AFO Continuing Story Round 2
Alaric
you won't see, but there was a big tense issue halfway through which I've
ironed out. I've also added a coupla tags where I thought they were needed,
reparagraphed where necessary, and covered off spelling and grammar. In the
main, though, I've tried to build a flow through the story and I've used
half my words on that. No fundamental changes, but Hank shouldn't have to
edit for anything other than plot. I think I've covered off the elementary
stuff.
You will need to read all the way through though, because (sorry) the other
half of my words have gone into extending the three main conversations a
little (Earl and Tony, Eugene and Hillary (in the washroom), Kelvin and Doe.
Key things - I've given "Them" a name - the pack. Eugene now has a purpose
for his poem. Tony doesn't want to leave town, but Earl might. All this in
the first half.
As I say, the key though is flow. I hope I've helped that a little bit.
I did have a good idea to carry on from Barry but ran out of words <sad>.
AFO Continuing Story
Copyright AFO
2003
Earl was watching tiny beer bubbles cling to the mug's sides. The old man
didn't drink, but felt he had to order something while he waited. It wasn't
clear why he was expected to meet someone in a dive like this, but Molly had
told him it was important. As he watched the bubbles, he thought about how
she had helped him elude them. The pack. For years, they'd been after him,
and because of Molly, this was the longest he'd ever stayed in one place.
A slant of light crossed the room as the door opened, and a tall man with
stringy black hair and tattoos entered. He took a seat in the opposite
corner. Earl glanced at him and was sure this was the person for whom he'd
been waiting. He left his drink and walked over to stand in front of the
man.
"Are you Tony?" he asked.
Tony didn't say anything immediately. In prison that question came loaded
and the typical answer was, 'What's it to you?' Still, the old man hardly
looked ready to attack him with a shiv.
"Yeah," he answered at length.
"Molly told me..." Earl started.
Tony gestured him to silence. "Did that guy just move over here?"
Earl's eyes twitched around the room nervously. "I uh... I wasn't looking.
Maybe."
"Maybe. Right. Maybe's worrying enough for me. We'll talk quietly, OK?
Maybe, he ain't listening and maybe it don't matter if he hears, but I don't
like eavesdroppers."
"Oh dear God, I hope it's not one of them. If they've found me, I'll have to
move again. And I really am getting too old for that. I remember when I
first.... But, I won't. . . I mustn't bore you with that. Time's too damned
short. So. Molly sent you. You're that Tony, right?"
"Yeah." Tony sat quietly with an expression of great boredom, staring at
Earl. Earl was glancing at his beer. Finally he spoke.
"You know what you're here for, right?"
"No, old man. What? You want me to kill somebody? Is that it? Because if it
is, you got the wrong guy."
"No, no, it's not like that at all, Tony. I know you know what you're here
for. I've got the money. I've. . ."
"I said I don't know. Some drop off job. That's all she said."
Earl stared at his beer again, a pain dancing over his cheekbones, pressing
his eyebrows. Finally, he returned his attention to Tony, recomposing
himself.
"I've got it all set for you."
"Good. What's it?"
"I've got keys, cards, tickets for you if you need them."
"Tickets?"
"Airline tickets."
"I figure I won't. I've no plans to leave town."
"You might have to."
"I said I've no plans to leave town."
"Well just in case, you know. Just in case." And Earl began stroking the
table, nibbling at a corner of his lip as if trying to find words of
encouragement for a child.
Tony remained quiet although he was becoming impatient. Earl had some
demons, it seemed. Tony would've said it was just age except for the fact
that he knew fear, and Earl was afraid. He wished now he'd turned Molly
down, despite what he owed her, but instead here he was with the old geezer
finally, furtively, pulling a fat envelope out of his pocket.
The package made a whispery hiss against the polished surface of the table
as Earl slid it to him. Tony examined the contents silently as Earl
explained the scope of the job.
Then the old man filled in a few operational details. "The bigger key is to
an old blue Ford parked around the block. The smaller one's for the office.
