trying to get into his body. "Mister..., you asleep?" Tommy asks again but with more urgency. "What do you want kid?" the irritated voice retorts back from across the curtain. With a sigh of relief, Tommy’s shoulders release themselves and give his neck a chance to relax. "I’m scared." Tommy says nervously. "Oh please, stop the whimpering boy. I can’t take slobbering." Winston yells out. "Please mister, I’m scared and need someone to talk to. I don’t remember much but what I do remember is making me scared." "You’ll get over it, trust me kid." Winston says as he rolls over in his bed. "My parents are dead and I can’t move my arms or see nothing. What happened to me?" "How am I supposed to know that? One minute I was dying here peacefully and the next, they put you here in my bloody room. A room for one person, me, get it?" the old man yells. "No mister I don’t get it, I’m only 11..." with a slight pause Tommy asks, "You’re dying mister?" "Eh, what do you care anyway kid, you’re still a young boy with plenty of years left to do whatever you want, maybe get yourself out of here. But I tell ya, you won’t make it that far if you keep talking to me." Just as Tommy starts to whimper again from the old man’s harsh words, the nurse comes in to check up on young man. "Are you OK young fella?" the nurse asks. "No ma’am, that man over there is mean and all I want is to make a friend." Tommy says. "Two things young man. First, call me Judy and not ma’am. I’m much too young to be called ma’am. Second, that mean old man is Winston." Judy leans over and whispering into Tommy’s ear, she says, "He really is a puppy dog, don’t let him scare you. His bark is worse than his bite." Judy backs off and proceeds to pull the sheets tight up against Tommy. The nurse’s words make Tommy feel a little at ease and he starts to drift off to sleep. A few hours went by and Tommy wakes up screaming. "HELP! HELP! Get me out of here! Get me out of here now! The fire is burning!" He yells. The screaming wakes up Winston from a sound sleep. His mood was bitter when he fell asleep, now it is irate. "What do you mean by waking me up?" Winston screams as he starts to cough. "I’m sorry mister. I had a nightmare. I was dreaming that I was stuck in a car that was on fire and I couldn’t move. The fire was so hot, it was burning me." Tommy begins to cry. ...You are listening to WKDL on 102.5 FM, and we are America’s Golden Oldies from the 40s and 50s…Here is a great song from Vaughn Monroe, titled "When the lights go on again (All over the world)"… "Oh please…" Winston yells at first but his mood becomes a little softer. "Stop your cryin, will ya?" The song on the radio is bringing back some memories that Winston thought he had forgotten and he becomes a little more sympathetic towards the young boy. …When the lights go on again all over the worldAnd the ships will sail again all over the world… "Listen kid, things are going to be OK for you." The old man says. Putting his head on the pillow and closing his eyes, Winston takes in the song. He begins to speak slowly with a soft melancholic voice. "It was the fall of 1940 back in London when I saw the planes overhead. Beautiful formations of Spitfires filled the morning sky. My eyes strained from the burning sunlight as I followed the white contrails streaming behind them...Oh they were beauties…" he coughs. …When the lights go on again all over the worldAnd the boys are home again all over the worldAnd rain or snow is all that may fall from the skies above… Winston pauses... His shaking hands rub his face. He leans over and takes a sip of water from the cup at his bedside. "It wasn’t too soon after... that the bombs started to fall on the city. I was never so bloody scared in my life." He coughs again. He downs the rest of the water in the cup. "During the blackouts there was total darkness all around us and no one was allowed to be out after dark. It was a death sentence if you were... The wailing air raid sirens would put fear into everyone. Ooh, I hated that noise… scared the shi…, umm, the dickens out of me." "We used the subway stations as shelters and they would fill up quickly with the city folk. Sometimes we were there for days. Oh my, the smell was bloody awful...! Water was so scarce, we couldn’t wash and when we had to relieve ourselves, it was either in an empty corner, most times they weren’t, or down in the tunnels…" "Those bloody Kraut’s would bomb our city into dust and rubble with many of our friends knowing at least one person that had been killed or hurt pretty bad…" "Me..., I didn’t even get a scratch, but my parents were both killed in one of the attacks." "They told me to go to the shelter and they would meet me there shortly but unfortunately they didn’t make it. A bomb hit the house next door and the explosion rocked our house right off its foundation. I was told later…, before they were able to get out of the house, one of the main suspension beams fell down and crushed ‘em. The next day as we were cleaning up the debris, they were found by the clean up crew. With the news of my parent’s death, I didn’t know how to feel. I was in shock and I think that was the moment when I shut out the world. Never to return to my childhood or life as I knew it again. I went to live with relatives but was never really happy... Suppose I could of given my new life a go but I denied myself that chance." Tommy was silent. …Then we'll have time for things like wedding rings and free hearts will singwhen the lights go on again all over the world… "Listen kid, what I’m telling you is don’t give up on happiness like I did. Let the time heal your wounds, mentally and physically. This is a new chapter in your life." "You’re a smart kid right? Don’t shut everything out. Try to learn something from this tragic accident. Let it all in and soon enough you will see things that begin to make