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"Out Of Touch" (the 106th ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Out Of Touch" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EDT), Jun 15, 2010 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Out Of Touch By glenlee10@sky.com (Entry #3) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| Slipping away from reality can be a
slow business and over a period of time the ethos of right and wrong can easily
skew, or be skewed, by events or by other people. Is the one who is then out of
touch to be blamed? Raymond was a good man, in the conventional sense of the word. He went to work. He did his job to the best of his ability. He came home again and helped his Mum with the chores and his Dad with the gardening. On Saturday, he sometimes went to watch the match. Some Fridays he went to the pub with Baz, his mate. He voted in every election but thought no more of politics or current events once he’d drawn his cross on the ballot paper. He was an ordinary man living an ordinary life. Then he married Ellie. It was the Milton Keynes’s concrete cows that gave Raymond the idea and he wondered why it had taken him so long to find the solution to his problem. Because she’d always wanted a puppy, Raymond had bought his wife a Yorkshire terrier as a wedding present. It hadn’t taken him long however, to realise that he’d made a serious mistake; one with long-term effects. The dog, Hector, a spoilt, scraggy pooch, accompanied his wife everywhere, even to bed where it slept between the two of them and snored loudly all night. When Raymond felt the urge he’d tentatively suggest, “Sex?” “No,” Ellie his wife would reply. “We might wake the dog.” “Not even a cuddle?” Raymond would whisper back to the accompaniment of snuffling from Hector. “Shh,” Ellie would say. “Go to sleep.” Raymond knew that he should have strangled the dog but he loved Ellie and let her have her way, despite suspecting that she loved Hector slightly more than she loved him. It was a decidedly lop-sided ménage à trios. And after Juanita arrived on the doorstep and stayed, as is the way with cats, Raymond could not even obtain relief when Hector was doing his business up the top of the garden. Juanita was black. Even her eyes were black, with the glitter that’s caught in coal when a match is lit. Her supercilious stare seemed to say, “I don’t trust you. You’re acting suspiciously.” Raymond felt her eyes following him everywhere. Ellie must have felt the same because Raymond need barely touch her arm and she’d hiss, “Not now. The cat’s watching!” and shrug off the attempted caress. Raymond’s life was an unbearable ménage à quatre, which the arrival of a gossipy parrot did nothing to improve. Ellie spent many hours teaching the bird, which came with the name Julius, to say, “Who’s Mummy’s best boy, then?” And Raymond was pushed to fourth place in his wife’s favour. All might still have been resolved had the parrot been taught to say something like, “Mummy loves Raymond,” but the bird stayed mute on the matter. Then Raymond thought of the Milton Keynes cows; immobile, silent and undemanding, and the solution to his problem came to him. He reasoned that to save the marriage, the animals had to be rendered less vigilant and/or demanding. So be it. The parrot went first. The vet’s bills were horrendous but Raymond allowed Ellie to spend the money. “It’ll be worth every penny,” she sobbed, “if we can only have him home again.” Raymond nodded in agreement. It was his idea after the sad event that Julius should be stuffed. “That way you won’t lose your pet entirely,” he told her. He would have given her a hug but the cat glared accusingly at him. Following the death of Julius, Ellie spent more time with the cat and dog. She gave them the most expensive food to eat, watched them whenever they went outside and she never failed to inspect the results of their bowel movements. “You can’t be too careful with an animal’s health,” she told her husband. “Prevention is better than medicine anytime.” Prevention didn’t stop Juanita from falling ill however. The vet mumbled something about, “probable poisoning”, and, “it happens with cats”, as he pushed a thermometer up the creature’s rectum. After the second, traumatic event, Raymond visited the taxidermist again and soon Juanita was home. Raymond had made sure that her eyes had been sewn shut so that she could no longer watch his every move. And this time, he waited until Hector was up the garden before he tried to console his wife. “No. Not now,” Ellie pushed him away. “I have to watch the dog in case anything happens to him.” Raymond had been ‘in banking’ but he so was pleased with the taxidermist’s work and the soothing effect that the results had on Ellie, that he decided on a career change. He studied hard and was soon working as an assistant to the original taxidermist. He was happy with his work, but nothing much changed at home. Hector, older and smellier, still came between him and his wife. One day, after tea, Raymond was sitting in his armchair, struggling with the evening paper’s Suduko when the doorbell rang. Ellie was sitting quietly opposite him, with her eyes closed and her hands resting in her lap. The bell’s call was strident and cut through Raymond’s peace. He sighed and considered ignoring the summons but it sounded again. Raymond had to respond. He went to the front door and opened it. Ellie’s cousin stood on the doorstep. Raymond blinked. Bobby hadn’t been to the house in years. “Hi, Raymond. How you doing, old man?” Bobby’s voice boomed down the hall. “Just passing on my way to Edinburgh so I thought I’d call in and maybe stay over for the night.” He brushed past Raymond and headed towards the living room. “Ellie through here, is she?” Bobby pushed the door open and looked around the living room. The parrot was sitting quietly on its perch, its dark eyes glittering. The cat was curled up on a red, satin cushion on the seat of a wooden dining-chair. The dog lay in its basket at the side of the fire. “Ellie?” Bobby greeted his cousin. “Lovely to see you again. Am I too late for supper?” He put his hand on her shoulder. She didn’t respond. Bobby snatched his hand away. He looked at his cousin, and then gave Raymond a strange look. The clock’s ticking sounded overloud in the silence and Raymond realised that he’d probably gone too far. Maybe, he thought, I got carried away? Perhaps I should have stopped at just treating just the animals? |
| Out Of Touch By Colin W Campbell www.colincampbell.org (Entry #4) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| Fear swooped down on them with all
the gathering pace and immediacy of the fall of a bloodied and dripping
guillotine. It came in a moment frozen forever in the time-line of their lonely
journey far beyond the outer reaches of the solar system. Dread of such a bone
chilling nature can only exist in the company of a crystal clear and menacing
flash of realization. Nothing that came before had prepared them. Everything
that came after was chilled in its shadow. But it had started like any other
day for the two of them alone in the boring routine of the return module.
