August 8, 2011

From “A Continuing Story Part 2” by Anonymous

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This post is part of the August 2011 Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s challenge is “The Continuing Story of a Song” and is best read in order:
Part 1 (orion_mk3)
You are here.
Part 3 (BigWords)
Part 4 (AbielleRose)
Part 5 (Ralph Pines)
Part 6 (hillaryjacques)
Part 7 (Darkshore)
Part 8 (pyrosama)
Part 9 (Diana_Rajchel)
Part 10 (Inkstrokes)
Part 11 (soullesshuman)
Part 12 (Alyzna)
Part 13 (Cath)
Part 14 (dolores haze)
Part 15 (Alpha Echo)
Part 16 (pezie)
Part 17 (orion_mk3)
Part 18 (orion_mk3)
Part 19 (orion_mk3)

Song: “Dreaming” by Bruno Coulais

Chris had dreamed of meeting someone, or re-meeting someone, at the resort. It had been a naive hope, a young person’s hope, but Chris had clung to it nonetheless, even as the resort side of the island proved to be overrun with the sort of people that didn’t really seem worth meeting. The other members of the group surely disagreed, quickly vanishing into pools and bars and chatting up air-headed sun worshipers or drinking with business tax exiles and the wives they’d seemingly constructed out of strips of leather. The other side of the island was more authentic than any of that – you didn’t need a daiquiri to take the chintzy edge off.

Maybe that’s why the note, tucked under Chris’s door last night, seemed like such a blessing. It was terse, unsigned, and as romantic as one would expect from a postcard or a B-rate movie:

Meet me on the leeward side of the island tomorrow at 8. Take the middle path from the resort and turn left at the masseuse. Got something to show/tell you, something you won’t want to miss.

 

August 7, 2011

From “A Continuing Story” by Anonymous

Posted by alexp01 under Blog Chain
[4] Comments 

This post is part of the August 2011 Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s challenge is “The Continuing Story of a Song” and is best read in order:
You are here.
Part 2 (orion_mk3)
Part 3 (BigWords)
Part 4 (AbielleRose)
Part 5 (Ralph Pines)
Part 6 (hillaryjacques)
Part 7 (Darkshore)
Part 8 (pyrosama)
Part 9 (Diana_Rajchel)
Part 10 (Inkstrokes)
Part 11 (soullesshuman)
Part 12 (Alyzna)
Part 13 (Cath)
Part 14 (dolores haze)
Part 15 (Alpha Echo)
Part 16 (pezie)
Part 17 (orion_mk3)
Part 18 (orion_mk3)
Part 19 (orion_mk3)

Song: “Can’t Take it In” by Imogen Heap

At that early hour, the beachfront was stunning. White sand so fine it was hard to believe it hadn’t been raked stretched to either side of the path’s opening. There were no footprints, no docks, no boats, and–being the leeward side of the island–no debris. The travel agent had been right about the island being an unspoilt paradise; his mistake had been to only talk about the resort.

The warm early morning sun through the clear water cast a mosaic of light on the beach as it sloped away into the abyss, and the water and sky met on the distant horizon, delineated only by a wall of cloud that might have been a storm. If not for the twenty-minute hike and the lack of waiters serving drinks, it would have been the perfect place for the wealthy power couples infesting the resort to lose a couple of hours.

Check out this month’s other bloggers, all of whom have posted or will post their own responses:
BigWords
AbielleRose
dolores haze
Ralph Pines
hillaryjacques
pezie
Darkshore
pyrosama
jkellerford
Diana_Rajchel
Alpha Echo

 

August 6, 2011

From “The Horror at Demon’s Island” by Jean Phillippe DuClare

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“You consider this to be the lap of luxury, Captain?” Pierre said, indicating his hut with a sweep of the hand. “Believe me, I am almost ready for the regimen and steady diet of penal colony life after this.”

“Tell me what happened, Pierre. And stop talking us in circles or you’ll find yourself under the guillotine or up against a pockmarked wall.”

“The supply ships stopped coming two years ago,” Pierre said. “About when Paris fell. Order broke down, the guards deserted us in the middle of the night and took the only boats. The lucky ones made it ashore by swimming. The unlucky ones? Maybe still on one of the islands. Maybe shark food. Isn’t that what you’re here to find out?”

 

August 5, 2011

From “The Spooner Gambit” by Ellis C. Langdon

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“Here,” the clerk said, shoving the logbook at Travis. “There’s his name and info.”

Travis ran his finger along the entry. “Hirosaki Nagashima.”

“Like I told you,” said the clerk. “Asian guy. Sounds Japanese, I think.”

“And you didn’t see anything unusual about that name,” Travis sighed.

“Other than the fact that it’s Japanese?”

Travis slammed the book. “Other than the fact that our saboteur signed in with a name that’s a spoonerism of ‘Hiroshima Nagasaki?’ He was counting on having a dumb-ass American behind the counter, and by the sound of it you were lucky to finish fourth grade!”

 

August 4, 2011

From “The 1000 Insane Poets of the Late Dynasty” by Nokin Kobayashi, translated and adapted by Irene York

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“You should be honored,” said the Vice-Counselor. “The Emperor has bestowed a great favor on your younger brother.”

“Imprisonment is not a favor,” said Wei. “My brother should be among family.”

“Your filial piety is impressive, but do not think that absolved you of responsibility should you oppose the Son of Heaven,” the Vice-Counselor replied. “The Emperor’s word is final.”