sense. One day, you will understand. It may take some years but it will happen. I have many regrets and if there was ever a chance to do it all over again I would and not make the same mistakes. The thought of spending another 70 bloody years alone doesn’t thrill me at all." "The blackouts were a very tough time for all of us but we pulled through in one way or another. I think it was the feeling that this couldn’t last forever and surely the sun will shine again. We prevailed over the terror and evil that dropped out of the sky." …When the lights go on again all over the world… .."What a lovely song", the radio woman said.." That was Vaughn Monroe, "When the lights go on again (All over the world)" "Eh, sorry kid, didn’t mean to bore you with all that. It’s the first time I ever told anyone that story. It must of been the song that brought back all those memories. I remember that song during the war. It was sort of a personal anthem for a lot of people during those dark times. Kept our spirits alive, you know what I mean?" With a faint smile on his lips, Tommy breaks in, "Not really, but I am sure I will when I am older. Thanks for the story mister, I feel a little bit better." "Good, now go back to sleep kid." With Winston exhausted and Tommy relieved, they both close their eyes and drift off to sleep. Morning came quickly and Tommy is moved into a new room. He becomes more comfortable with his casts and he has all the nurses sign their names onto it. His condition is improving greatly and he is almost ready to leave the hospital. Where he is going, he doesn’t know but for some reason, he isn’t that scared anymore. Winston’s condition becomes worse and it isn’t long before he passes away. He is happy because this is the way he wanted to go; alone. Last night kept him alive a little bit longer but it was all the time Winston needed to pass on this particular lesson of overcoming fear and facing life when the lights are off. |
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| Black Out by Savita savitan@yahoo.com |
#7 of 16 |
| 1698 words | |
| December 1971 The drone of the warplanes flying above her was faintly audible. Through the crack between the curtain and the window, their pinprick lights stood out in stark contrast to the dense, inky night sky as they passed her to points further east. Sonali eased the thick, black curtain back to cover the window fully and groped her way off the stool. The sole candle in the room cast more shadows than light. The ghostly shapes of her mother, aunt and cousins flitted around her and the flame weaved about with every gust of passing human. With her elbows on her knees and palms cupping her chin, Sonali sat with her feet on the first rung on the stool and sighed deeply. It really was too much to expect her to forego reading the juciest part of The Maneater of Malgudi tonight just because India and Pakistan were at war. What would they want from her next? Stop writing to divert much needed paper and ink for the war effort? Not that she grudged the Indian soldier anything. To her mind, anybody willing to put up with the kind of privation and hardship a jawan did, and then to fight the good fight and drive the Pakis back to where they came from, deserved all that a grateful civilian populace could give him. But 12 hour black outs everyday? Was that justified? How would the government tackle a bored country, huh? Pratima Atthe, her father’s oldest sister sat down heavily with a sigh in a chair in the corner across from Sonali. "Heard the news on the radio today? They’ve given the Ati Vishisth Seva Medal to Prasad Murthi. The poor boy. His mother is still in a state of shock." Much shaking of heads and clicking of tongues from everybody around. "His sister was a year senior to me in school. Girija Murthy." Her cousin Rohini’s contribution to the conversation. "I don’t remember Prasad very well at the time. You know how it is, some snotty-nosed kid in shorts running around, always underfoot or off playing cricket in some alley. I can’t believe it. These are people we’ve known all our lives. Our trajectories have crossed sometime and again over the years. And now, he comes back in a box. My hair stood on end while they sounded the Last Post at the funeral." Sonali grimaced. That was a bit over the top. There would be no getting Rohini off the soap box tonight, not when she had a captive audience. Amma spoke softly. Her mother seemed to have aged right before Sonali’s eyes. Amma’s brow had acquired a few more worry lines since the war began. "I hope Sundar makes it through the black out or he’ll have to spend another night at the factory. Last time, he said the only thing bad about the arrangement were the mosquitoes he fed through the night." "We should train our mosquitoes to get the Pakis on their night sorties. More lethal than anything they can throw at us. I bet even our mosquitoes are better than theirs, definitely a superior strain." Sonali mumbled, her chin still in her hands. "Enough Sonali." Rohini again. "You might find enough humor in the situation to talk all airy -fairy but we’re at war here. Please try to remember." Not for nothing had Rohini been branded All India Radio in Sonali’s mind ever since she could remember. The same grave tones as if reporting earth-shaking events, the same lack of levity. Sonali’s stuck her tongue out in a fit of childishness. Not that anybody could see her in the dark, but she was now straining at the leash. Sometimes, fifteen minutes at a time were all that she could take of relatives. Anything more than that and she needed to come up for air. "You’re not all that young that you can’t understand the gravity of the situation." Rohini again, without a pause. She never could leave well enough alone. Had to thrash out everything to the last inch of its life. "When I was twelve, I had my head screwed on right. Knew