"Jazon, you're watching it speeded up again." Marie spoke with the non confrontational tones of the seasoned deep-space traveler but her shoulders were stiff and tensed. "It's not too bad now," said Jason. "We're slowing down all the time. It may still be a bit compressed but it's a real live signal from Earth. I like live. Soon be home. Listen to this guy. Don't you think he sounds a bit like Mickey Mouse?" "So we get to listen to a four hundred year rodent," said Marie. "Go on record it and play it back with the Doppler edited out. Please, it's great to get real Earth programs again and we've been far enough away and moving fast enough to have some catching up to do." "OK you win again, take the control," said Jason and they settled down to watch Marie's choice of Earth TV played at the proper speed. "Hundreds to choose from and you pick an old Star Trek," said Jazon. For a while they watched the scary monster head speaking American English with a strange accent and little attempt at grammar, telling the poor Earth-folks about the new world order. "Don't you dare change the channel, I love Star Trek," said Marie as she went aft to the galley to get herself something for a TV snack. When she returned, what she saw caused her to let it float forgotten from her grasp. In the few minutes she had been gone, Jazon had turned pale, almost grey. She reached out with the back of her hand and found the perspiration strangely cold on his face. His chest heaved in a struggle to draw breath and he held the TV control at arms length as if it had suddenly become something evil. Jazon struggled to find the words and they were words Marie would never be able to get out of her mind. "They're all the same. All the channels are the same." Throughout the long days and weeks that followed, their fragile enclave flew on lit by ancient starlight that now had a cold and sinister quality about it. They didn't use the manual override to set a new course. What was waiting for them was all the more terrible for their fall back to Earth was inevitable. They had nowhere else to go. Nothing to do except wait while the gradually increasing tug of Earth's gravity pulled at them, reeling them in like they were on the hook of some distant unfeeling angler. There was little variety in the transmissions but they recorded them all and played them back over and over again. Nothing beamed out of Earth except what the invaders beamed out. The message was simple. They had dominion over all of the Earth. They were 'The Orrrg.' Apparently it meant something like 'Gods' in their own language and they saw themselves as superior beings that must be obeyed with a servitude that reeked of worship. After too many days of this, Jazon went off without a word to the propulsion pod. He was gone a long time but Marie knew not to interfere. "I think I know what that is," said Marie pointing to the makeshift device he brought back. It was not a time for words. The longest look they had ever exchanged was all that was needed. With this, they agreed. It could be little more than a gesture of defiance but they had sufficient fuel reserves for a gesture that would run to a good few megatons. The Earth drew closer. Soon they could see it as a far off speck with even the modest optical equipment carried on the return module. Then the Orrrg transmissions stopped abruptly and completely. Nothing came in their place though Jazon and Marie took turns to listen for something, anything that might break the empty silence. "The lights are on but is anyone home?" said Marie for the lights of Earth's great cities were reaching out to them as they strapped themselves in for a night descent and watched the heat shield deploy. The landing was unexpectedly heavy and they were glad to be well strapped in. They had ploughed into soft soil just deep enough to prevent them opening the hatch from inside. "Don't cry now, after all we've been through," said Jazon. But he found himself sniffing a bit himself for here they were like rats in a sealed metal trap waiting ... For Marie and Jazon there was something scary and unreal about any sound from outside after hanging for so long in the noiseless void. They shrunk back into their seats as unseen tools scraped and clanged on external hatch fastenings. Then fresh air, good clean natural Earth air rushed in and it was human hands that helped them out." "I've to take that," said the leader of the recovery party. It seemed all so natural that Jazon had handed over his trigger device before he realized what was happening. Then the unspoken question in his eyes brought a smiling reply. "Get used to it. They know what we're thinking and I'm sorry but you'll have to wait for any more answers. Orders are orders." So it was in near silence that they were taken to the aliens. Jazon and Marie gasped it out together for their many years alone in the vastness of deep space had given them something like the closeness of thought of identical twins. "You're not what we were expecting." "Ah, of course you wouldn't know. We're the second wave. Much smarter and much nicer than these 'orrible Orrrgs." The little round smiley creature bounced up and down gently as he communicated without any need to move his mouth. He seemed to be very much entertained by his own clever mastery of an Earth language that some might have found difficult. He continued, "Please relax. Just sit here for I want to know everything about your journey." After barely a couple of minutes, the alien left the room without even another glance in the direction of Marie and Jazon. A party of uniformed humans came to lead them out. "He'll have read every minute of your journey." said one. "They're very quick. It's a great pity you came back carrying a weapon of mass destruction. They're not bad but the one thing they will not tolerate is any kind of threat to their person. If you know that, you're all right but of course you didn't know. We're taking you to your quarters now. Try to make the best of it." "It's a zoo," said Jazon as they were led past cage after cage of Earth's most exotic animals. Then came the shock of seeing the human exhibits. Some called out; others just stared blankly as they were led by. "Breeding pairs," said Marie quietly. They stopped at an empty cage that lay at the far end of the human pairs and beyond which stretched a line of caged Orrrgs that hissed and spat and rattled their bars. Locked in and left on their own, Jazon and Marie were careful not to get too close to the side of their cage where a large Orrrg pair threatened them noisily through the bars. They had drinking water but no food so this was the first thing they asked their human neighbors on the other side. However, apart from a few muttered words about not looking forward to feeding time, little response was forthcoming. All at once, a new activity outside the cage stirred up a fresh frenzy in the Orrrgs next door. Human helpers set out a row of small chairs that were soon filled by a group of smiley alien children all clutching paper bags. "Oh no," said Marie. "They're going to throw us food." "Perhaps they'll want us to do tricks for it," said Jazon. But when the smiley children opened their paper bags it was to eat their own lunches as they looked expectantly at Marie and Jason eager to catch every moment of their reaction to seeing the bars slowly raised between them and the hungry Orrrgs. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #5 Second place: #3 Third place: #7 Fourth place: #2 Fifth place: #6 Sixth Place: #4 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Out Of Touch Bird farcher@atu.edu |