Don't use it until you've swiped the security card - there's an alarm. Get
in; grab the files labeled 'Project Hemingway' and 'Bartlett'. Get out; lose
the Ford.
"If anything goes wrong, and I mean anything, use those plane tickets and
the fake ID to lose yourself. If you do the job at midnight you could drive
directly to the airport. If you don't use those, burn them. Got it?"
"I'm not leaving town."
Earl shrugged.
Tony finished counting the cash. There was more than this should have been
worth, but Molly had seemed unusually keen on getting him for this job.
Something to do with the time he'd done, he thought at first, but maybe that
was unfair. She trusted him, to be fair. As far as the jail time was
concerned, Tony wondered what she'd think if she knew that was a bad rap.
"You understand how important this is?" Earl said.
"Of course I do, Molly went over most of that. Listen, those files are
practically in
the mail already. Nobody's going to be watching a small CPA office in the
business district at midnight. This'll be a piece of cake."
Earl smiled weakly and shook his hand. "Here's hoping you're right, and, if
you'll forgive the potentially insulting sentiment, that we never see one
another again."
"Must mean you're leaving town."
"It's possible."
Tony nodded politely then left, still smiling over his unexpected payday.
Earl watched him for a moment, then returned to his seat at the bar - they
shouldn't be seen leaving together.
He decided that perhaps he could use a beer after all.
- - - - - - - -
Eugene couldn't take his eyes off the pretty bar maid. She had long, blond
hair tied into a ponytail, warm, friendly eyes, and a smile that lit up
Eugene's universe. Plus, she had big boobs. She hadn't so much as glanced at
him, and he doubted she ever would. No one ever looked at him.
He sighed, and went back to nursing his water. He hated alcohol, but he
loved the inspiration that a bar could provide. There were always things
happening, but not tonight it seemed, and he feared he would have to go home
uninspired.
That is, until the man walked through the door, covered in tattoos. He was
certainly dark, certainly mysterious; one green snake coiled up his arm.
Eugene saw the man walk to a table, and then a few moments later, an old man
joined him. Eugene moved closer so he could hear.
"Come on, Muse," he muttered. "Time to strike, baby." He crossed his fingers
and wished for drops of inspiration. Something. Anything.
He was disappointed. Though he'd moved closer to their table, they talked in
mumbles and whispers. The tattooed man had a rasp suggesting he should pack
in the cigarettes. Other than the occasional furtive glance, the older man
offered nothing. Just a strange couple, sat together in the dimly lit corner
of the bar.
"Another water?" The barmaid interrupted her glass-stacking duties long
enough to throw a vaguely sarcastic question Eugene's way. He nodded, aware
a verbal reply would stick in his throat.
After quite some time, the two men at the table shared a handshake, their
business concluded. The older man returned to the bar, looking straight
through Eugene as he passed. The trace of a smile glinted in his eyes. Good
news for someone, Eugene thought, nursing his fresh glass of water.
Eugene stared into his glass of water. The night was slipping through his
fingers and he had nothing. Not a single thing to spark his imagination. It
was normally easy to come up with an idea - they came without much trouble -
but something about the older man threw him for a curve.
There was a US$3,000 prize for the winning entry in the Arkansas Poetry
Competition. Eugene had just a few days to get his entry in. Again, he
glanced at the old man. A poem about age and loneliness, maybe. But no -
Eugene had to look away again.
What was it? What about that man stuck in his mind like a popcorn kernel in
a cavity? He wondered and pondered until he felt a cooling sensation.
Eugene looked down and saw the glass tipped on its side. Cool water ran down
the edge of the bar, wetting the front of his pants.
The barmaid scurried over. She had a rag in hand and a dirty look on her
tired face. "At least you didn't break the glass," she said.
He smiled awkwardly at her and mumbled an apology as she leaned over to wipe
the bar. He tried not to stare at her breasts.
