Bob and Larry

Don't even ask me what Bob's problem is. He started out as arrogant
and rude, and ended up something else. And I have no idea about Larry either. I'm as interested as you are! Oh, here's the assignment:

Up to 600 words in any genre, in which a character's actions reveal their nature.

The panhandler rattled a few coins in the ratty old Big Gulp cup as
Bob walked past. Bob didn’t slow his pace even slightly, and his gaze
never turned aside. He walked straight past the man as if he was
invisible, and paused only to wait for the revolving door to present
him with an empty compartment before he entered.

Inside, he hurried to the bank of elevators, and watched three of them
open and close before he found one that was empty. He got on and
impatiently pushed the close button before anyone else could enter.
When he was alone in the elevator, he breathed a sigh of relief and
pushed the button for his floor. There was always the chance that
someone would come on partway up, but there was nothing Bob could do
about that so he just crossed his fingers and watched the floors go by
on the digital display above the doors.

When the doors opened on his floor, he walked quickly out of the
elevator and down the hall to his office. His eyes remained tightly
focused on a spot on the floor about six feet ahead. He didn’t make
eye contact with any of the people he passed; none of them even tried
to acknowledge him. They all knew the futility of speaking to Bob
unless Bob had first spoken to you. Except Larry.

Whether to harass Bob, or because he really was that friendly was a
common topic of debate around the water cooler. Larry was a friendly
guy, and was generally liked by everyone. Still, there were other
friendly people in the office who had learned to leave Bob alone after
only a single freezing glare in response to their greetings. Since
nobody could come up with another feasibly reason why Larry persisted
in trying to talk to Bob, the debate usually leaned towards
harassment. Then, it always turned to speculation on how long it would
take for Larry’s daily greeting to result in an explosion from Bob.

“Good Morning Bob!” Larry’s deep voice rang out over the cubicle
walls. The only recognition Bob made in return was a slight quickening
of his pace and an almost imperceptible reddening of his cheeks. Larry
hurried around the cubicle dividers just in time to intercept Bob at
his office door. Bob stood there, his office key in one hand and his
briefcase in the other and Larry stood resolutely between him and his
goal.
“Did you catch the Caps last night? Pity about that call in the third
period huh? I was hoping they could sweep the series until then!”
Larry tried to catch Bob’s eye as he spoke, leaning over so that he
was sure that he was in his range of vision. Bob continued to stare
straight through him, his face turning redder by the second and the
key in his hand beginning to shake.
“No matter Bob, that just means that we are guaranteed at least a game
five, and that means they will be playing at least one more home game.
I am going to try and wrangle some free tickets out of my buddy again;
you want me to see if I can get you one?” Larry’s smile was broad and
genuine, but Bob continued to stare right through him. Finally, Bob
managed a slight shake of his head, and a weak gesture with the key
towards his door.
“Yeah, you’re right Bob, back to the ole’ grindstone! Have a great
day!” Larry aimed a friendly slap at Bob’s shoulder as he stepped
aside to let him unlock his door but Bob deftly dodged it as he
quickly opened the door and slid inside, slamming it behind him and
leaning his back against it. Taking a deep breath, he slid down the
door to the floor, where he sat for few minutes with his head between
his knees.

© 2009 Tyler Willson. All rights reserved

Another slice of the Weasels...

My re-write of the Round Table assignment for this week. I chose to hammer out another slice of my NaNo 2008 novel. Oh, and I went WAY over 600 words. Again... Whoops!

Tiriak put the ruined farm behind him resolutely. His father's sword hung at his hip, where it flapped uncomfortably against his thigh. He had no idea where he was headed, just that he needed to put some distance between himself and the Weasels in his village. His mind reeled with all of the events of the past few days, and his belly growled hungrily to remind him of his continuing fast. He knew of a small village a few miles up the Great Road that had an inn. If he could get there before sundown, there was a chance he could get some food in exchange for washing the dishes or something. The only things he had of value were the clothes he wore, the ceremonial dagger and his father's sword. He was willing to part with none of these things in exchange for food. At least not yet.

Several times as he walked, Tiriak heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats and quickly hid in the brush near the road. He had no desire to meet anyone coming or going from his own villiage, at least not until he figured out the reason the farm had been destroyed. Each time, he would slide his father's sword from its scabbard, and clutch it awkwardly.

He wished desperately that his father had seen fit to teach him at least the most basic fundamentals of swordplay, but it was apparently too late for that now. He had not taken time to investigate the still smoldering rubble of the farmhouse, but logic told him that his father would have to be dead to allow such a thing to happen to his family. Finding the sword hidden beneath the old stone bridge gave him some hope, but why would his father hide the sword and run, rather than wielding it in defense of his farm and family?