#1 of 7 |
| 67 words | |
| Is this love or lust... Are my feelings true enough,
for me to trust. Do I haste to much and breathe out the moment in a rush. Tell me wise man sitting with a face of blush... Is this love or lust... Are simply have I become so out of touch that my heart can no longer distinguish between the sparks of a common crush and love? |
|
| Out Of Touch Ken Staley |
#2 of 7 |
| 1225 words | |
| Swallows darted across the clearing, playing death tag
with the few remaining insects not driven to ground by the autumn cold. Here
and there, dotting the meadow like dollops of carelessly dropped cream, white
butterflies spun erratic paths, making the acrobatic flight of the swallows
more challenging. Their carefully choreographed paths bounced and dipped
without regard to the dawn, without regard to the swallows looking for
breakfast. Selfishly, he wished his mother were with him. He wanted to see her again, one last time. She would have loved nature’s dance across the meadow, the darting swallows, the parade and hum of insects. As dawn glided above the mountain ridge, even the pine trees gave their cherished fall moisture to add a golden mist to the scene, droplets of pure liquid sun. Vaporizing quickly, fall’s rising steam left behind a mountain meadow now washed clean and scented with heady rich aromas. High above, gliding on the first updrafts of morning, a lazy circle of large birds drifted, their white wingtips flashing in the dawn. Jon hoped they weren’t buzzards. He didn’t think so. After all, even at a distance they looked white, large white almost like tattered clouds, drifting in lazy circles – as was he. Part of his lethargic euphoria was drug induced. Deep inside, a part of him recognized that. Yet, something else was happening to him, something far deeper than anything that could be compounded artificially or chemically. Hours ago, the battle raged beyond him, charging across the meadow – roaring - shattering nature’s calm, chasing away any semblance of life, any hint of accord, any trace of natural flow. Lives pounded at lives. Issue fought issue, seeming so important that nothing else mattered but death, victory. War easily dismissed the last of the crickets’ song in the shadows. Interrupted was the hammering concerto of the woodpecker high in the tree. And now, as he lay still and not even the echoes of the gun’s roar reached him, nature’s symphony began anew. Across the glen, a twig snapped. He could move his eyes just enough to see a doe and two yearlings nose through the dark underbrush. They would come no closer, would reveal nothing more of themselves, using nature’s perfect camouflage to avoid any awaiting dangers, real and imagined. His scent alone would keep them at bay. The fawns, grown a bit more bold with age, nosed a bit further and leaf shadows dappled their pelts. Jon wished they could come nearer. He wasn’t sure he still had the ability to feel their fur, or whether they’d tolerate his touch – still, it would be nice. He smiled as they backed slowly under the deep shadows of the trees and vanished, as quietly as they’d appeared. He wished them well and long life, thankful that they’d put in an appearance. Just for him, he liked to think, just for him. He smiled again at the humor of life. Laughing took too much energy. Jon felt certain he should be reliving every event of his past, every painful decision and classic, sin filled mistake. At the very least, he should be writhing in anguish, terrorized at the thought of his wounds, horrified to see bits and pieces of himself scattered across his small section of clearing. Perhaps his wounds were terrible enough, sufficient enough, that they severed any pain. He didn’t hurt now. He wasn’t even uncomfortable or aware of his posture as he sat. He hoped pain would stay away, although he didn’t try to press his luck by moving. He couldn’t really move after all. He’d tried that earlier and managed only to slip down the trunk of the tree, knocking his helmet from his head. Now at least his helmet lay beside him, not covering his head and hiding Nature’s gentle parade from him. Jon wondered at the important things. He thought he remembered several and plagued and pestered his brain to recall those universe shattering events, those life demanding causes, those soul searing phrases. They meant so much – they felt so very real, desperate, almost tactile. Now the remaining butterflies, the dance of swallows, even the circle of birds barely seen through haze and distance – so completely out of touch with what once was important - these mattered more. Now that he could contemplate all – now that there was actually time to think, they were right, after all. There was no cause, no concern, more issue greater than The Now. The Right Now. Perhaps his wounds painted everything else into an immediate corner, but he didn’t feel them, so how could they? Medics pulled him to the side early in the battle, after the initial surprise and ambush. They stanched his bleeding and treated his wounds. Rushed to serve too many others, they shot him enough heavy medication so that the pain escaped him. Leaving with promises that someone would come and collect him shortly, they raced into the fray, to save one other life, one other issue challenged warrior. Reserves, they promised, were just beyond the ridge. Hold tight. The drugs would be good. Calls had been made to evacuate him to the rear. It wasn’t to be. As the battle swept beyond him, he knew from the sounds, from the roars, from the spectacle of battle that there were no reserves left, no special medical teams to come and sweep the wounded and dead from the field. In the end, his was simply not the winning side. He wondered if it mattered, really, who won. And who called it a field of honor? Funny thoughts danced across his mind. What honor was there in bleeding life away under a red maple tree, in the mountains far from the place of his birth? Perhaps this is honor, he thought. He wouldn’t die shrieking in pain. He wouldn’t die surrounded by dead and wounded comrades, although he suspected there were others close by. None of them were conscious enough to speak, or moan, or make any noise. And he knew he was dying. Odd that death held no fear, no terror. It wasn’t as though the horrors of battle would descend on him momentarily and finish the job. No echo remained, no trace that hatred had once filled this peaceful glen. No burned out hulks of armored terror polluted the scene, no victorious troops rifling the dead for souvenirs. Perhaps it should always end this way. He’d seen enough death, done enough killing as a soldier, fought for the glory, fought for flag, for a pseudo honor. Did the towering Douglas fir worry about it’s honor? Did the quaking aspen know that it shivered? Did it shiver in horror of the wind? Or in delight at being alive? He could rest now. His soul would start a new journey shortly. Something more peaceful this time, he hoped. Something along the lines of the bouncing butterflies, or the darting swallows. Perhaps something as stately and noble as the ancient pines surrounding him. The honor he felt now had nothing to do with medals for valor, nothing to do with the kill, nothing akin to victory. As his breath came in shallower and shallower bites, Jon closed his eyes and smiled. Whatever base elements this poor tree needed to survive – it was now Jon’s honor to give. |