"Could you stare at the left one a bit, it's gettin' jealous," she
deadpanned. Her voice was loud enough for most of the bar to hear, and he
heard laughter behind him. Eugene wasn't even sure how to apologize, so he
excused himself and headed toward the bathroom.
He wasn't surprised to find that there were no paper towels. No clean ones
anyway; the floor was littered with dirty ones. He slipped into the last
stall and began drying his pants. The toilet paper stuck to his fingers and
left tiny white caterpillars on his pleats as he scrubbed at the water
stain. He sighed and sat down. A moment later, he heard the bathroom door
open.
Eugene lifted his feet and placed them on the door in front of him.
He could hear someone moving toward the stalls.
One door banged open and he recoiled, his feet moving from the door. He
froze, certain the man with the tattoos was now hunting him down in the
stall for reasons he couldn't fathom.
The second door slammed open and he jumped. This time a slow whine starting
to brew from deep inside him and escaping through his nose.
The door to his stall, thankfully locked, began to rattle.
"Leave me alone! I've done nothing!"
A long silence, then, "Mister?"
A female's voice. The barmaid?
"Mister, you in there? Thought you might need a towel or something."
Eugene relaxed and let his breath out, the shaky whine still there. He stood
and opened the door, and took the towel from the barmaid. "Uhhh, thank you."
"No problem. Look, I followed you in to say sorry about that comment. Didn't
know everyone could hear me."
"It's fine. Really."
"Well, remember me in the tip," she said, then turned to go.
"Wait! Please."
"Yes?" said the barmaid, turning back.
"Would you mind telling me your name?"
"I dunno. Why?"
"It'll seem silly."
"Look, you're there with your pants saturated... Try me?"
"I write poetry," said Eugene, looking embarrassed at disclosing it. "I came
tonight looking for inspiration. For a competition. And what you just did
has given me a great idea for a poem. So I need your name for that. Poetry
has to be. well, it has to be the truth."
"Well, that's a line I ain't heard before. Are you any good at it? The
poetry, I mean." She grinned.
Eugene let a smile expand his face. The girl thought he looked much better
that way.
"They tell me I'm not too bad. I've won some prizes before."
"Well, what do you know? A real artist? I always wanted to be a painter. Fat
chance."
Eugene finished drying his trousers and handed the towel back. "You really
should give it chance, you know. You could be terrific at it. When I get
really down I do charcoal sketches."
----------
"I expected them to talk in the toilet. It made sense they'd talk in the
toilet."
Doe adjusted his glasses and sat back in his leather chair. "Mr. Frost," he
said. "I hired you for your expertise and your knowledge of the town. Is it
too much to ask that you at least monitor the correct conversation. I did
not pay you so that I could listen to two people barely out of adolescence
discussing their frustrated wishes to be Ralph Waldo Emerson and Mary
fucking Cassatt."
"I like Cassatt," Frost replied. "Impressionist."
"You are not making much of an impression on me, Mr. Frost. And you are not
here for your general knowledge."
"I can't bug a whole bar. I had to make some guesses."
"Are you new at this, Kelvin? Am I your training case?"
"I'm the best private investigator in town."
"It's a small town."
Kelvin's dream had always been to become a PI, even if it meant putting up
with some jerk insulting him. Mr. Doe was a fool, Kelvin knew it, and as
soon as he made a name for himself, he planned on getting out from under his
thumb.
"You don't understand the workings of a small town," Kelvin said.
"People everywhere are the same."
"Not true. Hillary may act like an adolescent, but she's got the info we
need."
"What makes you think so?"
"She knows every man in town -- intimately."
"You sound like you're speaking from experience," Mr. Doe said with a smirk.
"At one time, she was interested in me, or maybe I should say my money."
John Doe leaned forward. "Ah, now we might be getting somewhere."
"What d'ya mean?"
"She likes money, you say, and she's probably got dirt on everyone - either
from working the bar or from working the bedroom."