Fortunately the road was not busy today, and Tiriak finally reached the villiage just as the sun was beginning to touch the jagged peaks of the mountains. He found the inn and doing his best to assume a confident air, pushed open the rough wooden door and entered. He stood just inside the doorway for a few moments to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness, until a pretty girl approached.
"Can I help you sir?" She was only a few years older than Tiriak, and not yet wearing a wedding ring. Her smile was pleasant enough, but he caught her glancing nervously at the long sword at his hip. He placed his hand on the pommel in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner, and forced himself to return her smile.
"Yes ma'am. I have been walking all day, but I don't have any money. Do you know if I could do some work for you to earn some supper?" The girl's smile faded, although her face remained friendly. Tiriak's stomach growled loudly as if to accent his request. She nodded towards the back of the dining area.
"You will have to speak to my father. But I am not sure we have any work for you. I'm sorry." She turned and returned to the long polished bar. Tiriak turned back towards the table she had indicated. A stout man sat there scratchng busily with a quill on a long piece of parchment. By the way his lips were moving, Tiriak thought for a moment he was having an in-depth conversation with himself. Then he realized that the man was calculating under his breath. Tiriak stood at a discreet distance, not wanting to interrupt. After a few seconds, the man cursed loudly and threw the quill across the room. It was only then that he noticed Tiriak standing there.
"Oy! What do you want then? My daughter is running the place, you can see her to order your food and drink." Tiriak gulped nervously.
"Well, sir, as I told your daughter, I was wondering if you had some work I could do to earn my supper. I have been..." The man interrupted with a snort.
"Looking for a handout are ye? Well, unless you know how to cipher, I got no work for wanderin'..." he stopped when he saw Tiriak's face light up.
"My father was very insistent that I learn to read and cipher sir." The innkeeper scowled darkly at Tiriak, his eyes seeming to take him in fully for the first time.
"A bit young to be out wandering the world aren't ya?" he growled, but Tiriak was sure he had softened at least a bit. "And I don't think that sword fits you. Who did you steal that from?" Tiriak blanched at the question, he had not considered how incongruous the sword might appear at his hip.
"It is all that my father left me when he died." Tiriak decided that the truth was the best course, at least for now.


© 2009 Tyler Willson. All rights reserved

My Writing Style (Or lack thereof...)

I decided to get a jump on my Writer's Round Table assignment for this week and quickly pounded out 600 words before I realized that I had misread the instructions... I had written 600 words ON my writing style, not IN my writing style... Crap. Well, not wanting it to go to waste, I decided to share it here with you. Enjoy!

My earliest recollection of wanting to be a writer was when I was probably about ten or eleven. My family somehow acquired an old-fashioned typewriter - you know the really old kind that actually depended on your fingers to propel the hammers against the ribbon and paper to make a mark. I thought it was the coolest thing I had ever seen. I sat down at it and began hammering out a story. If I remember correctly, it involved a boy falling unconscious and having a terrifying dream sequence. 

Ever since then, I have wanted to be a writer. Being an avid reader only further whetted my appetite, and I tried again and again to start work on my Great American Novel. Unfortunately, my desire was never matched with enough persistence to get much past chapter one. (I may have gotten as far as chapter thirteen once, I think...) After high school, I fell in love with a college girl, and for no other reason decided that I should also be enrolled in college. As an English major, naturally. I took and nearly flunked a History of American Literature class. I guess I could care less what was really going on in America when Nathanial Hawthorne was writing about Hester Prynne and in her custom logo apron. 

But a class that I took that I really enjoyed, and which I passed easily was Poetry Writing. No memorization of stupid dates, or old dead author's greatest works. We were given an assignment to write a certain type of poem, or just an assignment to write a poem. We would then take time in class to read and analyze each other's poems. (Sound familiar fellow RT'ers?) Most of the poetry that has been published in the Press under my name came from this very class. I felt as if I might actually have a future as a poet, or a novelist. But alas, just like a summer romance that I tried to follow to college, my muse took a vacation and got lost in real life. My girlfriend dumped me, I dropped out of college, and real life took over for about ten years. Aside from some super sappy love poetry written to my next girlfriend (now my wife) I didn't write anything during this time. 

From time to time, I thought about being a writer. I pondered plots for novels. I even joked with a college professor (yes, I finally went back to college) about writing the Next Great American Novel. However, except for class assignments, memos for work, and a single letter to the editor, I did not write.

