Story A Day: Elephant Bones

The elephant in the room wasn't actually an elephant.

It was a man. A man named Frank. And nobody was talking about Frank.

They talked about the weather, and the latest radio show, and which neighbor they thought was going to have the most outlandish holiday decorations. But nobody talked about Frank.

Because Frank was dead.

As a doornail. Or a doorknob to be more precise, which was what was lying just inches from Franks head. They were sure that if they got up and compared, the knob would match the rather suspicious looking dent in the side on his temple. But comparisons might require talking about Frank and that was something that no one was willing to do.

It wasn't as if they were heartless. Earlier in the week, they had talked about Frank a lot. They couldn't stop talking about Frank. About what he had done and where he had worked. About the life he lived. They talked about Frank and all the reasons why he ended up dead.

The first time.

The problem was that Frank had developed a nasty habit of dying.

The first time had been his slow slouch into a soup saucer. There had been gasps and screams and calls for help but in the end, Frank was dead. They spent the night talking about Frank and around Frank as he lay supine in the parlor. Then in the morning of their mourning, Frank lifted his head out of the casket and asked about oatmeal. The doctors cried miracle and the men cried hoax and the women just cried. They talked about Frank even more, speculating and studying and generally wondering.

Then Frank fell into the fire in the foyer. The doctors checked three times before assuring a toasty death and once again he was laid to rest. They gathered again to talk about Frank, handkerchiefs held over their noses as whispers of rumors and gossip wafted through the smoke. All the talk, though whispered and shameful, was still about Frank. In the morning they held their breath as they waited for Frank to wake and ask for oatmeal but he was a disappointment. Instead he requested sausages.

Doctors were called who called more doctors until the house was full of people talking about Frank. They sat around him and chattered and babbled and poked and prodded until Frank yawned and totted off to bed. The doctors all left, with more questions than answers, and the household sat quietly for dinner. They sat without fire and ate without soup and talked quietly of Frank and what dangers could still befall him. When they could talk no more, they retired to bed and hoped morning would bring sense.

But dawn's bracing light did nothing but illuminate more problems as Frank slid on soap in the shower and died once again. The calls to the doctor were less frazzled and more frustrated but they still winced as Frank was placed in the casket. They still whispered quietly and wiped tears from their eyes. The next evening when Frank choked on a chunk of cranberry chutney, the whispers started to die off. The following day found Frank expiring from equine evisceration, and the night after Frank was battered to death by a breaking bookshelf, and the next morning Frank accidentally lynched himself on a laundry line of linens. Each time they cried less, mourned less, and talked less.

Until they sat around him now, chatting about baseball and tinsel and dry spells while Frank bled silently into the floor. Maybe if they didn't talk about Frank this time, if they completely ignored the body in the room, things will be different.

Maybe this time, Frank will stay dead.

Story A Day: Black Noise

I knew a man who always spoke in green. Not that he talked about recycling or saving the planet. His words just always were the color green. Bright and fresh, like new grass, his words were many but shallow.

My choir teacher sang in a rich, deep purple that coated the floors of our church in its brilliance. It was easy to believe in the majesty of the song when I could see it so clearly around me.

Ernie, my first love, whispered orange nothings into my ear. I should have known not to trust the color of autumn leaves. They trick you with their lovely coats, but they're quick to change and fall away.

Voices speak with every color; yellow lies and red hurts, pale blue promises and deep amber love. Peach greetings melt into gray goodbyes, each tint coloring the world they enter and painting it with rainbows of noise.

Notes: Yeah, I never could figure out what black meant. It seemed too simple to make it fear or anger or confusion and too Hallmark-y to make it a combination of all the feelings. So I ended up with this...which, if illustrated, would make an awesomely trippy commercial for HP printers. ;)

Story A Day: The Cardboard Butterfly War Dolls

I blame this all on Mary Poppins.

You heard me, that no-nonsense British nanny with her voluminous bag and gravity defying umbrella is the villain in my story.

You see, I really liked the part of the movie where Mary Poppins sang about feeding the birds. It was sweet and heartwarming and every time the music started I thought "yes! Yes, Mary Poppins! I will give her tuppence for a bag!" I should have known something was wrong even then, after all...I didn't have a clue what tuppence was. But I didn't recognize the danger and I was indoctrinated into the Mary Poppins school of thought.