Wei was led into a large room, richly decorated, where many writing surfaces and quills with inkstones were on display. “Your brother and the other divine poets will be housed here, given access to food, drink, concubines, and the Imperial Library. All the Emperor asks in return is that their maddened scribblings continue to flow.”

“And why is that, exactly?” said Wei.

“For amusement. Many of the writings can be surprisingly beautiful. For insight, as well, since the shen spirits speak to them in an altogether different way.”

 

August 3, 2011

From “Trench Warfare in the Egerton Country Reference Room” by Cullen O’Doul Rogerson

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The red ribbon from the opening ceremony hung in tatters from Grady’s rifle. He’d wrapped it around the barrel and stock as a sort of improvised sling.

“I bought and paid for this building.” Grady said, staring directly at Fellowes through the glass. “And you’re not getting it back until my wrongs are redressed.”

“It’s a Carnegie library,” said Fellowes, never for a moment taking his eyes off the barrel of Grady’s rifle. “You didn’t pay for it any more than I did.”

“I have paid, several times over, even!” Grady shouted. The scars on his face brightened with rising, angry blood. “First as a millworker for U.S. Steel, lining Andy C’s pockets! Then as a tenant, with taxes to help build and equip it! And finally in blood, defending it against Hun machine guns in the Ardennes!”

 

August 2, 2011

From “Days Until Impact” by Jessica T. Tubmann

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Days until impact: 19
I need to do something. Something meaningful that will stand the test of time, even if that time is short for all of us. Maybe if it’s meaningful enough, something, somewhere will take notice and do something. Remember me, maybe, or even intervene. It may be a long shot, but I don’t want to have lived a meaningless life.

Days until impact: 11
I’ve tried some things. Writing? Who’s got the time to read it, even if it were any good, even if it could be distributes. Taking pictures? Pedestian. Who’ll care to look at anything I have access to? Even if I dropped everything there isn’t time to make even a grand gesture, let alone a grand deed.

Days until impact: 5
It’s all been meaningless. Everything. Like shadow puppets on the wall: insubstantial and ephemeral. Trying to hold onto anything, trying to do anything, is just making a new and meaningless toy that will vanish as soon as the light fades.

Days until impact: 1
It’s a miracle. I daren’t even write it down, for fear of extinguishing that fragile flame. But it is, or may be, what we’ve all needed.

 

August 1, 2011

From “The Qaus Run” by Melina al-Maghriz Durston

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“No, I’m not going to that address,” Nasir said. “Not again.”

“Look,” sighed Dispatch. “He’s a good tipper, and you get a lot of business in his neighborhood so you’re always closest. Take the fare. If he bugs you, monkey with the meter a little to get time and a half.”

“It’s not the money. I’m not doing it.” Nasir cried.

“Look, I’m through arguing. You take the fare or you find another cab company to drive for. Plenty of Arabic speakers who can drive stick would do the Little Mecca loop for half what you’re pulling in.”

Nasir turned off the radio in disgust and made his way to Dr. Qaus’s apartment. The good doctor was curbside, loaded with satchels and papers.

“Good morning,” he said. Nasir glanced at his dash clock: 2:53pm. “Take me to the university cyclotron. I’ve a set of equations to test and there’s only a few hours’ window.”

“Which university?”

“I don’t have time for all your questions! Drive!”

 

July 31, 2011

From “Potemkin Korea” by Carol Choi Park-Bower

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Ms. Jeong led the group to the next street corner, the clicking of her heels echoing down the all but empty street.

“That is factory for producing luxury automobiles,” she said, stabbing her umbrella in the direction of a nondescript concrete building with darkened windows. “Under the guidance of Dear Leader, luxury automobile production has increased 1000% and most families are issued one by government after meritorious service.”

Cora looked at the building carefully. An unfinished interior was dimly visible through the darkened windows, and there was no sign of raw materials entering or finished products leaving the facility.

“I think the brand of car they make there must be the Potemkin,” she whispered to Maya.

“Yes, and the model is the BS. I’d very much like to buy a Potemkin BS luxury autocar as a souvenir,” Maya said.

The tour proceeded apace into the center of town, where Ms. Jeong jabbed her tour guide umbrella at a line of stalls festooned with Nork Korean flags. “Here is place where workers and peasants of village have handicrafts for sale,” she barked. “All proceeds go to care of orphans created by American and Japanese imperialist war crimes.”

Cora picked up a stuffed animal from one stand and examined an attached tag: “100% machine made. Manufactured in China.”

 

July 30, 2011

From “Treasures of the Mobster’s Tomb” by Cordelia J. Dinkins

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The beam from Murray’s flashlight made the marble letters stand out in sharp relief.

“Here lies Constanzo ‘Stan’ Firelli,” he read. “No gangster was more bold. Died of unnatural causes – a heart attack.”

“That’s the one,” said Lucy. She handed Murray a crowbar.

“Y-you sure about this?” said Murray. “I’m not about being chased by any old vengeful ghost, but a vengeful mobster ghost?”

“If Sam Mendoza was right, it’s empty. If Firelli’s gonna haunt your ass for opening an empty sarcophagus, he’ll probably haunt you for just about any old thing. And gold dollars don’t haunt.”

“Gold dollars don’t haunt,” Murray repeated to himself, almost as a maxim, as he leaned into the prybar. “Gold dollars don’t haunt.”

 

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