October 31st, 2005. I am at home in Texas, dressed as a hula girl for Halloween. (Seriously. Coconut bra, grass skirt and everything...) Waiting for trick-or-treaters. My wife was out with our kids gathering the annual feast of free stimulants and I was idly surfing the web when my eye was caught by a news story headline on Yahoo! "Have you ever wanted to write a novel? November is National Novel Writing Month." My memories of wanting to write a great novel danced briefly through my mind, and I clicked on the link. Since then, I have indeed written a novel. Four in fact. All four in a different genre, with a different style. 

Which brings me back to the original question: "What is my writing style?" The answer is, I have not yet discovered just which style I am most comfortable with. I really enjoy science fiction; the ability to invent new technologies to get my characters through plot holes is an awesome power. I have tried fantasy, but it is much more complicated to work out a magical or supernatural solution to problems than one might think. I have tried a "human interest humor" style, much like this very piece in homage to one of my favorite writers. (Dave Barry, if you have heard of him.) And yet, I am still unsure if I even have a "style". 

Perhaps that IS my style. 

Unstyled. 

Unrestrained. 

Stream-of-consciousness. 

Whatever pops into my head. 

Whatever the situation demands. 

Whatever is enjoyable right now. 

Whoops. 

I am over my word limit. Does that make my style "Wordy?"


© 2009 Tyler Willson. All rights reserved

Writer's Round Table Assignment

A couple of fellow Pikers have invited me to participate in a "Writer's Round Table". Each week, we receive an assignment to stretch our writing muscles. When complete, we send it to each of the other writers in the group who critique it for us. Then we meet online and chat about it. The first assignment was: Write a passage of up to 600 words beginning with the sentence, "The sky was dark and ominous." Here is what I came up with. 

The sky was dark and ominous over the blasted wasteland of the alien planet. Zeniff adjusted the respirator hose attached to the facepiece of his helmet and trudged on. The rusty mining droid followed doggedly, its worn treads puffing up clouds of orange dust in the sandy soil. As soon as Zeniff let go of the hose, it flopped right back in place where it kept banging against his chest. Zeniff was far too exhausted to be angry, and kept doggedly pushing it back out of the way. The failing light worried him. Night time on a desert planet was not the best time to be out and about. Besides the drastic temperature drop, there was the potential for violent wind storms. Every so often, between efforts to push the respirator hose back into place, Zeniff would stop and scan the sky in a slow circle. But the heads-up display remained blank. Nobody had noticed that he was missing just yet. He was not yet expected on the moon base, as it was a twelve hour trip. Nobody could have noticed his shuttle falling from the sky, as he was on the opposite side of the planet when the power plant failed. The failure was so sudden and complete that even the comm equipment had been useless. Only the emergency chutes had saved him from cratering into the sandy orange soil a few seconds later. Even so, the clunky space vehicle had no aerodynamic properties whatsoever, and when the anti-grav engines failed, it simply fell like a rock.

Even with the huge parachutes clawing madly at the thin atmosphere he had been sure something in him broke when the ship hit the ground.

The rusty droid had somehow survived the fall as well, despite being strapped to an external cargo rack for its return journey to the mining colony on the moon. As Zeniff surveyed the crashed vehicle, the droid had come to life and started following him. He tried to shut it down, and order it to stop, but its control panel was smashed, and apparently its comm link as well. So it resorted to its basic programming, which was to follow its human overseer until directed to begin extracting the precious minerals from the soil. Zeniff chose to ignore it as he set off in the direction indicated by his global positioning indicator. Now, except for when he stopped to scan the horizons for any sign of life, he forgot that it was there. He knew he would have to stop soon, but he held out hope of finding some kind of terrain feature for shelter against the night storms. The environmental controls on his suit seemed to be in order, at least for now and had plenty of energy to last until the sun returned. But the thought of hurricane force winds driving the coarse orange sand against the thin fabric of his suit made him shudder. He decided his search for shelter would have to stop however when he almost walked right into a deep crater. He cursed himself as a fool for leaving the scene of the crash, at least he might have used the ship itself for shelter. At the time he had not thought he had flown that far, and that he would be able to see the colony after only an hour or two of walking. He stopped and turned on the light on top of his helmet. He wanted to use the light sparingly, in order to save as much battery power as possible for more critical things like the respirator and the environmental controls. The crater was not deep, but tumbling into it blindly would have definitely ended poorly for him. He thought he saw a slope he could get down on the far side, and turning off his light edged his way towards it. When he reached it, he found that it was indeed a gentle slope down to the bottom of the crater. He followed it down, having forgotten completely about the mining droid behind him. At the bottom of the crater, the darkness was complete. Just as he was reaching up to turn on his helmet light for a brief survey, a bright light surrounded him. He screamed and jumped, the sound echoing loudly inside his helmet. He spun around and saw the droid a few feet away, its work lights on and illuminating the crater nicely. Zeniff bent over to catch his breath and wait for his heart to return to a normal pace. He looked gratefully at the droid. At least he wouldn’t have to drain his suit’s reserves for a little light while he waited out the coming day. 