when to be serious about life and when to laugh things off." Did you ever?! Not within my living memory, you did’nt. "Youngsters nowadays…." Sonali could’nt see her but knew exactly what Rohini would be doing at this exact moment. Shaking her head, resignedly, with a martyred look on her face. She was only nineteen, but Rohini already had the mein and manner of a woman about twenty years older. It took a moment for Sonali to realise that they were enacting a tableau of two. A faint murmur of voices with sounds of plates and glasses being placed on the table came in from the dining room. Everybody else was there. Snatches of conversation about Sundar, Patiala, Mukti Bahini, orphans, Dhaka, Indira Gandhi, bloody Pakis, The Durand Line, the damn British, the UN, floated about. The threads of everyday talk now. The focus of everybody’s attention, as they lived life marking time till the war drew to a close. "Come on, you two. Let’s finish dinner and close the kitchen for the night." A voice raised just above the hubhub but low enough not to carry outside the house. One of her aunts, Sonali thought. The radio continued with low level white noise, news bulletins, war news, messages from people around the country, songs requested for our brave faujis. When would the soldiers ever get the time to listen? Bash the Pakis to the yodeling of Kishore Kumar or weep with Manna De? But, like Sundar had explained to her one day, it was all about telling our men in uniform that we care, that we know what they are going through in battle and that we are with them in spirit. The war is won first in the mind, then in the battlefield - Sun Tsu. Sonali left the kitchen very gratefully. Her aunts were more fun to be with than her cousin closest in age among the gathering. The dining table had cutlery all over it with three or four dishes of rotis, vegetables, dal, pickles and curd. Not a gourmet meal by any standard but good, wholesome food to last through the night. The low wattage naked bulb dangling over the table coloured the room sepia and the black curtains hung at the windows did’nt do anything to lighten the atmosphere. It was good to be in the company of people. They were not exactly the life of the party or the sort she would choose to spend the evening with but were basically good natured (except for one notable exception in the next room) and were trying to have a pleasant evening, under the circumstances. The wicket gate in the garden creaked open. Above all the constant murmuring in the room, Sonali heard it and went to peep through the window beside the front door. She cautiously opened the curtain a few inches. A foot shuffled outside. The candle standing well within the room was no use at all but she heard the soft coded tapping on the window glass. One-two-three, one-two, one-two. That would be Sundar. The room fell completely silent as she moved to the door and unlatched it. "Who is it, Sonali?" One of the women, she could’nt exactly tell. Who do you think, a Paki spy in diguise, that’s who. Now that would really stir things up here a bit.. As they aged, her mother and aunts had begun to sound more and more alike. The tone and intonation had always been similar, not surprising considering they were sisters, only it was more obvious now. Sundar come in with a black knit cap pulled over his head, dark sweater and trousers. "Oh, our friendly hoodlum". Amma said as she looked up from the dining table. Everybody began talking at once. He gave Sonali’s pigtail a slight yank and winked in the half-light. "How’s life, kiddo?" "What’s happening outside, Sundar?", an aunt asked. "Lots of action in the air tonight." "I’m not sure. But I heard our naval blockade is in place and the Pakis are cut off by sea." "Latha went to the refugee camp outside Chas. They’re distributing milk from today. I believe Calcutta is packed. The pavements are full of people, the maidan, the stadiums. You can’t move for all the human bodies everywhere. All we need is an outbreak of Cholera now to bring things to a grande finale." Sundar’s Calcutta office was at breaking point and official phone calls relayed more non-official information than anything work-related. "Where are we expected to keep them till the war ends? Till ’47, all they could think of was getting Pakistan, by hook or by crook, and now that they have it, they’re still not happy. We’ll have problems with them for all time to come, I tell you. At least a house with problem neighbours, we can sell and move away. What does a country do with problem neighbours?" Pratima At the hardly spoke normally, and it came as a surprise to Sonali to hear the elderly lady expound on Foreign Affairs. Though, I suppose, since the war had been brought to my door-step, it no longer remains foreign. Very much internal. Suddenly, Sonali was weary of all the war-talk, the rationing, all the death-news, living life in shadows. She’d give a lot to see a string of little coloured bulbs of light winding around the mango tree outside like they decorated during Divali. In the week since the war had started, her life had taken turns she could’nt have imagined. She felt numb. I’m still to see what the Maneater does. Then, there are those four Ruskin Bonds to finish. If the war goes on, I’ll need to move on to the Hercule Poirots Rupa has promised me. Its going to take more than a daily black out to hold me down. I might land up with glasses on my nose from reading in poor light at the end of it all, but my contribution to India’s war effort is a guaranteed sane citizen, one number. |
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| Black Out by Nate nightmare4241@comcast.net |
#8 of 16 |
| 618 words | |
| Gordy stared quietly at the TV set. Stan, Wallace,
Raymond, all of his cell-mates on Men’s "C" ward meandered around
aimlessly, maybe uttering a silent retort against the demon haunting him.