"What are you suggesting?"
"You really are in training, aren't you? We simply pay her off, unless your
connection with her affords you another method."
"I don't want her hurt."
"Still sweet on her, huh?"
"No." Kelvin looked away to avoid eye contact.
"Then get the scoop on every person who set foot in that bar last night. I
know he was there, and I'm damn tired of him eluding me all the time."
Eluding, Kelvin thought. What an ironic word.
He'd spent half the day thinking about his recurring dream, which he'd
suffered again last night. In it, he was running toward something or
someone. But no matter how fast he ran, he got no closer. And he always woke
up with the distinct impression that his goal was not only unreachable, but
also not his to claim.
What was eluding him exactly? A new job? A girlfriend? Financial freedom? He
had no idea, but he suspected it was something bigger, something rather more
fundamental than that.
"I'll do my best," he told Doe.
"That's what worries me," Doe replied.
----------
Kelvin needed to clear his thoughts of Doe, his dream, and so he went to the
High Note restaurant, half karaoke bar and half restaurant. When he walked
in, the sound of singing drew him to the bar. A woman was on stage, and she
was beautiful. Her voice was exceptional, melodic, and even though he had
pledged his heart to another woman long ago, he found himself being
mesmerized by her singing anyway.
He ordered a drink while he waited. When she finished, the few people in the
audience applauded.
He approached her. "Good voice."
"Thanks. I usually cook next door in the restaurant, but when it's slow,
they let me come over here and sing." She looked down and sighed. "It seems
like it's always slow."
"Do you mind if I ask you a quick question?"
"No."
"Were you at the Empty Mug bar last night?"
"No."
"Do you know an old man by the name of Earl?"
She suddenly looked up. Her eyes narrowed. "Who's asking?"
"Nobody. A friend."
"I see. Sorry, no. I don't know him."
It was to be expected. He bid her farewell, tipped his hat, and walked out.
She was lying. He knew it, could feel it.
"Mister! Hey, mister!"
He turned. The singer was running after him. "Hey, mister, you forgot to pay
for your--"
That's when the restaurant blew up.
- - - - - - - -
Had Shelley not believed that honesty was the best policy before, she needed
no further proof. Had she not pursued the blond stranger for the two whole
dollars he owed, she'd have been carted away dispassionately, a zip-up bag
on a trolley for dissection and analysis. As it was, she dabbed at the cuts
on her knees and elbows, sustained when the force of the blast threw her
horizontally to the sidewalk, and waited to give statement after statement
to the police officers that milled around with undeniable self-importance.
She could sense their eyes homing in on her breasts, her ass. Sunglasses
don't prevent us knowing what you're eyeing up boys, she thought.
She looked at the smouldering shop front and the cavalcade of officials
darting here and there like flies around shit.
"Now all we need's a TV crew," she muttered under her breath.
The blond stranger was nowhere to be seen, lost in the gawping crowds.
Tourists and locals alike held whirring video cameras; flash bulbs blinked
bright against the ominous sky. Some onlookers stuffed fast food down their
throats as they watched, waiting for more evidence of carnage.
She shook her head and walked away, aware of the weakness in her legs and an
emptiness filling her stomach. All she wanted was to see her daughter. She
didn't look back to see if one of the many police were following her. Her
statement would be the same tomorrow as today. Right now, she needed Ela
tight against her chest.
She caught the #16 bus, light-headed and oblivious to the stares her wounds
attracted, and made for Molly Parker's house, hoping she'd be prepared to
wait a few days for the babysitting fee.
The tears; the shakes. Neither came until she left the bus.
Molly's house was only a block from the stop. Shelley moved quickly, knowing
that it was only a matter of moments before she could see Ela again.
----
Molly looked in on the little girl. Ela cooed slowly in her sleep. Molly
liked Ela. She liked most small children. When she looked at Ela, the regret
would surface.