It didn't just stop at the willy-nilly giving away of tuppence. I felt the desire to dance on rooftops with manual laborers and fly kites with suffragettes. I developed an uncontrollable fear that my umbrella being turned inside out meant that I had lost a job at a bank. It wasn't long before I was inventing my own words, which as you know, is a dangerous gateway crime.

My thirst for whimsy couldn't be sated. I looked for new adventures around every corner. I met new people. Tried new things. Stopped to dance with passing penguins. But as I grew older I realized that whimsy wasn't just going to happen. I had to make it happen.

They say that once you make the decision to cross that line...there's no coming back. I gotta tell you, it's the truth. The first time I dipped my toes in that pool, well I'm not going to lie to you, it was amazing. Beyond amazing. I couldn't wait to go out and create even more whimsy. Sure, I knew that I should be quiet and dull and spend my days doing my job and wearing sensible shoes. But every time I would get close to coming to my senses, a little voice would whisper about spoons and sugar and like a brainwashed lackey, I'd be back in the saddle of frivolity.

The longer I got away with it, the bigger acts of whimsy I created. It got to the point where I wanted someone to stop me. Life can't all be chalk drawings, you know? I started getting careless. Reckless. The newspaper said it was a cry for help. Maybe that's true. Maybe that's why this last one got so out of hand. So big and bright and...odd.

Maybe I just wanted someone to stop it. Stop me. Stop Mary Poppins before another falls victim to her whimsy.

Story A Day: Born Into Light

[Notes: Yeah. I'm not so sure about this one. Feel free to offer help because I know it's messed up and I can't figure out how to make it better.]

Rena took a deep breath before entering the waiting room. She wasn't sure what she expected to find inside, but it wasn't the relatively normal room holding two other angels. "Um...hello?" She blinked as the tall man in the corner burst into tears at her greeting.

"Don't worry," said the young woman sitting in the nearby chair. "It's not you, he's been like that all day. I think he must be the angel of grief." Walking over and holding out her hand, she smiled. "I'm Tabbris, but please, call me Tabby."

"Oh, that makes sense." Rena took the offered hand eagerly. "I'm Rena, the angel of peace." She cringed and shook her head. "That...came out a little lame, didn't it? I think I've been announcing myself to humans too much, I'm beginning to sound like a Hallmark card."

"It was a little cheesy." Tabby agreed.

"That's actually why I'm here today. I've had to announce myself way too often lately. I think my invisibility booster is busted."

"Uh-huh." Tabby eyed her for a moment. "I'm sure that excuse will fly."

"You think?"

"Like it's got lead wings."

"It was worth a shot." Rena sighed. "It's just...it's just hard! I get so excited when I see them calm down and I want to rejoice with them. The first few times I just fell right out of invisibility but it was so much fun that I just kept going!"

The sound of a door opening drew the angels eyes to the end of the hallway. A slight breeze rustled around the room, whispering a name. The man in the corner stood, tears still streaming down his face, and walked slowly towards the door. Rena and Tabbris both watched in silence as the large door shut behind him.

"What do you think is going on in there?"

"I think he just let the grief go to his head." Tabby replied, her eyes fixed on the door. "He'll probably tell him to remember His joy and give him time to recuperate."

"A vacation?" Rena grinned, wondering if she would get off so lightly. "That doesn't sound so bad."

Tabby turned and met her eyes, smirking a little. "Don't worry. I'm sure you're not in big trouble either. It's not like you were operating out of pride. He will probably laugh and tell you that He can hear you even when you're invisible and send you right back to work."

"You sound like you've been here before." Rena said. "Tabbris? That's...self-determination, right?"

"Close. I'm the angel of free will." Tabby waved her arm to encompass the waiting room. "And yeah, I've been here a few times."

"Is it hard? Being that kind of angel?" Rena asked cautiously. She couldn't imagine being called here more than once.

"You have no idea." Tabby sighed, leaning back against the wall.

"Is that why you're here. Burnout - like the grief guy?"

"No. Unlike him or you...I'm really in trouble this time."

"It can't be that bad."

"I'm so jealous of free will that I'm angry at Him for not giving it to me."

"Oh." Rena winced. "That is...bad."

"Yeah." Tabby sighed. "I haven't actually done anything yet, but I'm sure He heard my heart screaming out."

"But that's good! If you haven't messed up, then just apologize and don't feel like that anymore!"