"Leave me alone!" grunted Peter. "RUMMPHHH!" growled Raymond. All of the inmates could hear his own personal torturer, everyone that is except Gordy. He was special, he could see the demons. He could see all the harpies and furies circling every one of the men, and he knew their names, because the voice from heaven told him. ***************** It all started in middle school. Slowly at first, quietly. Whenever Gordy couldn’t understand the question on the board, or whenever none of the children would play with him during the recess, the little voice from heaven would keep him company. Sometimes the voice would tell him stories he remembered, sometimes the voice would make him laugh with a little joke. Most times though, it just quietly spoke to him, and let him know that he was loved and safe. As time went on, through high school and college, the voice became more frequent, especially in times of stress, like when a deadline came due. Then, the voice became a constant whisper, just out of Gordy’s reach, and finally, the voice became a hindrance that kept him awake at night and intruded in his dreams. When his girlfriend left him, the voice became louder and Gordy came to understand it’s true nature. Gordy was chosen by some higher power for something special and that’s what the voice was doing. It was preparing him for his mission, whatever that might be. When he told this to his parents, they didn’t understand, and had Gordy medicated and sent away to finally wind up here, in the state asylum, separated from his mission and keeping constant vigil over the demons that infested this place. The staff was friendly enough, but the couldn’t understand his calling either. He would watch the others and wonder why God would put him here, and then the voice had a new message. "If thine eye offends thee..." What could if mean? Only when the lights went out, deep in the blackness of night, did the demons go away, and Gordy finds solace. ***************** Months and seasons all run together in the asylum, and soon enough, the summer of his fifth year there had almost completely past. Much is still the same. The sameness of the routine life here continues day after day until finally, after watching Raymond once again run his demon away, and the demon laughing at him, the voice came again, loudest and clearest yet. "If thine eye offends thee, pluck it out and cast it from thee..." Now Gordy knew what he must do. He must remove the visions. He must stop seeing the demons and see only God, the source of his guiding voice. "If thine eye offends thee..." "Oral Hygiene!" comes the call of Grace, the charge nurse for the day shift today. "If thine eye offends thee..." Gordy gets up, and goes to the lavatory, where Grace and Frank, the orderly, are waiting and helping Lexter brush his teeth. He strolls in, proud of the fact that he understands his calling. "If thine eye offends thee...pluck it out!" He takes the toothbrush, and turns to Grace. . "God will be proud of me" he thinks. "Hey Grace! Look here!" and Gordy rams the toothbrush deep into his eye socket, first the right, then the left. Now the demons are gone, the visions are blacked out, only the voice of God speaks to him. All is quiet, all is calm. "This is my son, in whom I am pleased." All is black. |
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| Black Out by H. J. Lazarus lazdom@ono.com |
#9 of 16 |
| 1852 words | |
| Everything went black. The glowing sea was calm, the lime-green horizon shifting gently as Sheryl rolled in the water. She raised a long lazy arm over her head and let the water rush between her fingers, not really feeling the warm liquid, but enjoying the ripples and splash she made. The moment didn’t last long, however. Soon enough The Voices were back. "Be sure to place a new dressing on 237 when you’re finished. The Walters are coming in again today." Sheryl rolled again, trying to make The Voices disappear. Sometimes she was able to muffle them in a thick cloud and watch them float away. These Voices were easier, detached, cold, unknown. The sky turned puce, so she knew she was being moved. Out there it was bath-time, but not at all like her world of water; it was more like watching a weather report for some far-away country. Heavy showers followed by a cold front. She could feel the wet, but it wasn’t hers. This Voice was always chatting away incessantly while she worked, her accented words coming in and out likes waves, "… and Raul say we can live on… I not so sure...the baby coming….when they find out here at the hospital… my green card...with my momma so far away…." These words rose up and flew around Sheryl’s head like lovely exotic birds, moving en masse off towards southern settings. She returned to her float, watching the liquid turn fuchsia, then jade, then ochre. She’d always loved the water. As a child she used to spend hours in the swimming pool, just floating like this. She’d let her ears barely dip under so she could only hear the pounding of her own blood. Not the complaints of the help for having to look after the child in addition to the rest of their duties. Not the sound of opening yet another gift from her parents when they’d returned from their latest trip. There in the solitude of the deep end she would imagine a huge wave rising up and carrying her off, pulsing her towards the future… Their Voices are back. "Hello dear," a careful whisper. "She looks thinner." "I’ll check with the nurse about her diet. If you’re not on top of these people they won’t do a thing." "You’d think with what I’m paying they would at least feed the girl." "I wouldn’t be surprised if some of these workers weren’t eating her meals themselves, seeing she’s in no condition to complain." Sheryl brought the clouds, big purple ones, thick like mashed potatoes. Her body began to rock as the waters got choppy and slapped against her. Despite her efforts, the words shot their way through like bolts of lightening, short and stinging, "Paul’s coming… think when he sees her…poor man’s suffered…." Sheryl slipped under the rocky waves, feeling the umber waters fill her nostrils, her ears, her brain. Very far away she heard the desperate call, "Nurse! Come quickly! Something’s wrong!" When Sheryl resurfaced the sky was clear again, the palest of rose colors. The sea around her was smooth as a mirror, as