Molly never had a child of her own. Her husband had come home wounded. She'd
never had another chance to have a child. Her life had wasted away in caring
for her husband. She could only hope to enjoy the joys of raising a child by
offering her services as a babysitter.
"You sleep well, Ela. You're mother will be here soon."
She pulled the crib into the living room. The small wheels squeaked roughly
against the carpet, but Molly was gentle enough to avoid waking Ela. She
turned on the television, kept the volume low. Then she froze in place.
Red lights flashed across the television screen. "This was the scene at the
parking lot of the Whispering Pine's diner just a few hours ago," the
voiceover declared. "As you can see now the only things remaining are the
smoking embers and the hollowed out remains of the once award winning
restaurant. Police are baffled, and firefighters are still unable to provide
an idea about the cause. According to several eyewitnesses, the diner just
erupted into a ball of orange flame right after the five o'clock dinner
rush. We will bring you more details when they become available."
--------
This, Earl thought, is the quiet house that I never wanted to leave, though
I did, and that most often.
This is the quiet bed, he thought, where I seldom find escape, harrased by
dreams and signs like dark mad dangling mobiles above him telling me the
"NOT INSANE", telling me "THEY WONT CATCH UP", telling me the things I need
to cool my breathing to a steady pace.
And his breathing would cool, and he could sleep, even now, knowing what was
in progress. What he had initiated.
Visions came - a paradox of lines attached to the acknowledged notion of a
matriculation through time, second to second; a regurgitation of the
juxtaposition of images that are life. Thusly Earl's visions were a
cornucopia. At once the silky image of a wooden horse on springs, mingled
with the feeling of a million tons driving in on him hotly, followed shortly
by bull's head, hawk's head, man's head, then twirls. Earl panting in his
sleep wanting above all else to wake up because in the background, probably
above him, were They.
He was in a panic now, sweat driving down from his eyebrows to his ass
crack, fear constricting him; when in his sleeping eyes he saw a carriage.
The child's gurgling next door woke him.
He bolted up in the bed, shook the images from his head. He got up and moved
to the wall that Molly had allowed him to poke pinholes in so he could watch
TV from the safety of his room. He pushed his face slowly to one of the
holes.
He saw Molly, on the floor in front of the television, rocking the child.
-----
Molly had become brain dead, staring at the TV wide eyed, rocking Ela back
and forth at a fairly steady pace. The child had begun to cry, but Molly
didn't even notice.
A knock at the door almost sent Molly out of her housedress. She put the
child back in the small crib and bolted to answer.
Shelley stood there, wide eyed, with mascara running down her cheeks. Her
clothes were soiled and cuts formed crisscross patterns across her face and
neck.
"Oh my God Shelly. . ." Molly said. "Oh my God, are you. . .?"
Shelley pushed her way in. "Where's my baby?"
"Oh my God." And Molly stopped talking, knowing she could form no other
statement.
Shelley walked directly to her daughter and lifted her up, inadvertently
matching the child's crying. She brought the child to her chest and placed a
loving hand behind her head. She rocked back and forth, the beat of the
crying forming the rhythm for their desperate little dance.
"I just realized," she said. "She almost lost me. Or, I almost lost her. . .
Molly, do you have any brandy?"
Molly was still at the door, frozen with the doorknob still in her hand. The
night chill was flowing into the room through the opening and she shivered a
bit, composing herself, then closed the door.
"Of course, child." She moved across the room toward the kitchen. "I suppose
we could both use a little."
She was in the kitchen no longer than a few seconds then returned with two
small glasses. She handed one to Shelley. She set the other on the small
coffee table.
"Now," she said, "let me put Ela back to sleep and you sit."
Shelley took the glass and reluctantly let Molly take the child. She stood
there for a moment, and then collapsed on to the couch, nearly spilling her
drink.
As soon as the crying from both of them was quieted, Molly said, "Tell this
old woman what in the world happened. I was so worried."
Earl heard the whole story through the wall.
- - - - - - - -
"I never expected to see you again," said Hillary, rearranging her hair,
nervously.