"Just-" Tabby's eyes widened in disbelief. "You don't understand how hard it is for me! You're not like me!"

"Yes, I am. We were both born into light."

"Sometimes it doesn't feel that way. Sometimes it feels like I was created like them. Out of dirt and air and clay."

"Tabby." Rena shook her head sadly. "I'm su-"

"Do you know what it's like?" Tabby interrupted. "To foster the desire in them for something that I'll never have? To push them to want something that He never gave to me?"

"Well, of course it's not the same but-"

"Please!" Tabby scoffed. "You give them peace! It's not like you don't get to feel that yourself. I have to give them free will, not too much and not too little. Always the edge of this fine line and it makes me crazy! I just want to explode and jump over the line myself."

"...you do?"

"No. Yes. Maybe? I know why it would be horrible but...my heart longs for free will so much that I think I want to satisfy that more than I want to live with

Him."

"Tabby." Rena sat heavily in the nearest chair. "Tabbris, why did you let it go so far? Why didn't you come to Him and ask for help?"

"Oh, sure." Tabby slid down to sit on the floor, hugging her knees to her chest. "That would have gone well. How exactly does one have that sort of conversation? 'Hi, I think You messed up making me and giving me this job because now I think that I should be able to do my own thing.' Do you think He'd give me a chance to pack my things before kicking me out of Heaven?"

"It wouldn't be like that." Rena said nervously. "I'm sure if you explained that you still wanted to be His angel...Tabby?"

"Yeah?"

"You still want to, right? I mean, you still want to be His?"

"Yes!" She cried, burying her head in her knees. "Of course I do. It's just so hard when-"

The sound of the door opening interrupted them and they turned to hear the wind whisper its summons. With a last sniffle, Tabbris stood and straightened her shoulders, looking determinedly at the door.

"Rena?"

"Yes?"

"Pray for me."

Story A Day: Deep - Fried Moose

No phone number.

No address.

Not even a last name that didn't sound like it was ripped straight from a soap opera.

There were so many reasons why Sally shouldn't hire the quiet young man leaning against the stove. Being right off the old highway meant that Sally had seen her fair share of folks looking to make a fresh start and most of those people had been running away from something. She didn't have a problem with people running away from nastiness in their past, it just bugged her when that nastiness showed up on the doorstep of her diner.

This boy, with his tired eyes and quiet voice, he was in the running away camp. Even worse, from the twitch he gave whenever the bell over the door rang, even he wasn't sure if he had run far enough. Even after studying him for the last half-hour while he cooked, she didn't have a clue on what he trouble he had gotten into. He was too healthy for drugs, too clean for poverty, too nervous to be a criminal. Sally didn't know what trouble might be sliding up to her counter in the near future. And she sure as shooting didn't know that she wanted to fight someone else's battle.

In fact, there was only one thing Sally did know. The kid could cook up a mean deep-fried moose.

Notes: Man, this story fought me from beginning to end. Sally had so much extra information that really didn't fit in the story, info that I really liked. Sally's real name is something else, but she bought the diner from a 'Sally' and the name came with it, the restaurant is called "The Six-Niner Diner" (and you know how I love a cheesy rhyme!) and Sally only makes one thing on the menu, a cheese apple pie. Sadly, none of those things fit in the story. Also, I have no idea if Sally hired the young man in the end.

Story A Day: Roscoe Falls Reflections

“Ironed the pants. Ironed the shirt. Ironed the tie.” Roscoe Falls sat on the edge of his bed, and repeated the list to himself. “Ironed the pants. Ironed the shirt. Ironed the tie.”

Roscoe's date for tonight began in exactly 47 minutes and he wasn’t sure he was prepared. The corsage had been ordered, the reservations triple-checked and the floor mats of his car had all been steamed cleaned. Each extensive list he had made for himself had been completed and yet he still wasn’t positive it was enough. He could go have a conversation with everyone in the kitchen, although that was, at times, more trouble than it was worth.

“Ironed the pants. Ironed the shirt. Ironed the...tie?” Roscoe paused; he couldn’t remember if wearing a tie was appropriate for this type of date. Ties were usually worn with suit jackets and he was wearing a button down shirt tonight. His breaths started to quicken and he reached to grab the medicine bottle on the side of the bed. Roscoe didn’t immediately pry open the lid and take the little orange pill. The medicine was an option, of course, and if Roscoe was honest with himself, probably the healthiest one. But healthy didn’t always mean right and it certainly didn’t mean comforting. With a determined nod, Roscoe placed the bottle back on the nightstand and headed into the kitchen.