© 2009 Tyler Willson. All rights reserved

Fwd: Dear Dad

I must share this message I got today. Best. Message. Ever...

---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Nicky

Date: Thu, Apr 23, 2009 at 4:14 PM
Subject: Dear Dad
To: Daddy

hidh fdfjfjbjbdjjfdjbfbugfugfudgugfuggdgfgygf8t 7ygfyvvvvfhfvvhvfvhvvh v vhf hvhfdfffghdfgfgfgfgvgfgvfgvfvgvfggfgvfgfvgfvvfgvffgfgffvvvfvffvdfhhfvgfh

Dear Dad I wish you had a knife pocket for me.

bvkvnbnvbvjnbgjbgj bgjbjbjbfjbjbjgjjgjjgjbbjbbjbfjgbjbjbjbj bifdgyufuyuguyguguhghghttyuiyugufhuubhuuthuirtuuturugyhtuyguygyuggggguuyuutut

Dear Dad I like you because you don't throw a tizzy fit.

bknknbvbnnvnbvbnvknkblohbhbinbvn hbbbbv hbvbvccbgftetrhertehrgfshfbdfdgegtgefdggdrsrvcdvfbdfdvdfdvffgfdsghdfshfsdgdbgdgdtdbgdbtryyhgrhrtyyygggfyyyyyvffddeddc dyyyyyb bv

Dear Dad I wish you had one.

ha Ha Ha

love nicky

--
http://tweetywill.blogspot.com

Part 4 -Conclusion... Randomly Generated Short Story Plot

For your easy reference, if you have not been following along.
Part One
Part Two
Part Three

Bill and Ted straightened nervously when The Boss entered. He was a large man with a walrus mustache. His name was Percy, but he had found long ago how such a name inspired scorn and disrespect from underlings, and so he insisted on being called simply "The Boss".
"What is it? This had better be good." The Boss grumbled as he sat down in Ted's seat. Ted glanced at Bill, who glanced back. After a few seconds of silently attempting to convince the other to speak first, The Boss snapped impatiently.
"In case you just called me down here because you like looking at me, let me remind you that it is the fourth quarter of the inter-dimensional full contact ping-pong finals, and my team is behind by three points. If I am missing the end of this game for a social call..." Ted blurted out.
"Bill sent two passengers into the portal after the destination was already closed, and then closed the portal behind them. We have two castaways, and they have been in the tunnel for almost fifteen minutes already! It wasn't my fault, Bill..." The Boss interrupted him.
"Castaways? On my watch?" He glared balefully at the two frightened men, his walrus mustache twitching in anger.

Glen was struggling to stem the tide of his panic. He searched his memory for any and all information he had ever heard about the science of traveling via inter-dimensional wormholes. He had no idea how the wormholes were formed, just that it took an inordinate amount of energy. He remembered the story of the scientist who had been trapped inside a wormhole tunnel and emerged a century later utterly untouched by time but irretrievably insane. Nothing else came to mind. He supposed that he would simply have to wait and hope that the IDTA would eventually come to their rescue. They couldn't fail to notice two missing travellers could they?
As he pondered his situation, he suddenly felt something grasp his ankle. Simutlaneously, he heard Madeline's voice in his head again. But it had changed. No longer was it the shrill and vicious harpy. Now she was terrified, and her voice was pleading, and repentant.
"Oh Glen! I found you again. Please don't leave me alone again. I can't take the numbness, or the silence! Please don't leave me again!"
Glen grimaced, but felt the instinct to help anyone in distress kick in.
"Madeline, calm down. It won't be long before someone notices that we are missing and they will get us out of here. Why do you think they make you give them portal passes? So they can make sure everyone who goes into one end comes out the other." Madeline's mind calmed a bit, and Glen decided that it would be best to keep talking to keep her calm.
"Any minute now, we will be sucked out through the other portal, and we will be in Bermuda, enjoying the beaches and waves and sunshine and..." Madeline interrupted him.
"I'm sorry Glen."
Nothing she could have said could have silenced his thoughts as effectively. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard her so much as admit to being even slightly mistaken.
"Sorry? For what?" he asked. His mind searching for whatever treachery she might be hiding behind those unexpected words.
"Oh for goodness sake Glen? Why are you so suspicious? What could I possibly gain for asking forgiveness? You are such a..." her voice halted mid-thought, perhaps in response to Glen's impulse to kick her hand from his ankle and sever the mental link again.
"No! Don't leave me alone again! You are right! I have been manipulative and shrill! I have been a shrew, a harpy, a... a..."
"Not the woman I married, that is for sure." Glen finished for her. His mind wandered through their seven years together, and he felt her watching as she transformed from the cheerful, happy woman he had first fell in love with to the bitter, haughty person who seemed to take pleasure in torturing him.