"You did say to stop by anytime," said Eugene. "I was in the area."
Hillary paused. Eugene had struck a chord last night and she had handed out
an invitation, perhaps a little hastily, but under that unruly beard he
wasn't all that unappealing.
"Come in," she said, her words slurring. "Did you ever hear of the
telephone?"
She led him into the old warehouse she called home. It was sparsely
furnished- a large unmade bed in one alcove and a small kitchenette on the
far side. Almost half the area was devoted to a covered easel and a table
loaded with used paints and bottles of brushes. Against the wall stood a
dozen of so half finished canvases stretched on frames. On the table was an
opened flagon of cheap Spanish sherry.
"I brought some of my poems," said Eugene, walking towards the frames that
had their backs to the wall.
"Don't touch those," said Hillary. "I'm not ready to exhibit my work. I
doubt I ever will."
She picked up the flagon, awkwardly and topped up a glass with the wine.
"Want one?"
"I don't drink! You should know that after the water incident." He smiled
shyly.
"Oh, yes, the water incident," she said, before sending a good third of the
contents of the glass down her throat. "Okay, let's see the poems. or
better, read them to me."
"Well, okay, but don't expect T. S. Eliot," he said.
He moved aside some art books from a chair and sat opposite Hillary. As he
looked up, before he started, she was looking at him through half shut eyes,
a wry smile on her lips.
"What are you like in bed?" she said.
"Beg your pardon!"
--
They make the laws to chain us well. The clergy dazzle us with heaven or
they damn us into hell
We will not worship the God they serve. The God of greed who feeds the rich
while poor men starve
Leon Rosselson - World Turned Upside Down
Wind River
I'll email it to Hank and start the next round after we back from him.
-Sue
Anopheles
"Wind River" wrote:
> So you're making me follow Barry. I have some ideas.
<sigh> It's a curse but I have to get used to it.
Joel Crum
news:bbln54$alb$1...@hercules.btinternet.com:
> Okay. I've added 300 words, and nothing to the end of the story <g>. A
> lot you won't see, but there was a big tense issue halfway through
> which I've ironed out. I've also added a coupla tags where I thought
> they were needed, reparagraphed where necessary, and covered off
> spelling and grammar. In the main, though, I've tried to build a flow
> through the story and I've used half my words on that. No fundamental
> changes, but Hank shouldn't have to edit for anything other than plot.
> I think I've covered off the elementary stuff.
Good edits on the whole. One minor thing, you left the line "Molly went
over most of that" but changed it so she didn't. Someone should clip that.
Also "The Pack" is a cool name. Of course *I* like because it in part
because it suggests something Sci-Fi, but I'll be good and not make them
vampires just yet.
- Joel C.
Wind River
I promise to be a nice curse.
Alaric
she'd told him the trouble Earl was in but not the job he wanted doing.
--
They make the laws to chain us well. The clergy dazzle us with heaven or
they damn us into hell
We will not worship the God they serve. The God of greed who feeds the rich
while poor men starve
Leon Rosselson - World Turned Upside Down
"Joel Crum" <crumjdathotmail.com> wrote in message
news:Xns9390A5F721E96...@129.250.170.82...
Hagbar
Great work on editing etc. . .I noticed that in my final Earl section it
got somewhat gunked up (I was writing present tense limited omniscient or
something, and I kind of lost the voice of the main narrator.)
If no one else fixes it, I'll repair and smooth it out on my next turn,
hopefully getting it to a point where it fits in the story better, because
so far in my reading, its the only part that feels foreign.
COle.
Alaric
friend.
--
They make the laws to chain us well. The clergy dazzle us with heaven or
they damn us into hell
We will not worship the God they serve. The God of greed who feeds the rich
while poor men starve
Leon Rosselson - World Turned Upside Down
"Hagbar" <cole...@onlinehome.de> wrote in message
news:bbn77n$sc7$1...@online.de...