Writing Prompt

My wife likes to say that it seems that I kill off people frequently in short stories. It's probably true.

I like to participate in writing prompts on the Writers Digest web site. This week's prompt is about your first driving test (or one you expect to have and describe). But that seemed rather bland to me, so I took some liberties and wrote this:

I glance at the instructor as his voice drones on. I know the rules, but you know how this game works. Any time the government is involved, you play their way. I don’t really want to take the test. But you’ve got to prove yourself on the new General Motors VX-series, at least as far as the state is concerned. They’re a bit faster than the original V-series, and not like the original S-series sedans.

Suddenly it’s silent. I realize the instructor is waiting on me to provide a voice clip for authentication. I do so, and the VX-128 goes to ready status. I check the screens one more time, request access, and when the acknowledgement comes back, punch the buttons to light the engines.

I slowly maneuver to 500 feet, the prescribed level while the electrodes record my health status. They don’t want a 115 year old guy like me to incur a heart attack, I suppose. Briefly I wait until I get access to normal flight. I shift to the thrusters, and eventually achieve a nice burn up to 90,000 feet. I glance over at the instructor. He hasn’t said anything yet, but that glance was my first and only mistake.

“The VX-128 requires attentiveness to the control screens. Please focus your attention on the control screens.”

The metallic voice annoys me. I’ve never gotten used to the damn robots that operate our worlds. I return my gaze back to the screens, and wait for access to planetary mode. The familiar chirp and visual signal give me all I need to have some fun. I immediately go to anti-gravity flight. My plan, as agreed upon with the instructor, has me taking a short trip out to Mars and back. Nothing fancy, just enough to demonstrate an approach, landing, and a return back to Earth.

Of course, neither the instructor nor the test facility know what I’m about to do. I reach for the override switch, and simultaneously slap a magnetized disruptor pad on the driving instructor. The shiny metal head lolls over. A grin comes over my face as I set a course for the Beta Signi solar system. I hope my cousin Benny has jacked this VX, or the authorities will cook my goose. Literally, since a death sentence and cremation await me if I’m caught. But crashing that robot’s CPU is sweet. Benny always did have good taste in disrupter pads.

I hit the graviton setting, and the VX follows a gentle arc away from Mars and then accelerates to 1,000 times planetary flight. He did it! I mouth a silent thank-you to Benny.

I set automatic flight mode. In a few hours I will be back on Grishon. A surgeon will remove this voice box from my throat, and another surgeon will “correct” my face, returning it to its original shape and look. Then I will consult with my generals. And in a few days, I will lead the attack on Earth. I hope to defeat your armies, and then the 42 billion inhabitants will suffer the same fate that I nearly did.

Hope you liked it!

Chuck

hot days of summer

The hot days of summer are arriving.  It will be time for iced tea, lemonade, and naps on the porch.

 

If you haven't got a screened porch to take a nap on, I feel sorry for you.

what writing means to me

What does writing mean to me? 

Writing is one of the most basic forms of communication.  It's a creative release that gives to others and returns positive energy to my soul. 

It doesn't matter to me whether my writing is serious fiction or junk.  When I'm in the mood I'll do what feels good. 

As I get older, and the pace of life seems to get crazy and frenetic, it's nice to sit down to the laptop and speak to the page.

I need to write!

Writing has come to life for me, and seems to be a great stress reducer. I find that a quick short story can really get your creative juices flowing, and yet, is a nice outlet for "venting". What better way to "kill" someone! (I don't really want to kill anyone. But sometimes it's great to pretend!)


Sometimes it's even a little better to "off" yourself. Check it out:


A man walks into a bar. But it isn’t a bar. It’s a baseball bat. And this isn’t just any man; it’s me getting pummeled by the bat. I’m cradling my head with my hands and arms. At least a couple of ribs are busted, and my left knee hurts like hell. If I’m kicked one more time, my guts are going to spill out. All I can do is scream my head off and hope to God someone saves me.

Now there is a hand over my mouth, and so much weight on me I can’t move. Squeezed between all of these cars, a voice whispers to me, “Leave her alone. Just walk away. I’ll kill you next time, pretty boy.” And then they’re gone.

I’m crying and shaking. My ribs are killing me. They tried to kick me in the groin, but I scrunched up so much it must have been too hard to hit in the dark. My mouth is full of blood and tears, and my gums sting and ache. Pretty soon I hear yelling. And it’s not me, like it was before. I think someone is coming. Just when I think I’m going to pass out, a reassuring voice speaks.

“Hey buddy, I called the police, do you need the paramedics?”

I don’t know what to say. I don’t want the police, because Lisa and I don’t need their help. The last thing I need is her soon-to-be ex finding out I swore a complaint. It’s one thing to beat the hell out of me, but I can’t protect her. I can’t even protect myself. And Jack is a big guy with too many friends.

“Thanks, but I have a nurse acquaintance”, I hear myself say. I get up and head for my car. My new buddy is protesting, but I need to get to Lisa and make sure she’s okay, because that woman is the best thing that ever happened to me. But just because Jack beat the hell out of me doesn’t mean he’s done for the night. I find my keys, get in the car and tires squealing, I speed away. I’ve got to get home. Well, Lisa’s house, but my home too. I need to check on Lisa, but there’s a little stop I need to make first.

It takes me about ten minutes to get to Jack’s cabin. It’s not really a cabin, more a shack in the woods that his family owns. I see a couple of lights, but his truck is gone. Crap. That’s not good. I race down the road, bracing for the worst. I’m almost to Lisa’s house when Jack’s truck passes me going the other way. Fast, too, like he’s guilty of a dirty deed. I arrive and the house is dark and Lisa’s car is in the garage. Where is she? I see a note on the counter and fear grips me. “Honey, this has got to stop, just trust me. I’ll be with my friend Sheila.”

Now I’m really worried. Sheila owns guns and knows how to use them.

I hurry back to Jack’s. But I’m very frightened because there is absolutely no reasoning with this guy. His wife has left him for me, and he’s either going to kill me or her, or both of us.

At Jack’s, his truck is there, and I see Sheila’s car. I glimpse shadows inside and a lot of arms waving around. I have to surprise Jack. I smash through the door and burst into the room.

I’m too late. The gun goes off, and I can see by Jack’s face that he never saw it coming. I didn’t either. My chest explodes. The ache in my jaw recedes; my ribs don’t seem to hurt anymore. Lisa is clutching the smoking gun, screaming for help, but I know it won’t matter. I can feel what’s left of my heart pumping faster than a racing engine. Just before everything goes black, I see Jack’s face in a twisted smile. The feeling of defeat is overwhelming. Then I see Sheila’s outstretched arm, hear another roar, and Jack goes down. I can’t see it, but the last vision I have is of Sheila placing Lisa’s gun into Jack’s hand.

Somehow, I think that’s a good thing.