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| Out Of Touch glenlee10@sky.com |
#3 of 7 Winner |
| 1106 words | |
| Slipping away from reality can be a slow business and
over a period of time the ethos of right and wrong can easily skew, or be
skewed, by events or by other people. Is the one who is then out of touch to be
blamed? Raymond was a good man, in the conventional sense of the word. He went to work. He did his job to the best of his ability. He came home again and helped his Mum with the chores and his Dad with the gardening. On Saturday, he sometimes went to watch the match. Some Fridays he went to the pub with Baz, his mate. He voted in every election but thought no more of politics or current events once he’d drawn his cross on the ballot paper. He was an ordinary man living an ordinary life. Then he married Ellie. It was the Milton Keynes’s concrete cows that gave Raymond the idea and he wondered why it had taken him so long to find the solution to his problem. Because she’d always wanted a puppy, Raymond had bought his wife a Yorkshire terrier as a wedding present. It hadn’t taken him long however, to realise that he’d made a serious mistake; one with long-term effects. The dog, Hector, a spoilt, scraggy pooch, accompanied his wife everywhere, even to bed where it slept between the two of them and snored loudly all night. When Raymond felt the urge he’d tentatively suggest, “Sex?” “No,” Ellie his wife would reply. “We might wake the dog.” “Not even a cuddle?” Raymond would whisper back to the accompaniment of snuffling from Hector. “Shh,” Ellie would say. “Go to sleep.” Raymond knew that he should have strangled the dog but he loved Ellie and let her have her way, despite suspecting that she loved Hector slightly more than she loved him. It was a decidedly lop-sided ménage à trios. And after Juanita arrived on the doorstep and stayed, as is the way with cats, Raymond could not even obtain relief when Hector was doing his business up the top of the garden. Juanita was black. Even her eyes were black, with the glitter that’s caught in coal when a match is lit. Her supercilious stare seemed to say, “I don’t trust you. You’re acting suspiciously.” Raymond felt her eyes following him everywhere. Ellie must have felt the same because Raymond need barely touch her arm and she’d hiss, “Not now. The cat’s watching!” and shrug off the attempted caress. Raymond’s life was an unbearable ménage à quatre, which the arrival of a gossipy parrot did nothing to improve. Ellie spent many hours teaching the bird, which came with the name Julius, to say, “Who’s Mummy’s best boy, then?” And Raymond was pushed to fourth place in his wife’s favour. All might still have been resolved had the parrot been taught to say something like, “Mummy loves Raymond,” but the bird stayed mute on the matter. Then Raymond thought of the Milton Keynes cows; immobile, silent and undemanding, and the solution to his problem came to him. He reasoned that to save the marriage, the animals had to be rendered less vigilant and/or demanding. So be it. The parrot went first. The vet’s bills were horrendous but Raymond allowed Ellie to spend the money. “It’ll be worth every penny,” she sobbed, “if we can only have him home again.” Raymond nodded in agreement. It was his idea after the sad event that Julius should be stuffed. “That way you won’t lose your pet entirely,” he told her. He would have given her a hug but the cat glared accusingly at him. Following the death of Julius, Ellie spent more time with the cat and dog. She gave them the most expensive food to eat, watched them whenever they went outside and she never failed to inspect the results of their bowel movements. “You can’t be too careful with an animal’s health,” she told her husband. “Prevention is better than medicine anytime.” Prevention didn’t stop Juanita from falling ill however. The vet mumbled something about, “probable poisoning”, and, “it happens with cats”, as he pushed a thermometer up the creature’s rectum. After the second, traumatic event, Raymond visited the taxidermist again and soon Juanita was home. Raymond had made sure that her eyes had been sewn shut so that she could no longer watch his every move. And this time, he waited until Hector was up the garden before he tried to console his wife. “No. Not now,” Ellie pushed him away. “I have to watch the dog in case anything happens to him.” Raymond had been ‘in banking’ but he so was pleased with the taxidermist’s work and the soothing effect that the results had on Ellie, that he decided on a career change. He studied hard and was soon working as an assistant to the original taxidermist. He was happy with his work, but nothing much changed at home. Hector, older and smellier, still came between him and his wife. One day, after tea, Raymond was sitting in his armchair, struggling with the evening paper’s Suduko when the doorbell rang. Ellie was sitting quietly opposite him, with her eyes closed and her hands resting in her lap. The bell’s call was strident and cut through Raymond’s peace. He sighed and considered ignoring the summons but it sounded again. Raymond had to respond. He went to the front door and opened it. Ellie’s cousin stood on the doorstep. Raymond blinked. Bobby hadn’t been to the house in years. “Hi, Raymond. How you doing, old man?” Bobby’s voice boomed down the hall. “Just passing on my way to Edinburgh so I thought I’d call in and maybe stay over for the night.” He brushed past Raymond and headed towards the living room. “Ellie through here, is she?” Bobby pushed the door open and looked around the living room. The parrot was sitting quietly on its perch, its dark eyes glittering. The cat was curled up on a red, satin cushion on the seat of a wooden dining-chair. The dog lay in its basket at the side of the fire. “Ellie?” Bobby greeted his cousin. “Lovely to see you again. Am I too late for supper?” He put his hand on her shoulder. She didn’t respond. Bobby snatched his hand away. He looked at his cousin, and then gave Raymond a strange look. The clock’s ticking sounded overloud in the silence and Raymond realised that he’d probably gone too far. Maybe, he thought, I got carried away? Perhaps I should have stopped at just treating just the animals? |
|
| Out Of Touch Colin W Campbell www.colincampbell.org |
#4 of 7 Runner-up |
| 1462 words | |
| Fear swooped down on them with all the gathering pace
and immediacy of the fall of a bloodied and dripping guillotine. It came in a
moment frozen forever in the time-line of their lonely journey far beyond the
outer reaches of the solar system. Dread of such a bone chilling nature can
only exist in the company of a crystal clear and menacing flash of realization.