if her floating body formed part of the cool reflective surface. Home. This was how it should feel. Everything in proportion, in perfect balance. No constant tugging and pulling. None of that endless emptiness. Something was going in. Soft and warm. Eventually it would come out the same way. They marked her internal seasons by these changes. The passing of things within her body. This lonely continent that had become her home. That always had been. ... "Well here we are." His Voice. Sheryl felt the tremors stirring from the sea floor. Strong reckless tidal urges at the mere sound of His Voice. "You look like shit." Silence, a hard laugh, "and that’s coming from someone who’s never thought you were much to look at anyway." Another laugh, "Course it’s all part of this grand joke. This fucking ironic joke." Sheryl saw the sky grow dark, rapidly from grey to black. "Mind if I smoke?" a dry chuckle, "no, of course not. You never minded anything I did, you boring cow. Let me just put this ashtray on your wide white forehead, there." a long drag and exhale, "oh don’t worry about me. I’ve locked the door. ‘Marital intimacy’ and all that. You can be sure I’m quite doting when anyone else is around. Just like the good old days, eh?" His Voice. She knew she was helpless to it. No quantity of clouds could block out the voice that had seduced her away from that empty mansion. The London accent that had made her believe it was possible to be noticed, to be loved. The same voice that had taught her that words could hurt her much more deeply than her parents’ silence ever had. "Oh, I think even you would get a laugh at this now. Yes, ‘Sheryl of absolutely no sense of humor’ would probably die laughing. Get it? Die laughing? If only!" Sheryl tried to sink, willing the murky waters to swallow her up, drown him out. But she was suddenly buoyant, the harder she tried to pull herself down, the fast she bobbed back up, naked and defenseless against his words. "All those months slowly wearing down the seat belt. In a case like yours I had to be exceptionally careful, I knew they’d be looking for signs of foul play and all eyes would be on me. Planning the best route. I can’t tell you how many maps I drew on Chloe’s perfect buttocks, trying to discover which angle would cause you the most immediate damage. With a minimum of danger to myself, of course" The sea was rising and falling wildly now, biting cruelly into Sheryl’s sides. Defenseless, she could not sink down nor fly off. For the first time she wondered if her shimmering horizon could actually be the shore. "Who would have thought that lame little Sheryl would have the balls to grab the wheel from my hands at the last minute? I still haven’t recovered from that shock. Yes, you certainly got me there," another long drag, "so now instead of recovering from my minor wounds and reaping all the benefits of your generous wealth, here I am stuck nursing your sickening body with no access at all to your funds." A wave of nausea overtook her, turning the sea a murky orange. She suddenly realized it was the first true sensation she’d felt since the darkness. Unpleasant as it was, at least it was a feeling. "But don’t you fret for me," the dull pressure of the butt being snubbed out, "I’ve got a plan in the works to end this horrid little tale, to my benefit, of course." He blew a stray ash off her eyelid, "But for now I’m off to have a sorrowful lunch with the in-laws. Ta." It was a long time before total calm returned to the waters. But even then a dark cloud had formed on the horizon, promising a storm that would change everything. This landscape was her sanctuary, but the time would come when she would have to decide. To choose to float forever or swim to the shore. "…and now that Raul has the night job…a little apartment of our own…" The words seemed louder than they had before, but Sheryl’s attention was centered on the darkening contours of the cloud hovering above her. Suddenly she felt a sharp jab. Sheryl forgot the cloud and focused her mind on the pain. She raced over the hills and valleys of her mostly imaginary body until she found it. Her pinkie nail. The Voice had been cutting her nails and had cut past the quick. Sheryl drank in the sweet nectar of the pain, small and burning, but Real. And Hers. … "Hello again." His Voice, followed by a click. The dark cloud spread across the sky, wisps reaching down to sting her. "Or should I say ‘good-bye’?" A chair sliding across the floor, "yes, this is the start of a new beginning. Not for you of course, but look what state you are in. I’m doing you a favor, really. I just need to wait a bit, wouldn’t want to pop in and have you die right away. Think I’ll have a smoke." The sea had gone as dark as the sky, the swells growing and slamming into her. She felt like a leaf caught in the storm. His Voice was controlling her world. She now only existed in her imagination. Sheryl had disappeared, had already died. She was nothing now. But her pinkie… "Did I tell you Chloe is a nurse?" a dry chuckle, "I know what you’re thinking, yes, we have had quite a time with her in that little white dress…" The storm was growing fierce, rain tearing at the rough surface. But Sheryl seemed not to notice. If she had a pinkie, she must have a hand. Somewhere in that water there was a hand. "But apart from lovely sex games, she has been of great help in this little, eh, predicament. Access to all sorts of medical information, and of course, supplies." An enormous wave started to grow in the distance. Sheryl looked just beyond the swell and caught a glimpse of the shore. Everything was so cold now. She thought, a hand, an arm, a shoulder… "So thanks to this little syringe, all our problems will soon be over…undetectable, and will even give me enough time get home before you bite it." The wave grew taller, drawing the sea into it. It rose up before Sheryl, blocking out the stormy sky like a giant mouth about to engulf her. Shoulders, arms, fingers. Swim! "So this is our final Ta, my dear. I’d love to chat more, but I really must be off and start spending some of your money." The wave came crashing over her, ripping through her body with its force. Sheryl was going under. Swim, swim, swim to shore. Everything went black. … Their voices again. They sounded so far away Sheryl had to strain to hear them. "Honey? Can you hear me?" "Just barely, Mom." "How are you feeling?" "Mom, it’s been over a year since the coma, I think you can stop asking me that." "Well, I worry." "It’s alright. I’m doing fine. Where are you calling from?" "We’re on the plane. We’re going to Paris for a couple of weeks, and since Barcelona’s just right round the corner I thought we might come visit for the weekend, if that’s ok with you." "That would be great. I’m sure a little Spanish sun would do you both some good." "You know, Sheryl, you left so quickly after the divorce, after, well, everything. You’ve been through so much. I just think it’s time you and I really talked." "You’re right, mom," Sheryl smiled, "Come. We’ll send Dad off to drink some sangria. You and I will have a good honest talk, cry a bit, and then we’ll go for a nice long swim." |
