From assignments from a writing group formed a couple of years ago:
Assignment: Take three words chosen at random out of a pile, and create a one page story out of them.
Words: Indecisive, Cracks forming in the walls, a CruiseThere is a small hole in the curtain of my bedroom window. It's only about the size of a quarter, but that's enough. At night, when the streetlight outside shines up through the hole, I can see my ship.
It's not what you think. It's not a model, and it's not one of those ships old people talk about - you know - the kind that comes in, and everyone is suddenly happy and rich. Mine doesn't come in. It leaves.
When I was twelve, five whole years ago now, we moved to this cesspool of a city, and to this pit of an apartment. I know, mom and dad got divorced. Mom couldn't find a job in the country, so to support the family - namely me, we moved to the city where she had a great job waiting for her. The ship wasn't here then. At least not all of it.
Mr. Tuttle, the neighbor upstairs from us, the amazingly huge, fat neighbor upstairs from us, has his bed righ above my bedroom. Aside from being like 500 pounds, he has got to be the most indecisive person I've ever met. Some people say it's just that he has no willpower, so when he goes on a diet, it doesn't work. But I think that if he really and truly decided that he wanted to join the society that has termed him an outcast because of his weight, he'd make a decision to go on a diet, and stick to it. But then again, maybe that's a naieve 17 year old talking.
Anyway, over the years, the floor to his apartment, aka - my ceiling, has started to crack under the weight of holding him and his bed. It wasn't until about two years ago that the ship started taking shape. And it wasn't until last year that I realized that the light from outside, coming through the hole in my curtain kind of made wave patterns underneath the ship.
Corny, right? My very own, personal ship that sails on waves of light. Well, we all have our own fantasies that get us through the night. Sometimes, when I'm feeling particularly trapped by the concrete, the incessant traffic noise, and the smell of urine and garbage that wafts up from the alley behind our building, the need to escape becomes greater than my hold on reality, and I can imagine that I'm on the ship, cruising back down the river, towards home. The waves of light become little waves in the river, and the cracks in the ceiling become one of those big, white, shiny cruise ships that take people to exotic places like the Bahamas and the Mediterranean. But my cruise doesn't go that far. It only goes to the lake I grew up next to, where everything takes on a shade of green in the summertime, including the water, and ice crystals form faerieland spiderwebs in the wintertime.
Eventually, Mr. Tuttle will turn in his bed, sending a little shower of sheetrock powder down into my face, bringing me out of my reverie. Then the practical side of me kicks in, how could a cruise ship fit into that little lake? How did I get from here to the river? You know, things that only make sense in dreamtime, not real time. But I always know that the ship is there, for only me to see, to only take me away from this city. It'll never be crowded, like everything in the city is. I'll never have to wait in line next time I want to go back to the lake.
Assignment: Choose a sentence from the first assignment and build a new paragraph on it.
Eugene Tuttle slowly rolled over in his bed as the little clock radio announced, "RISE AND SHINE WORLD! COCKADOODLE DOOOO! IT'S ANOTHER ROCKIN' DAY WITH ALEX AND LARRY IN THE MORNIN'! IF YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE AT WORK BY . . ." The morning spatter of perky talk abruptly ended as his fist came down on the off button.
Shuffling to the tiny bathroom, Eugene closed his eyes just before entering the dingy hospital green and grey tiled room. He stepped onto the cold floor and with his eyes still closed, he faced the direction of the little mirror over the sink, and whispered to himself, "This is the morning. This is the day I wake up thin." Abruptly, he reached behind him and flipped on the crackly fluorescent light just as he opened his eyes and looked in the mirror.
Disappointment was plain on his round face. Every morning he performed the same ritual, and every morning there was a small window of hope between getting out of bed and turning on the light, that this would be the morning that "those pills" the doctor gave him would work. He didn't know why he perpetuated their lie every day . . . why he believed them. He knew the pills would never work, especially now that he was onto them.
Mr. Tuttle splashed a little water on his face, brushed his teeth - making sure to brush each side of his mouth exactly 38 times, and methodically began to run a brush through his hair - straight back, straight back, left side, right side - counting as he ran through the routine eleven times.
Waddling back out into the bedroom, Eugene sighed as he opened the closet and tried to figure out which one of his seven black suits would make him look the least fat. After a moment's hesitation, he lifted the hanger marked, "Wednesday," in clear permanent marker. None of the suits would actually make him look less fat, and after all it was Wednesday. He knew that the only way he would actually lose weight was if they would just stop putting those experimental growth hormones in his food. The ones that made him hungry all the time.
In the equally dingy kitchen, with it's 70s green appliances, grimy walls from years of greasy meals being cooked, and a countertop and table that in better days had little sparkle patterns infused into the linoleum, Eugene set out to make his traditional three eggs, sausage, toast, and coffee breakfast. He knew that the food was poisoned, but that was the worst part of the experiment, they put the chemicals into the food to make you want more. And even if you somehow did manage to find out about the chemicals, by then it was too late, and you were hooked. They knew their business well too. They gave extra doses to people like Eugene, so that he would stay fat and others, seeing him, would worry that they might end up like him, and run out and buy their diet pills, further funding the research into the perfect chemical.
Checking the Kit-Cat Clock on his wall, he quickly shoved the last half a piece of toast into his mouth, grabbed his briefcase, and ran out the door. As he lumbered down the exterior staircase, he noticed that the girl downstairs was watching him through the curtains in by their front door. She was always spying on him, writing in that little notebook of hers. Just the other day, he finally figured out that she was one of them, come to spy on him and record his progress. After all, hadn't she moved in five years ago, just as he was really beginning to get fat? And she never really spoke to him, except to mumble some non-sequitor when they passed in the hall. And she was always watching and taking notes in that black book!
Well, he decided, straightening his back, I'll show them that they can't mess with me. Tonight, I'll come home a different way, stop at a different restaurant, and when that girl is sleeping, I'll sneak in and burn that book! Yeahhh. Tonite. That's what I'll do.