Nothing that came before had prepared them. Everything that came after was
chilled in its shadow. But it had started like any other day for the two of
them alone in the boring routine of the return module. "Jazon, you're watching it speeded up again." Marie spoke with the non confrontational tones of the seasoned deep-space traveler but her shoulders were stiff and tensed. "It's not too bad now," said Jason. "We're slowing down all the time. It may still be a bit compressed but it's a real live signal from Earth. I like live. Soon be home. Listen to this guy. Don't you think he sounds a bit like Mickey Mouse?" "So we get to listen to a four hundred year rodent," said Marie. "Go on record it and play it back with the Doppler edited out. Please, it's great to get real Earth programs again and we've been far enough away and moving fast enough to have some catching up to do." "OK you win again, take the control," said Jason and they settled down to watch Marie's choice of Earth TV played at the proper speed. "Hundreds to choose from and you pick an old Star Trek," said Jazon. For a while they watched the scary monster head speaking American English with a strange accent and little attempt at grammar, telling the poor Earth-folks about the new world order. "Don't you dare change the channel, I love Star Trek," said Marie as she went aft to the galley to get herself something for a TV snack. When she returned, what she saw caused her to let it float forgotten from her grasp. In the few minutes she had been gone, Jazon had turned pale, almost grey. She reached out with the back of her hand and found the perspiration strangely cold on his face. His chest heaved in a struggle to draw breath and he held the TV control at arms length as if it had suddenly become something evil. Jazon struggled to find the words and they were words Marie would never be able to get out of her mind. "They're all the same. All the channels are the same." Throughout the long days and weeks that followed, their fragile enclave flew on lit by ancient starlight that now had a cold and sinister quality about it. They didn't use the manual override to set a new course. What was waiting for them was all the more terrible for their fall back to Earth was inevitable. They had nowhere else to go. Nothing to do except wait while the gradually increasing tug of Earth's gravity pulled at them, reeling them in like they were on the hook of some distant unfeeling angler. There was little variety in the transmissions but they recorded them all and played them back over and over again. Nothing beamed out of Earth except what the invaders beamed out. The message was simple. They had dominion over all of the Earth. They were 'The Orrrg.' Apparently it meant something like 'Gods' in their own language and they saw themselves as superior beings that must be obeyed with a servitude that reeked of worship. After too many days of this, Jazon went off without a word to the propulsion pod. He was gone a long time but Marie knew not to interfere. "I think I know what that is," said Marie pointing to the makeshift device he brought back. It was not a time for words. The longest look they had ever exchanged was all that was needed. With this, they agreed. It could be little more than a gesture of defiance but they had sufficient fuel reserves for a gesture that would run to a good few megatons. The Earth drew closer. Soon they could see it as a far off speck with even the modest optical equipment carried on the return module. Then the Orrrg transmissions stopped abruptly and completely. Nothing came in their place though Jazon and Marie took turns to listen for something, anything that might break the empty silence. "The lights are on but is anyone home?" said Marie for the lights of Earth's great cities were reaching out to them as they strapped themselves in for a night descent and watched the heat shield deploy. The landing was unexpectedly heavy and they were glad to be well strapped in. They had ploughed into soft soil just deep enough to prevent them opening the hatch from inside. "Don't cry now, after all we've been through," said Jazon. But he found himself sniffing a bit himself for here they were like rats in a sealed metal trap waiting ... For Marie and Jazon there was something scary and unreal about any sound from outside after hanging for so long in the noiseless void. They shrunk back into their seats as unseen tools scraped and clanged on external hatch fastenings. Then fresh air, good clean natural Earth air rushed in and it was human hands that helped them out." "I've to take that," said the leader of the recovery party. It seemed all so natural that Jazon had handed over his trigger device before he realized what was happening. Then the unspoken question in his eyes brought a smiling reply. "Get used to it. They know what we're thinking and I'm sorry but you'll have to wait for any more answers. Orders are orders." So it was in near silence that they were taken to the aliens. Jazon and Marie gasped it out together for their many years alone in the vastness of deep space had given them something like the closeness of thought of identical twins. "You're not what we were expecting." "Ah, of course you wouldn't know. We're the second wave. Much smarter and much nicer than these 'orrible Orrrgs." The little round smiley creature bounced up and down gently as he communicated without any need to move his mouth. He seemed to be very much entertained by his own clever mastery of an Earth language that some might have found difficult. He continued, "Please relax. Just sit here for I want to know everything about your journey." After barely a couple of minutes, the alien left the room without even another glance in the direction of Marie and Jazon. A party of uniformed humans came to lead them out. "He'll have read every minute of your journey." said one. "They're very quick. It's a great pity you came back carrying a weapon of mass destruction. They're not bad but the one thing they will not tolerate is any kind of threat to their person. If you know that, you're all right but of course you didn't know. We're taking you to your quarters now. Try to make the best of it." "It's a zoo," said Jazon as they were led past cage after cage of Earth's most exotic animals. Then came the shock of seeing the human exhibits. Some called out; others just stared blankly as they were led by. "Breeding pairs," said Marie quietly. They stopped at an empty cage that lay at the far end of the human pairs and beyond which stretched a line of caged Orrrgs that hissed and spat and rattled their bars. Locked in and left on their own, Jazon and Marie were careful not to get too close to the side of their cage where a large Orrrg pair threatened them noisily through the bars. They had drinking water but no food so this was the first thing they asked their human neighbors on the other side. However, apart from a few muttered words about not looking forward to feeding time, little response was forthcoming. All at once, a new activity outside the cage stirred up a fresh frenzy in the Orrrgs next door. Human helpers set out a row of small chairs that were soon filled by a group of smiley alien children all clutching paper bags. "Oh no," said Marie. "They're going to throw us food." "Perhaps they'll want us to do tricks for it," said Jazon. But when the smiley children opened their paper bags it was to eat their own lunches as they looked expectantly at Marie and Jason eager to catch every moment of their reaction to seeing the bars slowly raised between them and the hungry Orrrgs. |
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| Out Of Touch Greg Parker |
#5 of 7 |
| 2029 words | |
| It had started with we need to talk, and as
clichéd as it was had ended with it’s not you it’s me.
