Something Wrong

This is 3 of 3 short stories in 1800 words or less written in half an hour or less:

August 22, 2013

 

Third short story-no more than 1800 words in 30 minutes or less:

 

There is something wrong in the city somewhere tonight. I cannot put my finger on it. The noises from the street seem completely normal. Figures clump together in the shadows, smoking, laughing and chiding one another, which is not uncommon in this neighborhood. Trash whips in circles along the edge of the rounded curbs, calling out to the passerby’s to throw it “away” elsewhere. Fans whirring in the screen-less windows, fried breaded chicken smells grasp the heavy night air with contempt, dead, dried grasses lie flat in distress. One woman, with a halo of hair, apple-shaped face, glowing cigarette in her mouth, shoots past in haste. She has somewhere important to be, a place where she huddles in his lumpy arms, safe and content in the awareness that tomorrow will prove to be more fruitful than today. At least that is what she tells herself, in his sweaty pit, a lazy smirk tortures his chocolate-colored face as he turns towards her. 

 

The “something wrong” is discernable, unrelenting in my senses. Too distracted by the dog’s breathing, heavy from the slight incline up, to the block where the houses are more kept, flower beds trim and exact, vehicle wheels smartly turned-in to prevent an unwarranted roll down the slope, along the cement, bikes locked and parked out of a thief’s reach on the enclosed porches. A bat swoops in front of my face, instigating a sensation of glee, aware the flying rodents still exist, to capture insects, maintain their place in the world, in the food chain.

 

In the city, somewhere away from the fireflies, surrounded by wide spaces of wind that controls the insufferable heat coming off the buildings, I walk to investigate “something wrong.” A wailing infant, snot streaming from her nose, wanders into the space I occupy on the cracked and gravelly sidewalk. She escapes the stench of illegal parents, crowded and occupied by the sounds of their own voices. A slightly older sister spots the escapade and collides with me, grasping the child by her blue and white striped shirt front. The baby abruptly halts her insulted cry, in the sudden jar of her captivity. They join the bulk of adults standing in the doorway, light shining dully behind their sunken heads, and disappear into the fray.

 

A stop at the library to slide the previewed drama DVDs into the return slot. As they plunk down into the vast metal box, I spin around to glance behind me, well aware of the fact that I am surrounded by darkness, no street lights guide me to the safety of beams from traffic headlamps as they barrel down George Street. “Such a coward,” I reflect. If anyone had been spying on me, following behind me, the dog would certainly have alerted me, if nothing else, to investigate his pockets for a food scrap treat. 

 

Three teens stand on the corner in various stages of undress, smoking a joint and making clicking noises to assure me of their confidence and security, unexposed souls under the street light. One steps aside as I pass with the pup, no words exchange as I slip by. I don’t even consider making eye contact. It isn’t acceptable.

 

Cars zoom in and out of the broken parking lot at the convenience store. A green dumpster hovers at the edge of the glare. A mushy blue sofa keeps the trash container company, its matching chair had been swiped the day before. One by one, the couch cushions will disappear, leaving the shell of a once inviting ensemble to fend for itself. Must have been three men, furniture piled high in the bed of a Ford Pick-up, rusted and tilted off to the side from the weight of the load. They pulled up to the dumpster and swiftly heaved the saggy blue pieces over the tailgate and drove off in a frenzy. The family was given an L-shaped collection that better matched the grouping in their livingroom. They tired of the sick blue corduroy with smelly milk spills and unidentifiable stains that failed to come out with vigorous rubbing, using a somewhat damp cloth. Eager to get the items out of their duplex, they readily accepted Ted’s offer to rid them of their burden, they offered he and his boys a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon, in exchange. It was leftover from the graduation reception at the Hall last weekend. 

 

A pair of undistinguishable dogs barked with fury at us as we pass the closed wood fencing. They sound ferocious and dangerous. My dog seems content to sniff at the gate and enrage the two, causing someone to shout “Shut the fuck up!” from behind the screen door. Leaving in a hurry, not wanting to engage in an altercation with an angry or drunk, deranged, vicious pet owner, I bolt. Some people have no sense of humor.