“If you ask me, you should be wearing dress blues.” Roscoe had barely taken a seat at the table, when the General started in on him. He turned to meet his eyes across the table. “None of these namby-pamby civvies.”

“I think he looks darling.” Mrs. Mayberry smiled. “Just darling! Don’t you think so, April?”

“He looks like…” April tilted her head and Roscoe mirrored the motion, wondering what she was looking for. There was a long pause before she dissolved into giggles. “Like a stupidhead!”

“What he looks like is a geek who’s not going to see any action.” Darrin chimed in. “Nice tie, nerd. Why not add the pocket protector and go for the whole gimmick?”

“The tie!” Roscoe lifted the offending item and looked across the table. “Can I wear a tie without a jacket? Or do I need to find a jacket? I didn’t iron one, but I might have time.”

“Now, I don’t know about that. In my days the young men always wore a jacket. Or at least a smart sweater.”

“If you were wearing your uniform, you wouldn’t have this problem.”

“I think jackets make you look fat!”

“One more piece of clothing means one more piece you gotta take off to do the deed.”

“I-I-I’m not g-g-going to…you know.” Roscoe blushed and noticed the same reddening of Mrs. Mayberry’s cheeks. “This is just a first date. I’ll be a g-g-gentleman.”

“I know you will, sweetie. You have good morals.”

“Fine upstanding young man. Although your salute needs some work.”

“I was just joshing ya, kid. Though you should try and at least kiss her.”

“Ew! That is soooo gross!”

Roscoe looked at April, the two of them engaged in a staring contest for several moments until they blinked simultaneously.

“Fine, you’re not gross. Much. She'll like you.”

“Thank you.” Roscoe smoothed his shirt and ran through his list once more, the kitchen silent as he mentally checked off everything again. “Alright, I think I’m ready.”

“You know, you’ve got a wrinkle in that shirt.” Darrin said with a smirk.

Roscoe pulled at the edges of his button down. “Where? I don’t see it!”

“Don’t tell him that!” April whined. “You know it’s just going to make him crazy.”

“That wasn’t nice, Darrin.” Mrs. Mayberry tutted. “There are no wrinkles, love.”

“He’s a grown man, for petes sake! Back during the – “

“During the war we ate wrinkles for breakfast. Blah, blah, blah.” Darrin interrupted.

“Please?” Roscoe pointed at his chest. “Wrinkles?”

“Not as crisp as I’d like it, solider, but you’ll do.”

“You’re fine, sweetie. Now you just go on out and have a good time.”

“We want the play-by-play later.”

“But not any kissing parts! Gross!”

Roscoe pushed his chair back from the table, watching as the five people around him stood as well. Smoothing the crease in his shirt one last time, he nodded at the now empty mirrors propped up in the kitchen chairs and headed out for his date.

Ideas

I have no idea how to write a script for a movie, despite the fact that I once retooled a story into one. It was tedious and confusing and I felt like I had lost everything that made the story unique. I hated it. Also, I'm pretty sure I did it wrong.

But when my cousin said that we should write an action movie together, it actually sounded like fun. (the writing together part, not the script part) So I sat down and filled up pages with ideas. It never went past the idea stage, but it was fun to do, especially the list of things that I like and don't like in an action movie.

This is a list of sidekick characters for the heroes. I had so much fun with this.

Soccer Mom
"We'll take my van!"
"Let me get the first aid kit."
"Don't take that tone with me!"
"We've got juice...or juice."

High School Science Teacher
"This is not my job!"
"Wait! Wait! I knew...*huffs for breath*...knew I should have taken that coaches job."
"I babysit teenagers around chemicals all day. I can make anything explode."

College Student
"I can download the latest hit song, not get codes for a nuclear submarine."
"I've got 2 notebooks, an iPod, my latin textbook and flip-flops."
"Cool! Free stuff! Do you think they'll care if we take these?"

Meter Maid/Traffic Cop
"You know that you parked this thing in a loading zone, right?"
"And that's for blocking the sidewalk!"
"Your meter has expired!"
"I'm not armed! I'm a meter maid! They don't even let us wear long pants!"