Daily Fiction

Day 3

Wed, 09 Oct 2013 22:08:31 -0400

A stormy dawn, lightning and thunder. The rain, coming down like cats and dogs. Falling down with the light pitter-patter. The people, on the horizon, falling like trees from the skyscrapers.

The land, given back to the land as the animals rejoiced.

This may take awhile to get up for you fantastic people. I have...

Wed, 09 Oct 2013 21:15:39 -0400

This may take awhile to get up for you fantastic people. I have an idea, but nothing written down.

Day 2

Tue, 08 Oct 2013 17:16:00 -0400

The alarm clock was playing a song. The popular song of the week. Not a great song, but it did the trick in the morning.

Two songs to fully wake up. Another five to get dressed. The routine was stale, but worked.

Song three was beginning. Out of bed and to the sock drawer. Not the first, nor the second, but the third pair from the bottom. Red today, the only pair not on the grey-scale. An old Christmas present, maybe? It didn’t matter.

Third song over, socks–red–on, fourth song starting meant torso. Fourth from the right on the wardrobe; grey and striped jacket today. Button down shirt, white, fourth from the left.

Fifth song began. Sounded exactly like the first. Typical music in this day in age. Fifth song, fifth pair of pants from the top–solid grey.

Finishing before the sixth song starts meant spinning the tie rack counter-clockwise. Six times. Grey–matches tie.to jacket.

Seventh song. Seven re-ties of the shoes. Simple black shoes; reliable.

Briefcase open on the bed, double checked all contents are in place. Eighth song, out the door.

Heartbeat rising, anxiety spiking. Just another day, like every other. No, not like every other. Different for once.

The bus stop was ahead, three minutes before it arrived. Allowed six paces of the stop. Six paces to think.

Two minutes, four paces. Three paces. One minute. The bus stopped around the corner. One pace. The screeching brakes; they should have checked those months ago, it sounded.

Dues paid, seat taken. Ten minutes, thirty stops until destination. Thirty stops before a welcomed change in life.

Twenty-nine stops. Twenty-eight, two passengers off. Twenty-five, seven new ones.

Briefcase under the seat, two more passengers on, one off at stop twenty. Six more minutes. Nineteen stops, The bus filling up. No more seats, mixture of suits, children, women and a single blind lady, dog patiently laying by their feet.

Five more stops. Eyes closed, breathing deeply. Calmly. Four. Three. Two…

The wish–desire–granted. No routine included the briefcase. It was unusual; different. a time bomb set to songs, to a routine of an unchanging life.

We are onto Day #2, and have decided to write an entire piece...

Tue, 08 Oct 2013 16:47:19 -0400

We are onto Day #2, and have decided to write an entire piece without using a single identifier (he/she/I). So far, so good. Expect it up by the end of the night.

Photo of Day 1’s story in the single worst hand-writing...

Tue, 08 Oct 2013 09:32:32 -0400

Photo of Day 1’s story in the single worst hand-writing ever.

Day 1

Mon, 07 Oct 2013 16:37:00 -0400

Another day in the ditches, surrounded by the enemy. Day in and day out, it never ends. I haven’t the chance to kill in days, maybe weeks.

I caught sight of them every few days, hours maybe; the time blurs together so easily. Lighting one of my hand-rolled cigarettes, yellowed throughout, taking a long drag. These helped my nerves. Steadied my vision.

Today was the day. Orders had come down. We’d be moving forward. Heading deeper into the enemy lines. No more holding fire; bunkering down.

Another drag. This was the time. Roscoe and I were ready. We have been for days. Waiting for these orders to come down to us.

When I finished the cigarette, butting it out on the ground next to Sherman and Angel. We grabbed our gear and stood up into the grey morning.

There was no movement out here yet. I knew this was better. Let us take first action.

Crossing Oxford street, I saw the first enemy. They had not seen me yet, their back turned as they walked down the street.

It took three shots from my pistol for him to drop. The noise must have been louder than I thought, the fringes of a crowd were forming along side streets.

Woke the devil, so to say. Twisting to where the most were coming from, I fired five more shots, dispersing the crowd.

It was quiet on the block again. I could hear the distant screams. At least two dead. I took this time to light another of my yellowed cigarettes I kept in the inside pocket of my peacoat, taking a long drag when lit.

Putting away the pack, as it felt heavier took longer than I remember it usually taking, when it reached the pocket, I felt a whole going through it; it was moist. Looking down, there were two holes in my chest.

They got me. They won. I fell back, cigarette falling from my lips, landing next to the cardboard signed I stood beside.

"HOMELESS VET. NEED $$$“