 

The “something wrong” rushed into my head as though struck by an oncoming pizza delivery Pinto. The absence of energy, emerged with mine, a friendship, kinship, companion of any kind is sorely missing. I head home to my laptop, to write a story, to explain, the “something wrong” is alright.   v

August 22, 2013

 

Third short story-no more than 1800 words in 30 minutes or less:

 

There is something wrong in the city somewhere tonight. I cannot put my finger on it. The noises from the street seem completely normal. Figures clump together in the shadows, smoking, laughing and chiding one another, which is not uncommon in this neighborhood. Trash whips in circles along the edge of the rounded curbs, calling out to the passerby’s to throw it “away” elsewhere. Fans whirring in the screen-less windows, fried breaded chicken smells grasp the heavy night air with contempt, dead, dried grasses lie flat in distress. One woman, with a halo of hair, apple-shaped face, glowing cigarette in her mouth, shoots past in haste. She has somewhere important to be, a place where she huddles in his lumpy arms, safe and content in the awareness that tomorrow will prove to be more fruitful than today. At least that is what she tells herself, in his sweaty pit, a lazy smirk tortures his chocolate-colored face as he turns towards her. 

The “something wrong” is discernable, unrelenting in my senses. Too distracted by the dog’s breathing, heavy from the slight incline up, to the block where the houses are more kept, flower beds trim and exact, vehicle wheels smartly turned-in to prevent an unwarranted roll down the slope, along the cement, bikes locked and parked out of a thief’s reach on the enclosed porches. A bat swoops in front of my face, instigating a sensation of glee, aware the flying rodents still exist, to capture insects, maintain their place in the world, in the food chain.

In the city, somewhere away from the fireflies, surrounded by wide spaces of wind that controls the insufferable heat coming off the buildings, I walk to investigate “something wrong.” A wailing infant, snot streaming from her nose, wanders into the space I occupy on the cracked and gravelly sidewalk. She escapes the stench of illegal parents, crowded and occupied by the sounds of their own voices. A slightly older sister spots the escapade and collides with me, grasping the child by her blue and white striped shirt front. The baby abruptly halts her insulted cry, in the sudden jar of her captivity. They join the bulk of adults standing in the doorway, light shining dully behind their sunken heads, and disappear into the fray.

A stop at the library to slide the previewed drama DVDs into the return slot. As they plunk down into the vast metal box, I spin around to glance behind me, well aware of the fact that I am surrounded by darkness, no street lights guide me to the safety of beams from traffic headlamps as they barrel down George Street. “Such a coward,” I reflect. If anyone had been spying on me, following behind me, the dog would certainly have alerted me, if nothing else, to investigate his pockets for a food scrap treat. 

Three teens stand on the corner in various stages of undress, smoking a joint and making clicking noises to assure me of their confidence and security, unexposed souls under the street light. One steps aside as I pass with the pup, no words exchange as I slip by. I don’t even consider making eye contact. It isn’t acceptable.

 
Cars zoom in and out of the broken parking lot at the convenience store. A green dumpster hovers at the edge of the glare. A mushy blue sofa keeps the trash container company, its matching chair had been swiped the day before. One by one, the couch cushions will disappear, leaving the shell of a once inviting ensemble to fend for itself. Must have been three men, furniture piled high in the bed of a Ford Pick-up, rusted and tilted off to the side from the weight of the load. They pulled up to the dumpster and swiftly heaved the saggy blue pieces over the tailgate and drove off in a frenzy. The family was given an L-shaped collection that better matched the grouping in their livingroom. They tired of the sick blue corduroy with smelly milk spills and unidentifiable stains that failed to come out with vigorous rubbing, using a somewhat damp cloth. Eager to get the items out of their duplex, they readily accepted Ted’s offer to rid them of their burden, they offered he and his boys a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon, in exchange. It was leftover from the graduation reception at the Hall last weekend.

 

A pair of undistinguishable dogs barked with fury at us as we pass the closed wood fencing. They sound ferocious and dangerous. My dog seems content to sniff at the gate and enrage the two, causing someone to shout “Shut the fuck up!” from behind the screen door. Leaving in a hurry, not wanting to engage in an altercation with an angry or drunk, deranged, vicious pet owner, I bolt. Some people have no sense of humor.

The “something wrong” rushed into my head as though struck by an oncoming pizza delivery Pinto. The absence of energy, emerged with mine, a friendship, kinship, companion of any kind is sorely missing. I head home to my laptop, to write a story, to explain, the “something wrong” is alright.