"Why?" the single word inquiry echoed through their minds. Glen had tried to ask the question so many times before, trying in vain to discover how he might repair their relationship. Always before the question, no matter how diplomatically phrased, sparked an argument and ended with a taught silence. However, the instantaneous nature of their communication and the fear Madeline felt at being left alone again lent this simple question a weight and clarity that Glen had never before been able to give it.

"Why?" Madeline echoed. Instantly a stream of memories from her mind began flowing through their collective consciousness, answering his query more completely than words could have ever done. He watched himself rise through the ranks of the police department, earning awards and getting promoted. He also watched Madeline struggle alone through her nursing studies, spending many nights alone with her textbooks and medical diagrams. He saw her graduation day, when she received her diploma and felt the sadness she felt knowing that he was not there, but was instead on a stakeout in a bad part of town. He felt the sorrow and loneliness change into anger and bitterness. He saw her saving lives everyday, just as he did in his job. But he also saw doctors and patients alike who treated her as a maid in a hotel. No awards, no acclamations, no promotions.

Understanding began to dawn on Glen. He had been neglectful of her he could see now. Just as Madeline now understood how her own actions had pushed him further into his work, rather than drawing him out. He finally saw her last desperate attempt to draw him back to her, and understood that this trip was her last, best effort. If nothing changed over the course of their three weeks together without the pressures of work, then she was prepared to end it. Before stepping into the inter-dimensional portal, Glen would have welcomed such an idea. Now, after having relived the good times, and understanding the part his own selfishness had played in the demise of their relationship he felt only sadness.

"How come we couldn't figure this out earlier?" he asked. Madeline's thoughts answered almost simultaneously.

"You wouldn't listen, you couldn't hear."

Bill broke first under the weight of The Boss' angry glare.

"They came late, and I was still gathering the portal passes. The lady was a real..."

"Shut Up!" The Boss snapped and snatched the manual out of Ted's surprised hands. He tapped on the screen angrily for a few seconds, and then tossed it towards the trashcan.

"This thing is out of date! Where is your up to date manual? We sent a new one out just three weeks ago!" Ted quivered in fear. "We looked Boss, that is the only emergency procedures manual we have." The Boss harrumphed, his mustache actually moving up and down in frustration.

"No matter. All you have to do is reverse the direction of travel, re-open the portal and ..." he shoved Ted roughly out of the way and began tapping on the control panel. "You better get down to the portal quickly. You are going to have two very confused travelers there in about thirty seconds. Offer them a free round-trip ticket to anywhere in the universe and send the billing info to my office."

The Boss turned and started walking away. He paused, just before leaving the office and turned back.

"And get an updated manual before your shift ends, or don't bother coming back for the next one."

Ted nodded glumly and Bill quickly followed The Boss out of the office.

As Bill sprinted up to the portal door he could see the man and woman sitting on the floor outside the portal doorway. They were holding each other, and it seemed as if the woman was sobbing. The man held her tenderly, rubbing her back and making soothing sounds. Bill slowed to a walk and approached cautiously, not sure what to expect. The man looked up at his approach, and Bill began to stammer an apology.

"I'm sorry for any...uh... the IDTA would like to apolo... umm well, you see we want to offer you..." The man waved his hand dismissively and turned back to his wife. He helped her to her feet, and they walked away together up the terminal walkway. Bill sighed with relief and went over to the control panel for the portal door. He tapped on the control panel and closed the portal and then shut down the power to the wormhole generator. Reaching beneath the panel he threw a switch that closed a steel mesh gate across the doorway with a message that read: "Out of Order". Then checking the time on the overhead clock, Bill saw that it was quitting time. He turned and walked away, up the terminal towards the office.

He failed to notice the oddly shaped creature that had followed Glen and Madeline through the portal gate. Its malicious green eyes followed him as he walked away.

© 2009 Tyler Willson. All rights reserved

No writing today...

Monkee Numbah Five has arrived!

8 pounds, 20 inches.

Happy Birthday!

(As usual, we do not yet have a name picked out!)