Everyone knows that the one initiating the need for talking had already decided
that no amount of talking was going to change anything. The change had already
occurred. The need was for closure. Talking had become a formality. “I’m just not ready for a committed relationship, ” she said as soon as they had sat down in her sitting room. The room where complete strangers and casual acquaintances made small talk about the unseasonably mild weather or the high price of gas. They faced each other on the French Victorian settee that felt out of place to him like a yacht on a pond. He waited for the next blow. “I still want to see you, but I think we should take a break.” He didn’t respond. He just sat there looking at her, pleading with his eyes as hard as he tried not to. Pathetic. He swallowed once, twice, then almost responded. The words didn’t come. He had words too. A lot of them. They had abandoned him--like her. He wanted to lash out, but he didn’t. He wanted to kiss her, but he didn’t do that either. He just sat there. She put a comforting hand on his thigh and with a tentative smile informed him that everything would be fine. That it was just a break. She needed time to think and get herself in a better place. She wanted to go it alone for awhile and figure out exactly what she needed. He knew her better than that. There was someone else. He was sure of it. She was more afraid of being alone than he was. He was being replaced, but she wanted to keep her options open. That’s what she was really saying. Maybe in some way it was a compliment to him. He hadn’t been kicked off the team, merely benched. She went on and on about how good he was to her and how much she appreciated him. His stomach hurt like a kick to the groin and he nearly doubled over when he realized she was soothing herself, not him. After several more empty compliments his pride welled up and he finally responded, “Let’s just end it at this. I’m good with that.” He removed her hand from his thigh, stood and walked to the door. “I hope you’ll be happy.” And he meant it too. That was the heartbreaker for him. He truly cared for her. Cared in a way that was foreign to him. He’d certainly known a lot of women in his life, but she was different and she mattered. He stepped out onto the stoop and squinted as the setting sun glared over the rooftop of the house across the street. His eyes watered. The neighbor lady waved at him and smiled. He smiled back hoping she couldn’t see the tear that trickled down his cheek. He looked back at her front door, closed to him now, and then climbed into his trusty pickup truck and drove away. A day passed. Then two. The world continued spinning on its axis in spite of how he felt inside. He showered every morning. He went to work. He hardly ate at all. He spent his free time alone. He sat on his back porch listening to Thom Yorke’s computer sounds on his iPod. On this particular night, a Marlboro Light hung from his lip half smoked but no longer smoking. He hadn’t the energy to keep it lit. It was pointless. A song played but all he heard was the chorus over and over again: “Cuz this is fucked up, fucked up.” The words careened back and forth in his head like a dangerous ricochet. His conscious thoughts hugged the floor, his sensory perception had completely left the building and his motor commands remained motionless at the center of it all as the dangerous ricochet continued. “And this is fucked up…fucked up.” This went on for several days during his alone time and then the self-reflecting questions came. Questions and accusations, both at her and himself, in an internal dialogue of back and forth. They came in floods at first but after awhile seemed to settle into one simple question pooled in the lowest point of his thoughts. When did they, her and him, become a relationship? To him it wasn’t a relationship. It was a melding of two lost souls, forged together from the heat of their passion and the compatibility of their natural need for one another like a fire needs the air or how moisture feeds the soil. That seemed to be the death knell. A relationship. He felt nauseous at the sound of it—the wishy-washy weight of it. What kind of word was relationship anyway. It was packed with negative connotation. Related on a ship in a tumultuous sea of doubt and confusion. His so-called relationship was sinking and his first mate had already abandoned ship. Well. Maybe. He really had no idea at this juncture. It was taking on a considerable amount of water though. Of that he was certain. The S.O.S hailing call had been sent over and over according to her. Strangely enough he was just now receiving the transmission. Those ever so subtle hints at self-improvement and the veiled remarks of disappointment that were deftly delivered in the form of backhanded compliments, and all of it in girl code too. One time she joked, “You walk funny, I like that about you.” (On that morning they made love before work.) And on another, she commented, “Maybe someday you’ll outgrow that sexy belly shirt,” she paused and added, “Joe Dirt.” (She complained of cramps but graciously went down on him that very afternoon.) “I hate you,” she looked at him disdainfully, “popping in here and eating your food like a pig at the trough,” and then she made a snorting sound and pushed up her nose at him. (That night he pleasured himself while mentally rehearsing how he would consume his next meal to her liking as he slept alone for the first time in weeks.) Her wants and needs were coded too. Coded so as not to be easily interpreted by the enemy, he supposed. He was the first to admit that on their sea of love he was all but adrift. He was out of touch with the feminine psyche—at least the feminine psyche that was her. But maybe that was exactly why he found her so enchanting aside from her incredible body and mesmerizing smell. He was out of touch with her inner rhythms. They were erratic if nothing else. But being out of touch, out of taste, out of sight, and out of scent of her was beyond his realm of consideration. She was his addiction and his affliction and most assuredly his cure. He craved her like no other. As he had initially assumed, she had been seeing someone. She had been since their breakup. Of this, he was sure. The 2 a.m. drive-by on the night of their breakup where a strange car sat parked in her driveway was just another formality. And he saw them together in public as well—arm in arm renting movies at the Redbox on Main the following week. Knowing that she was sharing her bed--their bed--with another man on that very night had hurt him. Later, seeing them together at the Redbox not so much. It had been a week. And he prided himself on his ability to sustain and recover from heart ache. He was a survivor. Divorce. Murder. Suicide. And then suicide again. And once again suicide for the third time in less than six months. They say bad luck comes in threes, but his came in fives that year. He got over it though, in time. And he would get over her too. With every day, just like before, it became a little more bearable. Like a cut on the bottom of his foot. At first, the pain throbbed and ached and needed immediate attention, but after a few days it was merely tender to the touch. A few more and it was scabbed over and only itched when he wasn’t preoccupied with something else. And finally, it was just a scar that he was reminded of when someone brought it up out of curiosity. He had to move on and eventually get over her. That was his journey. He thought about her though. He thought about her a lot, much more than he wanted to. And, he didn’t hate her. He missed her drama too. It was befuddling. He remembered the times they held each other. So close and for so long. It was as if time suspended itself just for them, or at least that’s how it felt to him. He wasn’t so sure about how anything felt for her anymore. That feeling seemed genuine and mutually shared at the time, but a feeling, as well as time, comes and goes. He missed her kids too—especially the little girl. She was precocious and grew on him. Germs and all. He wasn’t used to germy, hands-on children. The girl ate from his plate, mauled his face and had a constantly running nose because she was allergic to cats. She was adorable though. She had what his mother would call an old soul. She said deep things and made strange but astute observations about people, places and things. She loved “The Homer Simpsons” as she called it. And she seemed to get many of the subtle innuendos that one would think should be way out of her ken. She was six or seven at the time and it didn’t take long before a genuine trust and friendship had developed between them. The boy was interesting too. Intelligent. He was twelve or thirteen and always on the go and generally in trouble for something--or soon to be. And he was desperate for attention. Both children required a lot of attention. Actually, all three of them did. He was often so busy paying attention to her family that his relationship with his own noncustodial son began to suffer. But he was so involved with them that this was not apparent to him at the time. He was connected to them and his son had his own connections with his other family too. At least, that’s how he rationalized it with himself. He had been ousted from that family as well. One morning at work, three weeks to the day, his phone rang. It was her. She sounded lethargic like maybe she had been drinking or crying or had possibly taken one of her pills. She asked how he was doing. He said he was fine and asked the same of her. She said she missed him and that she had made a mistake. She wanted to see him again and asked if he would stop by after work that night. She added that the kids missed him too—especially the young one. He liked that. He missed them as well. He said that he could probably stop by for a minute around six. She said, “I love you.” He hung up the phone. He didn’t have the same feelings for her any more. The fantasy had passed. He’d met a new girl. She was young and pretty and worked in his office. They had lunch together a couple of times. She seemed stable and mature for a young woman of 25. After some thought, he decided that it probably wouldn’t hurt to see her again as friends. They had been very close for almost a year. It was the mature thing to do. He would be taking the high road. It was a new approach for him. That night, he stopped by at six. She was cooking dinner—tator tot casserole. His favorite. Her kitchen smelled good and when she hugged him to say hello, she did too. The kids were happy to see him. They had stories to tell and things to show. They ate together. It was good. After dinner, she led him up to her room and sat him on the bed facing her. She gently placed her hands on his thighs, slowly leaned in and brought her lips to his |
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| Out Of Touch Tom Campbell Thomassbcampbelll@hotmail.com |
#6 of 7 |
| 694 words | |
| On a quiet side street stood an old home. Sturdy,
gabled, limned with a white paint that was somewhere between new and faded.
Before it stood a man with old but clean clothes, neatly complementing his grey
hair. His gaze flickered over the house and his wistful smile brightened as his
eyes moved to the tall tree in the yard. A tree that offered welcome shade in the summer, a whole mess of leaves in the fall, and in the winter, bare branches reaching for the heavens. It was now the fresh spring season that the man remembered best. He could almost see the new leaves growing as an undertone to the sweet smell of honeysuckle that ringed the porch. Fred Murphy stared at his hand, wondering if it really belonged to him. The hand that had planted the seed of that tree, patted down the soil, held the rusty old watering can, nurtured the now majestic tree through its young fragile life. The faint scent of that cottonwood mixed with the gaiety of the honeysuckle and green grass enveloped him in memories. Memories of that so distant spring he spent courting on that porch, on that swing. From the window of the house he noticed a young boy waving at him. He waved back. Soon the two stood side by side on the walk. "Whatcha doing here, Mister?" "Just admiring the tree." "That old tree? I climbed it a bunch of times, almost to the top one time until my Ma made me come down. Why you care about our old tree?" "Long ago, this house was my home." "Henry!" A smartly dressed woman came bustling down the stairs. "What have I told you about talking to strangers? Begging your pardon, Sir, but..." "He ain't no stranger, Ma. He used to live here." "That's right, Ma'am. Name's Fred Murphy. I grew up in this house. I haven't seen it in many a coon’s age. I'm on my way to Chicago to live with my daughter but I had to stop off and see the house and that tree just once more." "Well, I guess that's different. Sorry to jump to conclusions but nowadays, you know..." "I understand Miz..." "Johnson. Would you care to take a look around inside the house?" "No, no, Miz Johnson. Mighty kind of you and I'm sure you've kept it lookin' purty but I'd just as soon remember it as it was." "That ol' tree musta been a lot smaller then," Henry put in. "Yep, I planted it. It's got a little ways to go but should be at least an 80 footer. You know, son. If you were to plant a tree now, you could watch it grow just like I did. You mightn't be around to see it get real tall but there'ss other folks to come that'll appreciate it all because of you. That ol' scamper was only yea high when I was courtin' Miss Ellie, right on that porch swing there." "Actually, Mr. Murphy, we had that swing replaced 'bout ten years ago." "Looks jest the same." "We didn't see no reason to change it. It was just getting old." The man took off his soft felt hat and scratched his head in an absentminded fashion. "If I was a philosophical type I might have something to say about change and gettin' old but I've only learned a few little things like, don't drink downstream from the herd. They all had a good naughty laugh over that. "So what happened to Miss Ellie, Mister? You ever hear from her?" "Every day, in here," he said putting his hand over his heart. "I married her and we moved away from here. Last month she passed on, God rest her sweet soul. I have plenty of good memories about her, don't you worry about that, but the memories before her were a little fuzzy. Now they've all come back, just being here." "I'm so sorry, Mr. Murphy." "Appreciate it, Miz Johnson, but don't worry about me none. I reckon I got a new life comin' and I aim to make the best of it." He drew his coat a little closer against the cool breeze. "I 'spect I'd better git back and catch that last train" "Good luck Mr. Murphy," they chorused. He turned off with a slow firm stride sending just one look back and a wave of his wrinkled hand. With a nudge from the soft wind, it seemed the old cottonwood waved back at him. |
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| Out Of Touch Micki Peluso Mallie1025@aol.com |
#7 of 7 |
| 849 words | |
| "Hi there!" a voice called from the end of the produce
aisle. "I thought I recognized you." Annie turned her head, cocking it toward the vaguely familiar note to the woman's voice. Marcie, she thought. Oh God, don't let it be Marcie. The woman soon caught up to Annie, who had turned and walked swiftly to another aisle, pretending to be checking the prices on pasta. " I just knew it had to be you," Marcie said, loudly enough to draw questioning stares from other shoppers. "Let me give you a big hug." Annie flinched, but couldn't dodge Marcie's exuberance. She forced a smile. "How are you, Marcie? It's been so long that I didn't recognize you." "Too long, I'm thinking. I've missed you, Annie. You were really the only friend I had back in school. We need to get back together again. I'm back in town for the summer, settling my parent's estate. You must have heard they died?" Annie shook her head but offered no condolences. No, we don't need to get back together, she thought. Wasn't taking her first love away from her and marrying him enough? What torture did Marcie have in store for her now? Marcie steered Annie over to the coffee shop at the end of the store, talking non-stop all the way. Some things never changed. "Really, Marcie, this has been nice running into each other but I need to rush off and pick up my kids." All throughout school, from first grade on, when She moved into the neighborhood, and right through college, Marcie was the one who controlled their relationship. Her needs and desires so overwhelmed Annie that she gave into her instead of fighting her demanding nature. It was happening again. "One quick Latte and I'll be off, Marcie promised. Annie, feeling beaten down as she had for most of their long friendship, conceded, hated herself for it. The small coffee shop was crowded and as they waited, Marcie chatted on about her own life since they'd last seen each other--a scene that was unpleasant to say the least, and she skillfully avoided mentioning it. Annie only half listened, as her thoughts drifted back to the awful night when Brad had told her he needed some space. Little did she know at the time that space included being in Marcie's arms, not hers. Annie hadn't fought for Brad; that wasn't her style. Like a wounded dog, she whimpered and went off to lick the tears in her broken heart. Later, when she saw Brad walking the campus grounds with Marcie, huddled together as lovers, Annie found a new strength, strode up to them, slapped Marcie in the face and walked away. It was two weeks until graduation so avoiding them after that wasn't too difficult. Annie got herself so sick with grief that she contracted pneumonia and nearly missed her graduation ceremony. It held no joy for her--nothing did as she pined away the summer months thinking her heart would never heal. Marcie's shrill voice broke her reverie. " . . .and in retrospect, I can't think what I ever saw in Brad." What she saw was that I had someone and she wanted him, Annie thought, watching her go on with this charade. "He was just too, too immature for me. Why our marriage was over almost before it began. I'm so grateful there were no kids to fight over. You should be grateful I took him off your hands, Annie." " Oh yes, well "in retrospect" I suppose I am" There was nothing left to say. "More coffee? "No, thanks. I really need to pick up my girls from school." Annie thought of Jack, who she'd met during her internship as a nurse. He was just starting up his practice as a pediatrician. Jack taught her the meaning of true adult love and she couldn't imagine her life without him and their two girls. She'd grown up, and was now a confident woman who no longer allowed others to run her life. "Listen, Annie," Marcie barging into her thoughts again, "let's get together for dinner some time soon. I'd love to meet your husband and daughters. It'll be just like old times. Here, take my cell number and give me a call soon. Great seeing you again. Let's keep in touch." And off she went, eyeing the muscular checkout guy up and down. Annie sighed, this time with relief. She couldn't wait to pick up her girls and hug Jack. As for Marcie, alone now with no one to love, no children--only her ego to keep her warm on cold nights. . . .Annie would insure that they stayed completely out of touch. |
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