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| Black Out by Audrey Shaffer shafferaudrey@hotmail.com www.audreyshaffer.com |
#10 of 16 |
| 1029 words | |
| Greg didn’t want to go to Lisa’s dinner
party. He used to enjoy them, when they were having an affair. It was a real
kick sneaking out and leaving Lisa’s husband and Stacy, Greg’s wife,
to handle the guests. Since he had ended the affair, Lisa’s house was the
last place he wanted to be. But he had no choice. Lisa and Stacy were best
friends. "I’m sick," he groaned. "Just go without me. I’ll be fine alone." "Nonsense!" Stacy said, "You just have indigestion. Get out of that bed and take an antacid. And hurry, I don’t want to be late!" He felt sick, but it was the thought of seeing Lisa that upset his stomach. She had been so angry when he refused to see her anymore, and he was afraid she was going to tell Stacy about the affair. Why in heaven’s name had he picked his wife’s best friend to sleep with? Stacy had been acting strange the last few days. Maybe it was just because he was home so much more, but he kept catching her staring at him with a very strange expression. Like she was planning something. No, it was probably just his guilty conscious. "Greg! Get dressed. We have to leave in five minutes!" "I’m moving, I’m moving!" But surely she didn’t know. If she did, she wouldn’t want him to be around Lisa, would she? So, if she wanted him to go to the party, she couldn’t possibly know! Greg moved faster, now that his stomach wasn’t quite so queasy. In the car, Stacy was smiling. "In a good mood tonight, honey?" Greg asked. "Oh my dear, you have no idea!" Something in her laugh sent a chill up his back. Laugh? Sounded more like a cackle. Loud laughter wasn’t normal for Stacy. The house was full of people. Lisa met them at the door. "Stace! Come help me in the kitchen." The two of them ran off, giggling like schoolgirls. Suddenly, the power flickered. "It’s ok folks," Lisa’s husband boomed. "We’ve overloaded the circuits a little bit tonight, and when the furnace kicks on, the lights dim. Who knows, maybe we’ll have a black out!" Laughter rolled through the room, along with jokes about who everybody wanted to be near when the lights died. Greg suddenly had a vision of groping Lisa in the dark without her knowing who it was. He pushed the thought away. The party was getting wild. It was a big house, but when you packed 30-some people inside, it was very close quarters. Greg settled in the corner near the keg. It was a good place to mingle without moving. Everybody visited the keg, or at least the liquor table next to it. Lisa and Stacy were in and out of the kitchen all night. They both looked at him and smiled with every pass through the door. He had the eerie feeling that they were plotting against him, but that was ridiculous. Lisa wasn’t going to risk Stacy’s friendship to get even with him. And if she had, Stacy wouldn’t be smiling and laughing. And she kept coming over and kissing him. The guys were all teasing him about it. None of them had a wife who couldn’t keep her hands to herself! Greg grinned, but he wasn’t smiling inside. Something just didn’t feel right. Things weren’t normal. The power flickered again. A second of silence, then the laughter rose again as it stabilized. Stacy poked her head through the kitchen door and beckoned to Greg. "Must need something lifted," he muttered, and went to the kitchen. Suddenly, the power went out. This time, it didn’t just flicker. It was a total black-out. Greg froze in the doorway. "I’ll get it !" Lisa yelled from the corner. "Give me a second, I’ll reset the breaker." Soft hands grabbed Greg. A woman’s body pressed against him. Stacy? No, Lisa’s perfume! "You bastard," she hissed in his ear. "Do you really think you can just dump me like old garbage?" He tried to pull away, but his back was against the door frame. Suddenly, he felt a searing pain in his throat. He grabbed his neck and felt something warm and wet running through his fingers. He turned blindly, and fell to the floor. "What the…Ouch!" Stacy screamed, then there was a loud thump. He tried to call for help, but he couldn’t make a sound. "Let go of me!" Lisa screamed from the far side of the kitchen. "Help! Somebody help me!" Pandemonium broke out. People were screaming and running. Someone stepped on Greg. He felt someone else touching him. Perfume…Stacy this time. He reached for her, but the pain suddenly moved to his midsection. He grabbed, and felt the blood running from his stomach. His fingers closed around the butcher knife buried in his gut. The lights came on. Someone screamed, then people crowded around him. Greg turned his head slightly, and saw Stacy and Lisa across the room. They were both getting up from the floor, and both had bloody hand prints on their clothes. The back door was hanging wide open. "Somebody grabbed me and threw me on the floor!" Stacy cried, and then she spotted Greg. "Oh my God! Call an ambulance!" She leaped across the room and threw herself on his body. Lisa joined them. "Call 911! He’s been stabbed! Is anybody missing, or was it someone from outside?" Both women were frantically trying to stop the flow of blood from his throat and stomach, soaking themselves in the process. "Sweetheart! Can you hear me?" Stacy sobbed, and put her head next to his. "Did you really think you could come between me and my best friend?" she breathed in his ear. "Nobody comes between us, and cheaters deserve to die." Stacy lifted her head, and Greg looked into Lisa’s eyes. She leaned forward so her hair fell down around her face and smiled at him. The lights were flickering again. The room was going dark. Greg could dimly hear people shouting and rushing around him, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Darker, darker…total black out. |
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| Black Out | #11 of 16 |
| 1683 words | |
| (Removed at the author's request.) | |
| Black Out by mrwrleft@yahoo.com |
#12 of 16 |
| 1665 words | |
| "And now we are going to practice a dictation. You
should be aware that you’ll be tested on the vocabulary words you were
suppose to study at home. Now everyone be quiet!" Mrs. Williams clapped and looked over the class from underneath her glasses. Being apparently satisfied at the state of the affairs, continued. "Now move everything from your desks except for your black pads and pens and mentally prepare yourselves to listen. It’s a very interesting story." She gave the class another look as if making sure that there were no obvious signs of malice and continued. "It’s a story about the origin of writing." She waited until all the children followed her directions and then started reading slowly, distinctly pronouncing every word. Sometimes she stopped and looked over the heads making sure that all the children kept up. "Language existed long before writing. It started from oral communication and replaced the gestures still used by apes. The transfer of ideas from one person to another, or to a group, was recorded perhaps as long ago as 30,000 years ago in a form of humans painting pictures on cave walls. The origin of a writing, however, seems to coincide with the transition to agricultural societies when it became necessary to count one’s property, whether it be land, animals or measures of grain." Mrs. Williams then read about counting tokens and tokens eventually becoming symbols. Then she continued to talk about Mesopotamian cultures, clay tablets and scrolls of Egyptian papyrus. She mentioned that in spite of advances of the human mind in many other areas the writing media had never actually improved only until recent times when the pads with the moving black strips were invented. She also mentioned that in China around 100 AD they were attempts to invent other writing media, but they had never amounted to something substantial. *** The day was about to end. The last rays of the sunset made odd shaped ornaments on the walls of the room. Looking at them, Ts’ai Lun caught himself thinking that it probably was his last sunset. A single tear rolled off his eyes continued its trip down his cheek and dried out on his wrinkled neck. The thought that caused the tear wasn’t a thought of death. This realization of the physical disintegration and eventual collapse of his outer membrane didn’t bother him. Ts’ai Lun was a great engineer of his time. He seemed to know everything from the construction of a complex stone or fireball-throwing machine to designing a beautiful building, to the minute details of silk production. He even was able to figure out how to increase the rice crop twofold on the same land. The word of his wisdom passed way beyond his small native Lien-Yang and spread all over the great land of China. Even the great Emperor Hi-Ti acknowledged his presence and delegated the most complicated and delicate projects to him. But underneath his competent speech and confident manners deep inside himself Ts’ai Lun knew that all this was a trifle, not sufficient for greatness. His family gathered around his death bed and waited. Ts’ai Lun had nothing to reproach himself. He was a good father and husband. He could see grief-stricken and stern faces of his sons and tear stained eyes of his wives and daughters. All his sons grew up as worthy people useful members of society. His older son Yen became a military engineer, next three were army officers, Mu studied medicine and enjoyed popularity of his own. Even his youngest son Kai did well. He had his own market stands in several Chinese cities and as merchant was traveling as far as India and Khoresm. His daughters were married into successful families and bore healthy offspring. He could be sure of the future. But all this was a glamorous façade. It’s not that he was against people caring for their children. Rather he believed their obligations didn’t stop there. Because if people would live for the sake of their children only and their children live for the sake of children of their own then the entire humanity would live for its sheer survival. ‘And if we were to live for the sheer survival only we could as well be oysters’ he often chuckled. A real person has to leave a legacy after himself. Ts’ai Lun understood that this great engineering mind of his wasn’t given to him by accident, that in his life he had a mission to accomplish. All his life Ts’ai Lun tried to find out what this mission was. And what a bitter irony that the realization came to him only now while he was looking at the ornaments on the walls that reminded a hieroglyphic writing. Now, when he was on the brink of death, with no energy in his body and soul and even his tongue was disobeying him. The thought that tortured Ts’ai Lun was a thought of papyrefea. One day two years ago Ts’ai Lun went to the public baths and ordered a separate wooden tub. Ts’ai Lun could afford comfort so he ordered the water to be aromatized. Usually this was accomplished by adding a bark of eucalyptus or aloe to the hot water. This time though the bark didn’t give any smell. When Ts’ai Lun grabbed a piece, he realized it wasn’t the bark of eucalyptus or aloe, but Papyrefea. Bushes of Papyrefea grew all around the city of Lei-Yang. This tree wasn’t notable for anything special. Boiled bark smeared under pressure of his fingers. ‘What negligence!’ Ts’ai Lun thought. ‘I am going to complain to the bath master.’ And he put the piece of the smeared bark outside the tub. When bathing was finished, Ts’ai Lun picked up the piece of bark and brought it to the office of the bath house master. Ts’ai Lun threw the bark on the floor and started pounding on it angrily. "What is it? What is it? Why did you disrespect me so much?" Ts’ai Lun did such a thorough job with his cane that soft fibers from inside the bark came out. Tzian Ze Bao the bath master stood silently in front of him with his face slowly acquiring a healthy orange color. Ts’ai Lun was a powerful man around Lei-Yang. Sweat started dripping of Tzian Ze Bao’s forehead. "I am very sorry master Ts’ai, very very sorry. This won’t happen again. The worker who made such an unforgiving mistake will be fired. Don’t worry, don’t worry Master Ts’ai," he mattered with servility. "Why fire a worker?" continued Ts’ai Lun. "It’s obviously your fault! You were the one who ordered to use Papyrefea bark instead of the aromatized bark to cut the cost. You are the one who should be punished. I paid for the aromatized bath and I expected to get the right service!" The bath master kept on apologizing returned Ts’ai Lun’s money back and even promised him that his next bath visits would be completely free until the end of the year. Ts’ai Lun accepted the apology but still was angry inside and not sure in the extent of the punishment, picked up the smashed bark piece and put it in the pocket of his robe. When a couple of porters finally carried him home, Ts’ai Lun placed the bark on a flat wooden block to be used later as evidence. In the morning however the bark looked quite different. The mashed soft fibers dried up and become a piece of some new material no one ever seen before. It was flat to a touch, pliable and fairly strong. His grandson, Yen, also paid attention to the object. "What is it for, grandpa?" "Nothing. It’s just a dried up bark." Ts’ai Lun’s answer was confident as usual, but inside he wasn’t sure. Logic told him that this property of the bark is a novelty at best. And yet something else, something beyond plain reason told him that it wasn’t. This entity, an obscure dark tangled ball of strings, rotated somewhere in his thought space, like object of purpose yet to be defined. And only now when Ts’ai Lun was on his death bed, he understood the possible application of papyrefea. The idea stuck him like the lightning. Everything became painfully obvious. If it was boiled until soft, pounded until the fiber separated, then dried, a new material could be made. This new material, that was light, pliable, yet strong and could have been used for writing. Ts’ai Lun has stretched his arm outward and beckoned. His older son Yen respectfully approached and sat on his knee by Ts’ai Lun. "Yes father?" The only thing Ts’ai Lun could wheeze was "Papyrefea". "What father?" Yen asked, not being sure that he understood what Ts’ai Lun was talking about. "Are you hungry, thirsty, do you want me to change your position?" "Papyrefea" Ts’ai Lun wheezed again. "What is he saying?" everybody asked stretching their necks. Yen turned to them and lifted his brows in a gesture of bewilderment. "Our father’s great mind is probably departing his body." Said he out loud and nodded his head in sadness. "Papyrefea" said Ts’ai Lun this time quietly but distinctly collecting all his remaining strength. His children understood that Ts’ai Lun was trying to tell them something important, but they didn’t know what. Ts’ai Lun also realized that he couldn’t be understood and a lonely angry tear rolled down his cheek. Soon he died. *** Mrs. Williams’s hawk’s eye noticed some commotion at the last row. "Sean, what’s going on there? Didn’t I say no talking?" "I’m not talking Mrs. Williams. I only asked Timothy for a black out." Mrs. Williams made her way to the last row and looked at Sean Edwards’ black pad. His last sentence was indeed a mess of the white ink." "I see. It’s ok Sean. You don’t need to black it out. Just write the sentence over on the bottom. Accidents happened." The End. |
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| Black Out by jturner4@charter.net |
#13 of 16 |
| 1785 words | |
| "How many bones are left?" David knelt before the tiny
flames, holding his bound hands over the heat. Laura’s breath escaped in plumes of mist barely detectable in the dark closet. "Not many." His chest tightened. Soon the last of their fuel would be gone. The dog carcasses had served more than one purpose over the past week. He forced the awful thought from his mind even as his stomach clenched with need. Wind battered the concrete structure as it changed direction. Laura squeezed tighter against his side, her eyes wide and flicking from the door to the air vent. "Don’t worry." David rubbed her arm. "It’s just the wind." "Are you sure? What if it comes back?" She shivered, and not from the icy cold. David didn’t answer, he listened. In truth, he couldn’t be sure if the thing hadn’t returned. Since the damned fuel trucks had broken down fifty miles away from their arctic laboratory, things had become desperate. At first, they’d all thought rescue would arrive before the six months of darkness set in. But that hadn’t been the case. Now, nine weeks later, their food, the last burnable items, and their sanity were almost gone. Nothing compared to what had arrived when darkness fell. Nothing. And David knew, that if help didn’t arrive soon, nothing would keep them alive. A heavy thud, definitely not the wind, rattled the vent covering. They’d welded steel rods over the screen last week–using the last of their precious fuel to do it. "Oh God, David." Lisa slid toward the opposite wall, eyes fixed on the vent. David clenched his knife in his fist, wary and waiting. "Shh. Don’t make a sound." The thrum of blood pumping through his veins vied with the screaming wind outside. No more noise came from the shaft. He prayed it meant the thing had moved on. "What are we going to do?" Lisa asked, her hand against her white face. "You know the others didn’t make it. There’s no one coming back for us. That thing got them. It got them just like it’s going to get us." The whispered panic settled on his shoulders like a yoke of guilt. He couldn’t get them out of this. The decision to kill the dogs had been hard, but now he wondered if it hadn’t been their death sentence. Without the canines to pull the sleds, they would never reach safety, never find their way out. He stared at the glinting steel and wondered if it wasn’t better to end it for them both. Lisa’s face, contorted with fear, held no resemblance to the fresh faced intern who’d arrived five months ago. Worry had etched creases around her mouth and terror had whitened the hair at her temples. Despair rippled through him. He couldn’t take | |