Exercise: vivid image

[jozef_the_dragon]

here is a little something that i put together, Caution, contints are graphic, hehehe little warning there on the opener, anyway this is something to test and inspire, ok, feedback is welcome and everyone is encouraged to join in with a sceen of their own, here goes:

Opens over a southern bayou. Over the forgotten houses claimed by swamp, an overgrown cemetery, filled with weeds and crumbling tombstones. Iron fence wrapped with vines and spring weeds. Moves into a house, large, beaten by time, lost to the society at large. Along the hardwood floor, molded and warped, broken tiles, peeled paint and faded falling wallpaper. Magazine rack. Focus, Women’s magazine, cover Black and white, image faded, cover bent and folded at the corners. Cue music, romantic sting orcastra, gothic tones, and heavy deep bass. Rising sun filters through broken window, soft breeze moves the shredded curtain, the image on the cover becomes color, it is a woman, arms hiding head, sitting legs crossed and pulled to body. Zoom in on the cover, the image stirs, the woman moves her hands, she is black and white, faded and aged like the cover, music rises, birds chirp, the sounds of a morning in the swamp, focus on her eyes, all else is pushed from the frame as gray vines like veins spread rapidly out from the eyes across the face. She opens her eyes, green, tears well, pull back the cover is new and glossy, her hair red and flowing in long locks, full lips curl into a sweet smile, inviting, white teeth, she yawns at he morning sunrise, pull back she stretches like awakening from a long nap. The house is black and white; the scene follows her, bare feet on the dirty floor, long dress whipping at her ankles, the floor bleeds into color. The long forgotten color of varnish, view travels up her legs as she moves through the house, the catching the golden light on the light spring dress she wears, intricate organic print like a gypsy gown, beaded rope belt tied loose at her waist. She stops in a southern room, turns with a welcome smile.

“This will do, this is nice,” she says still sleepy

Follow her stare to the far wall, the mold and cracked plaster bleed from black and white into a red and white checkered pattern, starting from the floor, the wall looks new, fresh, the base board remains warped. The floor groans silently, vines erupt from the base plate, crawling up the wall, weaving in and out of the painted squares, spreading along the door frame, creep quickly across the space, tiny green leaves sprout, the vine now weaves its pattern across the entire wall, and darts across the ceiling, bowed and falling with age. The ceiling is drawn back into color, antique bronze light fixtures grow with organic patterns forming a small chandelier, and the ceiling is new. She turns, follow gaze, from behind shoulder, her face out of view the room is redecorated, looks new everything shines with luster, and she turns and walks out into another room, the main living room.

The floor here is like new, the walls bleed from black and white to soft organic colors, music softens, windows are closed and reflecting the new day through polished glass and brass latches, the velvet drapes are drawn back to allow the light in.

“Perfect.” She purs stepping over to the magazine rack, view from behind to the side, her face not seen.

She bends down picking up the old iron rack, the only thing in the room unaffected, remains dull and faded with age, paint peels from the rusted iron. Music remains soft; bass becomes heavy, heartbeat, underlines over sad heavy tone. View follows her gaze, her face remains unseen, the magazine cover in front is new, there are headlines and article teasers printed in reds and pinkish blues, there is no model on the cover, it remains a blank. Draw back view slowly turn around left shoulder, catching the golden light reflected in her fiery red locks, ghost white skin gleams, her flawless youthful appearance is captured as she smiles child-like at what she hold before her, music becomes light and airy with the sounds of waking spring in the southern swamp. She places the magazine rack back where she found it on the floor, and stands to turn back around facing the open room that now has stuffed sofas and low varnished tables, Victorian lamps with painted shades rest in the corners on tall iron stands. She walks outside into the overgrown yard, view rotates to capture the scene, and her face is again hidden from the lens. She walks down the pathway of broken cobblestones, sinking into the growth of the swamp. The vines and weeds fold back, her bare feet only contact the stones, and the path leads into the cemetery. There the iron-arched entry way is bent and overgrown. The fence is falling and littered with organic debris, fallen limbs and a single blue bird with a yellow crest, sings from its perch. She walks on; stepping into the lush weeds and thick vines, her feet snap small twigs and her hair is caught in the gentle breeze. The sounds of laughter fade in under the gothic symphony, the light innocent joy of babe’s wafts playfully along the soft airy notes.

She walks up to a pair of tombstones, faded and broken, one lays half fallen, the names are lost, the images carved are lost, just weathered stones dull and gray holding a bed of moss. Sounds of children singing in the spring days are played under the music, fading in and out of the played notes and chords. The blue bird chirps loud, the music pauses, a flock of crows rise above the cemetery, each cawing with the flaps of heavy wings. The scene follows her stare, her face unseen, rotates to catch her smile young and beautiful, and continues to turn in same arch to return to the graves. The stone remain unchanged; the graves are now open, broken metal vaults are rusted thin and brittle, cracked apart the graves are full of dark water. Under the still reflecting surface green forms begin to take shape. The sky is reflected with mirror clarity upon the still pools, the forms levitate under the surface, pause just under the surface. Two girls like old copper statues, green painted and flaking, motionless, eyes closed, not breathing frozen in the pose of final rest.

Zoom in on the first form, a nude copper statue of a girl child, scene is captured to view from under the reflection of the dark mirrored pool, overlapping the image of darkness void and passing skies onto the copper body that remains frozen.

“Wake up” the woman speaks little more than a whisper.

Focus is on the eyes of the statue that open abruptly, stark white. The darkness overlapping stirs softly over the image as the sky rolls by with thick white clouds. The statue moves slowly from the pose of final rest, the surface of the pool remains unstirred, unbroken. Arms unfold from the chest as the view is drawn back, the gothic music returns with watery sounds of summer. The white-eyed statue now has mermaid fins instead of legs; gills open along the neck, the fingers part, a thin web joins each digit. The girl swims under the surface, lost in the dark; music takes a savage tone of loss, deep low toned woodwinds and bass strings.

The woman turns her attention to the second portal. The copper girl remains unmoving, eyes closed. This girl is taller than the first, perhaps older.

“Its time. Wake up,” the woman speaks again a loving motherly tone this time.

The second statue opens its eyes. Stark white like the first, she moves her arms from final rest, drawing her legs up to her chest. The dark reflections on the surface are unbroken, the overlapping image in the void ripples with a deep disturbance. This girl sinks slowly out of view, eyes wide and visible deep under the dark surface, fading until only the eyes are visible.

Scene moves under the dark pool, following the second girl into the abyss. She is turning in the dark nothingness, holding her knees to her chest; the first girl emerges from the dark. She swims around the second girl, her fins move to embrace this second girl, as the long feathery tail wraps tenderly around the huddled form. The webbed hands move to touch the face of the second girl. View follows the tracers of movement in the swirling dark, second girl remains eyes wide and stark white against the copper darkness. The eyes of the first girl are purest blue, her blonde hair flows in currents under the water; her copper skin is more white but remains faintly tinted. The second girl blinks suddenly, her eyes open with the same deep tranquil blue, and the water begins to swirl with deep currents. Together they move among the nothingness, the mermaid playfully spinning circles around her sibling that begins to unfurl tiny wings from her drawn hips. Jointed like a bat, long whisping and flowing in the waters, blue tinted under the blue sky and copper under lighting. Nearly transparent like the airy fins of a sea creature these tiny wings flap gracefully bending under the pressures carrying her movement among the dark water. The siblings playfully frolicked among the tranquilly nothingness of this void moving slowly back to the surface. The music remains airy and playfully awakening more as the girls begin to awaken more.

The view remains below the surface staring up at the dark silhouettes rising toward the blue rolling sky filled with light clouds white and fluffy. When they reach the surface the angle shifts view, ripples move out through the frame, bluish copper light tints and carries across the scene blurring the images.

Shot from behind, low to the ground, between the blades of tall weeds, there is the woman flanked on ether side by two children, one slightly taller than the other, the smaller one, blonde with long flowing curls, the other, taller has red hair long and straight. The girls are wearing light summer dresses in floral patterns of deep earth tones; they all stand still over looking the weathered stones, falling and unreadable.

The blue bird with a yellow crest sings cheerily, the view follows the airy sound finding the small bird resting on the iron fence; it lifts up on cobalt wings fluttering in the still early light, to loaf tenderly upon the cracked tombstone before the girls. It looks with an inquizztive stare up at the woman and these two tenderly young apparitions. Follow the gaze catching the weeds, vines and broken limbs littering the ground, up the long skirts to beaded rope belts glinting in the sunlight, up to beautiful young faces smiling with open eyes at the world and the little bird.

They turn together, hand-in hand, walking lightly back across the weeds to the cobble path. Music takes a lighter more airy tone with woodwinds, alto strings, and light bass, gothic modified sounds industrial. Follow scene, looking gaze, the house is covered with overgrowth, moss growing on the eves and the roof, but new planks can be detected peeking from under, fresh siding is visible. New windows with polished latches glint in the rising light. The back porch is screened with fine mesh, the hardwood door is open; stained glass panels cast the bright colors of distorted images on the rough planked decking.

Draw a reversed view, sun topping the weeping cypress trees, sounds of the swamp, great bull toads and egrets, alligators. Music is acoustic symphony, bass cello, viola, deep undertones, and softly building tempo. Sun is over right shoulder, moving across over the back steps. Yard is littered with organic derbies, over run and draped with weeds, the spring grass nearly waist high, the wilted stalks of previous summers just weighting down the fresh shoots. High stone fence crumbled into a roughly strewn barrier, the once decretive twisted iron fence lay bent and warped with dagger-like fingers straining for the sky. Giant cypress trees are draped and weeping with moss in the forever dark, lower branches, with only the broken cobblestone path leading away into the shadows beyond the failing iron border. In the far corner to the right, half buried in the dense growth was nestled a small work-shed, one side and corner pushed in by the falling stone, the beams could be seen resting on the large rocks and brittle mortar. The windows were long broken, the glass forever lost, reclaimed by the swamp, the peeling lead-painted frames were being steadily overrun by the same quick vines, that erupted from the base plates, these hungry fiends wrapped all trace of that toxic poison, moving in under the crumbling and rotting wooden shack. With great ease and measured care this; a mobile creature; possessed a desire in purpose, pulling the structure in off the rocks, replacing the failing supports and rotted braces. Before the rising sun graced the little shaded corner in its quest to zenith, the decayed shack stood firmly of its own accord, crafted from the vine as it wrapped itself into the material.

Inside the woman guided the children to the checkered room, angle low looking up, catching the sunlight glimmer on the colored glass beads, woven into braided rope belts that each wears bound loose about the waist. The frizzled hem of their skirts bounce on smooth ankles while three sets of bare footprints wetly crossed the polished veneer floors, the sagging walls lifted and cinched as the three dancingly spring past. The peeling wallpaper was pulled taunt and absorbed by fresh brilliant colors in heady organic tones cheerfully replacing the dull stains and rotting wallboards. The music is concert orchestra, sonata, with summer theme, gothic industrial undertones, and modified sounds. Angle remains low, upward focus, rising with music as they near the closed and varnished wood door, with bronze hinges and gothic knob and faceplate. Focus on the doorknob; it absorbs the light, drinking the scene, contrast the reflection on the newly finished door. Shift to right hand of the motherly figure; she is holding the hand of the taller sibling, whose straight red hair is breaching the shot. The long fingers of both females, the transparent finger nails shining wetly in the golden light that penetrates from behind left and above, follow the motion of the hand, wrist exposed. The mother’s ghost white skin, resembles porcelain, flawlessly smooth, the wrist flexes as her fingers extend gripping the bronze doorknob. Muscles tense as the doorknob turns silently, the latch softly clicks with release and the door swings open.

The room is bathed in a warm golden light that enters through large bay windows overlooking the back corner of the house, within the vaulted ceilings of this stand alone room is a timber framed trellis with the same green vines with tiny spearhead leaves and fragrant pinkish blue bosoms. Under this roughly constructed organic canopy sit two identical full-size beds, made with light mossy sheets and deep green toned quilts. The bed frames, wired complexly intricate in twisting patterns that overlapped forming blossom designs that reached out to support the framing above with spidery webbed fingers. The red and white checkerboard patter remained consistent along each wall; the pattern stripped veneer flooring peaked out along the edges of a thick woolen rug bearing colorful swirls in soft rich tones. View rotates, panning the room, following the light, frame rests on the image of the three females entering, hand-in-hand. The young girls smile brightly, the golden light gleams and sparkles in their eyes as they turn facing each other, a blue lighting tone descends softly from above, as the tinted sky lights filter the morning rays through the trellis.

The girls nod with approval to each other, leaning in front of the motherly figure, angle even with tallest girls view and the tour moves on into the main living room. There are a series of doors leading off this large room with a cathedral ceiling and quietly rotating fans suspended from a large chandelier woven in bronze and holding dozens of tiny glass bulbs forming a canopy of air flow and lighting. View moves along the furthest wall, keeping the smaller girl in frame, a warm smile of profound joy and twinkle of wondrous excitement lights the soft curves of her cheeks. Her blonde curls frame her face, as her locks drift in the circling air, and one defiant twist falls over her eyes, but she does not brush it away. She moves toward the first door, large windows frame to portal with smoky glass cubes, the door is varnished with a deep cloudy combination of natural tones, the large bronze doorknob and brass locks shine in the captured lighting. She reached for the smooth knob; view follows motion of her hand, music, gothic industrial with bass strings under soft toned woodwinds, increase tempo and intensity as hand nears, build tension as fingers stretch for the grasp, fingers wrap slowly as music builds, modified gothic bass sounds begin under the melody, and the sibling reaches to catch her hand before the knob is turned, music crashes to low hum.

The siblings’ smile affectionately to one another, their eyes sparkle with a hidden happiness as view pulls back framing the girls before the large door and smoky glass cubes. Their hair catching the light, the blonde curls are highlighted in soft tones, the red glows like cascading fire framing the silhouette of the taller girl. A shadow passes before the cubes, the girls step back from the door as the knob is slowly turned from the outside, angle shifts to face the girls, delicate features framed in illuminated tones cast by natural light, the motherly figure steps into frame, a white hand with long unadorned fingers falls gently on the shoulder of each girl. View is drawn further back to include the expression of the motherly figure, her white face with high cheekbones, sharp nose and full lips, warmly inviting with a kind smile, framed by the fiery curls cascading in the same soft tones, highlighted with rich accents. A shadow passes over the females as the door is slowly pushed open, crisp morning light fills the room, the females are framed silhouettes for an instant as the view is shifted peering from over the motherly figure, the girls remain at her sides, the beaded belts that they wear gleam for an instant, frame adjusts to the right allowing the form of shadowed stranger to appear in the door way.

Backlighting, features shadowed, view moves slow to the left, frame shift, allows detail of stranger to become clear. A boy stands on the porch; long dark hair frames his soft features. He has green eyes, puffy, with heavy dark circles under them, his high cheeks are bruised, a thin hooked nose is swollen with a sharp crook in the bridge as if broken recently, his brow is dark with a long cut above his right eye, the blood has dried in a thin ribbon down his cheek, his swollen lips, cracked and parched, still bleed at the corner of his mouth. He is wearing a black leather collar with an I.D. tag that reads: Property of Satan, and a faded old t-shirt, the sleeve is torn nearly off the right arm, the stains of fresh blood dot the image on the front of a woman holding a tray of suicide methods, a small pistol, a collection of pills, a razorblade, a leaking hypodermic needle, the caption under the image reads: Mrs. Fletcher Home-Style Suicide Devices. His faded black jeans are filthy and ripped at the knees and ankles, along the right hem leading down the leg, he has safety pins holding several of the larger holes closed, blood is thick on his jeans, with dried bile. His worn combat boots are unlaced, black tape holds them together, bile and mud are dried on the battered leather and tape. His exposed arm are covered in dark bruises, clearly visible are the red scratches from fingernails that wrap down his arms, a multitude of thin cuts line the backs of his arms, scared from repeated applications, his wrists are covered with thick leather bracelets with locking buckles and shiny steel rings, his hands are swollen, knuckles bloody and skinned, a single silver band adorns his left ring finger bearing ancient Celtic designed triangular knot work, a braided copper band rests on his right middle finger. He is carrying a brown leather backpack; a battered skateboard is strapped to the shoulder harness. He has been crying; he has been fighting, and now he is alone.

damn that was more than i thought, hope you enjoy

 

[Guest]

jozef?
is this a screen play...or just something you felt like writing? curious.

 

[Guest]

a brief image in my head

Frigid wind blew open his coat and the shock sent his teeth to chattering. The lining of his coat at one time had been a rich silk, now thread-bare, did little to embrace his body heat.

"Fucking winter. Fucking everything," he muttered to himself.

He trudged along the thoroughfare, tripping over liter and stepping, uncaringly into puddles of slush. When you really think about it, does it matter any way? If you're going to be cold, you might as well be cold the entire way. His thoughts jumbled together and apart as if unable to gel in any semblance of order.

His bare, chaffed hands were hidden deeply within the pockets of his coat and with head bent against the wind, he continued his journey. A journey with no happily-ever-after ending. No home, no love, no anything to live for; a life lived from moment to moment.

At the pinicle of the bridge, he scanned the grey, ozone filled horizon. He wondered how things had gone so terribly wrong.As he looked down upon the murky, swirls of the river, flashes of his life played through his mind for the last time.

He felt warm as his feet left the bridge. His body surged with the sense of release he had known little of for so very long. And as his balding pate hit the freezing waters, the pain made him gasp, filling his lungs with the putrid, polluted liquid.

This isn't quite so bad, he thought as the stillness of his watery grave encompassed him. No fighting for release of its icy grip, just a sad acceptance of the end as he slowly sunk into quiet oblivion.

 

[lucky-E-leven]

Overwhelming joy filled her with every fuse she lit. Getting away with forbidden acts was the pinnacle of childhood glee and the little girl scoffed at her parents' neverending warnings against her use of fire. She'd show them, if only in her private successes, how little they knew. She wasn't just any kid, after all. She had never been caught breaking the rules, though she did just that quite often.

Striking the match set her heart to pounding as her nostrils filled with the sharp stench of burning sulfer. The look in her eyes was as wild as the reflected dancing flame on the end of the matchstick. Tiny, blunt fingertips held tightly to the small torch, moving it ever so slowly toward the chosen fuse. A gentle breeze wafted past, stifling the weak flame and sending her eyes open wide with helplessness as she held her breath. Fighting for its life, the flame grew again as the breeze moved on about its way. The girl smiled triumphantly for a moment, but the smile was quickly replaced with the mischievous smirk she'd worn just before the breeze's appearance.

Mere millimeters separated the hot flame from her fingers, as well as the lifeless wick. Just as the light of the flame ignited her sense of triumph, the heat ignited her sense of fear. The last of the matchstick to be consumed was held between her small fingers and it was down to win or lose, light the fuse or be burned.

The sudden hiss and spark of the fuse caused her to yelp. A high-pitched noise, too short to be a squeak, too long to be a scream. An explosion of noise began inside her as she dropped the match and turned to run. Stumbling in her excitement only increased the adrenaline now rushing through her veins, but she made it far enough away, turning just in time to see the bright flash of the green and orange explosion.

Mesmerized by the hundreds of tiny explosions occuring thereafter, she failed to notice the effects of her fun. So overjoyed with herself at the beauty of the last firecracker, she lay back with a crunch atop the late September field grass, laughing the deep belly laugh of a child who's just experienced something beyond their ability to process completely. Puffy white clouds floated above her and she knew she'd never felt more free in her life. A sharp crackle came from her little fire-ring and she sat up to see if she'd been caught.

A horrified expression contorted her face as the clutches of fear encased her throat, rendering her speechless. Everything inside her was screaming, "Run!", but she found herself paralyzed by the flames. They leapt and danced for her, just as the flame on the match had. Alive and hungry, they spread quickly through the dry thrush beneath her and still she could not move. Her eyes welled up with tears, as helplessness rooted her to her spot. A single tear sliding from the corner of her eye seemed to invite the rabid flames to rush toward her.

The crackle she'd heard earlier was now a roar of crackles and they were coming for her. Slender white knuckles gripped the dead grass, as though holding tightly enough could persuade the angry flames to simply part around her and continue on. It was the heat that finally wrenched a mournful sob from her throat and set her body in motion. A heat to rival any she'd ever known, encased her where she sat. So dry and imposing that every sound seemed magnified to the point of painful hearing. So hot that her skin refused to sweat for fear of angering the nearing flames any more. A heat so intense that the wetness along her cheek, left behind by the tear, dried almost instantly, glazing the skin beneath it with a tightness kin to a scar.

Gaining her feet and running as fast as her bony legs would carry her would never be remembered. Everything from the moment she rose to run to the time she finally got the courage to peek up over the ridge of the creekbed was non-existent. The first memory she was ever able to recover was the sight of an entire field burning in the distance. That sight would forever be burned into her mind as permanently as the feeling of being completely out of control. Her little body shook violently in that creekbed, but she let no more tears fall as she made herself a solemn vow...


~lucky

 

[cantdog]

"A revolver!" It might have been different if Basil collected Hümmels or stamps, but he liked guns. Dorothy poured sarcasm into the remark. "Brilliant, Basil. How deep a hole are you going to dig for yourself, genius--?" The S&W connected with her temple. She collapsed face foremost to the carpeting.

"That shut y'up." Basil strode out the back door, taking a coat from the peg. He didn't really need to have been a hunter to see the boy's tracks going to the barn and not emerging. In bare feet, naked, he'd have stayed in there. Basil circled behind the rickety structure and peeked in at floor level. There he was. He'd hidden it, he didn't have it. He stood and peeked again. The boy's back was turned.

With his spring out of the back, John leapt to the front. Basil did hit his knee with the flung chunk of firewood, but it was a glancing blow. It tore a flap of skin up, but John didn't slow enough and his father's lunge missed him. Out into the slushy yard and a quick turn-- the pistol barked in the barn behind him! Splinters flew from the door jamb! "John! Run! Quick!" Dorothy stood at the kitchen door, holding it open, and she had the Ruger in her hand. The yard floodlights came on, casting naked boy shadows in two directions across the slushy surface.
"Get back, Mom! He's shooting!" John splashed frantically for the house. His mother's arm came up from her shoulder and leveled at the door of the barn, or almost at John, as far as he was concerned; he ducked lower and put on more speed.

The asthmatic pock of the Ruger sounded ahead, and Basil yelled Fuck! behind. He scooted past his mother's legs into the back hall, tripping on something very painfully and fetching the cellar door a solid rap with his funny bone. He wished to howl and roll in agony a moment, but felt he hadn't the time to spare. His mother stepped on his scrambling legs as she slammed her door behind them. Locking it, she told him, "get to the living room, stay low."

Basil roared from the yard at the closed house before him, "You'll tell me right now where that fuckin camera is!!" He stood in the nexus of his shadows, revolver in one hand and pinch bar in the other.

He saw the casement window in the kitchen move. It cranked open an inch or two, and Dorothy's head appeared in silhouette. Like a target.

"I see you, Basil, and your three minutes is up. So I call the Child Protection. And you have only six minutes left before I call the police! I'd get movin' if I were you--oh!" A sudden explosion of plaster and wood erupted just above the window frame, accompanied by the open throated bark of the S&W. Another hole appeared in the kitchen cabinet across the room.

I see you too! I'd duck if I were you! You think I can't get into that house, you're fulla shit!"

Through the window flew the pinch bar in a shower of glass. The projectile was deflected and skittered across the top of the counter to clang on the floor, and freezing air poured into the kitchen.

Dorothy was dressed for bed in sateen tap pants and camisole, while John of course was naked. The shards of window glass were a real hazard and restricted movement in the kitchen. John had been limping toward the living room, where he remembered there were a pair of blankets on the couch. After the frosty barn he needed to warm and reanimate. Now both of them felt their nakedness to be a hazard in itself, and they were unsure if they could afford the time to dress.

The 'phone hung right there in the doorway; Dorothy decided to call anyway.

"To hell with his six minutes. The man's gone off the deep end," she muttered, dialling the police with the little finger of her gun hand. Basil had fetched some more tools from the barn. While she waited for the police dispatch to pick up their phone, the first ax blow struck the back door.

Dorothy pinched the 'phone in her shoulder and face, still hearing the maddening ring, ring. She opened a drawer and scattered dish towels over the glass.

"Basil! Stop and think! You're irrational!" The ax was splintering the door, Basil cursing and keening in a rising hysteria about who was due to kick who out. No hint of reason could be heard. "Get in the truck and go find a hotel! You can't do yourself any good coming in here."

John stepped on some of the towels and took over laying the protection down, so she straightened and got a fresh grip on the gun and the phone.

"Fuck you!" Basil, having nearly destroyed the door around the latch, howled his triumph. The ax clunked to the entryway floor. One kick and the splintered door yielded, bulging in. His hands could be glimpsed as he pulled and twisted latch and deadbolt free of its socket. Dorothy had been averse to injuring Basil, but she now nerved herself.

"Go get dressed, John, quick, have the kids dress too," she said. Aiming, she squeezed the trigger. The .22 sent its little slug into Basil's left hand, so she squeezed again immediately.

Howling in pain and rage, he withdrew the hand, but the door would now swing outward unhindered. Basil opened it, but paused to survey the damage. He was left-handed.

I thought the second one hit, too, thought Dorothy. A spray of blood, not really large, lay across the woodwork.

What's that on the floor?

It was a finger, Basil's finger. Nausea hit, her head swam a second. Oh my God, I shot his finger off. "This is a nightmare, Basil!" Why doesn't he go?

"For Christ's sake, go to the hospital, just go away! Go away!" She shot across the doorway again. "Please for the love of God just get out of here!"

A fourth shot, pock!, cut across the howls and wails in the entry. Unnerved and standing in scanties in the open kitchen with window and door gone, she'd begun to shake all over. Her own protective instincts were hammering at her reason. Just kill him! Keep the kids safe! Just kill him!

"I said, please tell me what's the problem!" the tinny voice was saying. "Give me your location!"

Dorothy told the 'phone her address.

"In Bangor?" He was filling in a form.

"Just get here! Send someone! How many gunshots do you need to hear, idiot? He's shooting at us from the back yard!"

"Now calm down, Ma'am--"

"Oh for Pete's sake. Never mind! Go hand out speeding tickets!" She slammed the 'phone down and pulled John past her into the living room. "Get moving, John! I guess I have to do this myself."

But her second step toward the far wall drove glass into the ball of her foot. Tears sprang into her eyes, which made her angry. She needed her eyes, this was betrayal! She sped as best she could through the living room to her room and put flats on.

Twelve-gauge buck from the loading bench, and the gun itself. Make a little more for Basil to think about. She could arm a squad just in this room. She threw a jacket on and stepped up again to peer into the kitchen, But saw nothing, and limped on. No sound other than the kids moving around upstairs.

Suddenly Carol screamed.

"He went up the back stairs, damn, damn, damn..."

Her thoughts spinning in tight circles, she repeated the word under her breath climbing painfully up the carpeted front stair, shotgun ready.

Carol screamed again and broke into wailing, but she kept her control and continued to climb steadily. Over her mind fell a veil of calculating calm. She's afraid, not hurt. Michael was trying to calm her down, she could hear him.

Where is he? