Dani's Shorts 4 Page 6

  Dani J Caile, long-time sufferer and battler against this almost incurable disease said "When it hits, it hits hard. Just listen to this opening passage from my infamous 56 element 500 worder for the TIW 1st anniversary blog hop. '"Chinese chickens outside." Tom lay his chinese chickens over the chinese chickens in the chinese chicken and sat down on his favourite chinese chicken opposite the chinese chicken.' It's horrendous, I'm telling ya. Stay inside, all of you. Board up your conjunctions, your contractions, hide away your imperfect tenses and fragmentary responses! Nothing is safe!"

  One TIW writer is, however, safe from this crippling condition and that is Don Corcoran, self-created TIW Champion, who never actually used a single element in one of his stories. Ever. "Don't use 'em, won't lose 'em," he mumbled under his brimmed hat.

  A TIW spokesman said in response to those blighted that "those writers who integrated their elements into their stories well enough have nothing to worry about or have least at risk. Those who used them as an addition or unneeded descriptive phrase or only in part should be more careful as to how they cross their 't's and dot their 'i's."

  Weekend Quickie 65 - Loathsome Customer

  (Murder, moron, victory, a feeling of being full - 250 words)

  "You...you murdered him!"

  The hairs on the back of my neck still sizzled and burned, my face caught in the rigors of a grimace of hate as the sounds of Mancini played in the background.

  "Yes! He was a moron! Victory is mine!" I wiped the blood from my fingers which had penetrated his windpipe on my apron, fingers that had seen the worst of opening jars of pickles for him every day, and tightened my ponytail, loosened in the last moments of his death struggle, with the help of the restaurant-length mirror on the wall.

  "You're...you're a murderer!"

  "He deserved it! No more complaints from him!"

  My fellow worker backed away slowly, her large wide eyes threatening to drop out of her white frightened face. Customers took what they could of their possessions and food and ran for the door, parents protecting their children, old women tip-tapping their zimmer frames across the tiled floor. One glance from me quickened their pace.

  "I feel...I feel full of exhileration! Yes!" I took his plastic refill cup he always used five times a day and poured the coffee over his head, glaring into his vacant eyes. "Try and refill it now!"

  "But...but you killed him!" She was dialling for the emergency services on the phone behind the counter. I picked up his plate and threw his usual order of le coq au vin over his limp body.

  "What did he expect? That's the last time he gives me a 5% tip! Ha!"

  Weekend Quickie 66 (Sunday Edition) - Reds Together

  (Tom Cruise, Protestant, Ian vs Dani, feeling of losing a running race to Richard Russell)

  Danielle and Mamie finished their aerobics class and wiped themselves down with their gym sweat towels.

  "Ouch. I feel like I've just lost a running race to Richard Russell." Danielle's buttocks hurt due to exercise.

  "Richard? Why Richard?" asked Mamie, checking her hair in the wall mirror.

  "Why not? Richard, the 'Tom Cruise' of Landscape Gardening."

  They both laughed, though neither knew why.

  "Why Tom Cruise? What's Richard's religion, Scientology or something?"

  "No idea, Protestant, Catholic, who cares, really. No, I'm talking about his charm..." chuckled Danielle.

  "And his size?" nudged Mamie with a wink.

  "Ha...!...I dunno, I've only ever seen him from the shoulders up on Skype and video. He made that wonderful video about being addicted to the Iron Writer Challenge. Do you remember that?"

  "Yes, that was good. But I tell you who's addicted to that, Ian, that's who."

  "Who? Ian?" Danielle fluffed up her hair, which could never quite match Mamie's mass, no matter how hard she tried.

  "Ian, that guy who writes up everything."

  "Oh, Dani!"

  "Yeah, Dani or whatever he calls himself. He's crazy. Thinks he's really something," laughed Mamie. Danielle paused in her hair pampering and thought.

  "Mmm, Ian versus Dani. Which one, do you think?" she asked.

  "What? Oh, right." Mamie took a glance away from the mirror for a moment to consider the question seriously. "Erm, Dani, always Dani. More mystery, more darkness. Talking of 'darkness', are you ready for the shower?"

  "Always. Reds together."

  "Reds together!" they shouted in unison.

  88 - (Richard Russell Challenge) - Experimental Anality

  (A bouquet of flowers in a trash can, draw inspiration from "The Pretender" by Jackson Browne, a critically important secret military message, encroaching storm clouds)

  I did it.

  I left that place.

  But you never ever do.

  It has you in its grip.

  From the first moment to the last.

  A bouquet of flowers in a trash can.

  That was the end of the line.

  In the shade of the freeway.

  I rented myself a house.

  And got a job.

  Watching the moon.

  Sometimes it's too much.

  But mostly it's too little.

  It will not leave my soul.

  It crushes me to think this way.

  Though I get up and do it again.

  Until the church bells ring and howl.

  In the wink of an eye.

  And lay my body down.

  To the dark night.

  Encroaching storm clouds.

  They crush my mood.

  Make me remember those times.

  Destroy my waking hours, my days.

  When the morning light comes streaming in.

  I want to know what became of her.

  I want to know where she is.

  Whether she is happy or sad.

  Where I can find her.

  But am I right?

  Do I care?

  Do I really hurt?

  They were only fitful dreams.

  I am aware of all this.

  But my heart does not comprehend well.

  It struggles in the laughter of lovers new.

  Waiting for others to bring a chance.

  And take my hopes and dreams.

  I wish for a halt.

  I am a pretender.

  Just a pretender.

  With my dark glasses.

  Smiling through a deep melancholy.

  Sitting, watching those of lesser worries.

  Crying through masks that are my face.

  Tearing at the world with all my might.

  Striking foes of which I couldn't see.

  Contending with what could have been.

  I died too many times.

  All for one mistake.

  A secret message.

  An important secret note.

  She would be here today.

  I would see her smile shine.

  Watch her dance the way she did.

  Believing in what may lie before it comes.

  But optimism falls in the great awakening.

  Caught between the longing for love.

  Gripped in the last fight.

  Dying in my arms.

  Out of sight.

  And out of mind.

  I have become a ghost.

  There is little left to say.

  Perhaps it will all end too quick.

  Or perhaps they will stretch time over time.

  Increasing the suffering, the pain and hurt.

  Ripping my soul from drying bones.

  Cutting my chest open, bleeding.

  My heart torn out.

  Beating no more.

  Waiting for a reason.

  In an unreasonable uncaring world.

  A world full of selfish images.

  Will it end, will it finally stop?

  And then all this breathing is too much.

  From all this impoverishment comes nothing.

  Then there w
as a knock.

  And a silence ensued.

  So it begins.

  I wait for them.

  Those temptations of happy idiotism.

  They may come at any time.

  I keep a warm drink beside me.

  A welcome relief for the lonely broken hearted.

  And I say let them come all.

  They may take what is left.

  And I say let them.

  There is no more.

  Nothing is left.

  I cannot go on.

  Though this is a beginning.

  Weekend Quickie 67 - A Love Story

  (Taylor Swift, lollipop, Oklahoma, an International Sidewalk Chalk Champion Artist - 250 words maximum)

  (25 words)

  She was a Taylor Swift lookalike addicted to lollipops, I was an International Sidewalk Chalk Champion Artist from Oklahoma. We met. We loved. We lost.

  (250 words)

  "You're pretty good at this," a girl said over my head. I heard her sucking on a lollipop.

  "Yeah, I'm actually an International Sidewalk Chalk Champion Artist." I looked up. She was the spitting image of Taylor Swift, blonde hair, sweet smile, curious dark eyes. My heart skipped a beat. After weeks of drawing on the pavements of Oklahoma with nothing but a few dollars and a wrecked back from bending over my work, was this the reason I was here? To meet her? I smiled. "Hi."

  "Hi. Really? You're an international champion? That's cool." She crouched down to my level, both of us together in the sea of legs around us.

  "Ha, yeah, cool. There's not much accolade in this field, though."

  "Ah, accolade, that's for dicks, that is."

  I liked her even more, if that were possible. I stretched my back and indicated I was standing up.

  "Oh? Yeah, right." We stood up together, with her smile growing as we did.

  "I really need a break. Do you fancy a drink or something?" I asked, trying not to be pushy.

  "Err, sure, why not?"

  I picked up my tools and placed them in my backpack, along with the meagre makings of the day. There was just enough for two coffees and a snack or two.

  "What about those? They're great, what'll happen to them?" She pointed to my pictures.

  "Safe and sound." I took out my phone and took some pictures. "Come on, I know a good place."

  Weekend Quickie 68 (Sunday Edition) - Nowhere

  (Write down 5 words that start with the 3rd letter of your first name. (Do not read any more until you do this!) nail, neither, nowhere, nothing, never. Now, take the third word and write a poem centered around this. (Nowhere). Poem needs to be one stanza long.)

  When you think you're moving on,

  And you're actually somewhere.

  What's really happening is,

  You are absolutely nowhere.

  89 - (DL Mackenzie Challenge) - Vengeance

  (A Montblanc Fountain Pen, vengeance, Telekinesis, the Tigris River)

  Davis took out the little black box and opened it, revealing the pen. It wasn't any old pen, it was a Montblanc fountain pen, with its hand-engraved gold nib and iridium tip. But it was still a cheap trinket in comparison to the time and blood lost. Here, on this day, thousands of miles from home and burning in the hot desert temperatures, he saw it for what it was. Nothing. Retirement was sweet but vengeance was sweeter. He dropped the pen in the dust as a few shots zinged by his helmet.

  "Alpha Niner, Alpha Niner. Some heat on the top. Heat on the top. Send a present from Santa."

  "A-Okay, Roger that, Two-six."

  Another ring of shots came dangerously close. The Mosul Dam on the Tigris river, apparantly the third of four rivers which ran from the Garden of Eden, if that could be believed, was not what Davis had envisioned as his last resting place. He knew that history would call this a Peshmerga and the Iraqi Army operation to retake control of the dam from ISIL militants, but those coalition fighters weren't worth shit. It was up to himself and a few buddies conscripted for the job. Plus the Flyboys, who flew over and hit the ISIL positions once again with two missiles.

  "Alpha Niner, Alpha Niner, thanks for the help."

  "Roger that, Two-six. Have a good one."

  And they were off, leaving Davis alone on this side of the dam to his thoughts while the place settled from the attack. It was here, in Iraq where he'd lost his foot. Only after 6 months of rehabilitation and 3 months with a prosthetic while sharing a room with a crazy guy who believed he had the power of telekinesis did they finally retire him out. Then the picture came. He'd asked a favour for copies of any satellite surveillance photos showing members of the ISIL, hoping to spot the men who'd held him captive, and he found 'him'. He made a few calls and now, sitting behind a concrete wall on a shitty dam deep in Iraq, he was about to reap his revenge. Those weeks of captivity had all but broken him. They questioned and tortured him, spat and pissed on him, and finally this man, the man whose face he would never forget, cut his foot off. But he told them nothing, absolutely nothing. They would have killed him but for the bombing. One moment a gun was held at his head, the next he was alone with the crumbling room. The ceiling fell in on him and broke his chair, loosening his restraints and he was able to crawl and find a way out. The next thing he remembered was the helicopter, taking him away, back to base.

  He heard some shouts and watched six armed men climb out of a doorway. One of them was him, the man, more haggard looking than before but still recognisable. The time for vengeance was now.

  Weekend Quickie 69 - 8

  (Two people meeting for the first time, the number 8, catfish, the feeling of being anxious. Max 250 words)

  I sat there on the sofa, sweat pouring out of me with worry. I was sure to faint in a moment. The doorbell rang. It was time. With one last look in the hall mirror, I straightened my shirt and opened the door.

  "Hello, Wei Wei."

  "Hello, Dave."

  She was the girl of my dreams, that Eastern beauty I'd always longed for, a Chinese moon which brightened the room with her smile. I invited her inside and a pleasant first few minutes ensued. We'd only ever chatted online, this being our first time together for real. The cracks in our perfect soon-to-be-relationship started to show at the dinner table when she tucked into the main course.

  "Err, Dave, what's in this?"

  "A few herbs, some fish?"

  "Fish? What fish?"

  "Err, catfish, my man at the market said it was the best."

  "I'm allergic to catfish. Quick, pass me some water, I need to take my medicine!"

  "I'm so sorry, Wei Wei, I didn't know." I handed her a glass.

  "What?what's this?"

  "Err, what?"

  "This, Dave, this?" She was screaming now, her face going red and swelling up.

  "Take your medicine, Wei Wei, quick!"

  "I can't! Not in this glass!"

  "Why not? Look, it's got the number '8' on it, that's a Chinese lucky number!"

  "I grew up in India! The number '8" is unlucky!" She fell to the floor, choking, unable to breathe.

  "But?but?!"

  And there it was.

  The Police aren't pressing charges, though her family are after my blood.

  Weekend Quickie 70 (Monday Edition) - Busy Hands

  (The winner of a thumb wrestling competition, time capsule, tax audit - 70 words)

  Daddy was furiously digging up the time capsule I'd buried a few days ago, the one with my old Furby and My Little Pony DVD, and the picture of me winning the school's thumb wrestling competition.

  "Why are you digging it up, Daddy?"

  "You put one too many things in it, sweetie."

  I'd dug it down quite deep so Rover couldn't get to it.

  "Like what, Daddy?"

  "My Tax audit!"

  90 - Confirmed

  (image of two snails kissing while balancing on floating cherries in water, the Drake Equation, Guy Fawkes Night, fried Bologna sandwich cookoff)

  An image of two snails kissing
while balancing on floating cherries in water? Where was he?

  "Turn right.It's about a mile down here."

  He was lying on his side with his hands tied behind his back and a gag around his mouth. The image was a poster stuck on the inside of one door of a moving van.

  "That thing was about as stupid as that other last mission, what was it, 'Gay Spoon's Night or something. I hate this place."

  "What?"

  "You know, that big fire with lots of fireworks, burning a dummy, celebrating when some king didn't die. We were here to pick up a fugitive."

  "Guy Fawkes Night."

  "Yeah, that one."

  Last thing he remembered was searching for some salt in the team's tent at the cookoff. He shuffled around to see the two people talking in the van's cabin?Dave and Bob, two helpers he'd been introduced to today for the competition. What was going on?

  "We would've won that cookoff, too. That fried Bologna sandwich recipe was fantastic."

  "Some things are more important than some poxy human food competition."

  One of them turned to look at him.

  "He's up. Is that a problem?"

  "Not for me. We're here, anyway."

  The van stopped and Dave and Bob got out, leaving him alone lying in the back. It was a long time before they opened the doors, letting in the cold air of the night. He tried talking but could only mumble.

  "Shut up Frank. It ain't gonna do you any good."

  They pulled him out of the van and carried him to the middle of a field. He was being kidnapped, but why? What did they want? Who were they? Why that reference to a 'human' comp?then it clicked. Bob looked into his face.

  "Ah, a moment of eureka, I think. Zah, send the signal."

  Zah? His name was?but then if what he thought was true?a spinning circle of lights appeared overhead, their circumference increasing as they came closer. The lights hovered some ten meters above the field and a large beam shot down to the ground. Someone materialied in the beam and walked over to Dave, or Zah, and Bob.

  "Is this him?" asked the stranger.

  "Yes, sir. I know he's a bit old but these creatures don't last long. We got here just in time."

  "Yes, I see. Well, he'll last long enough for the trial."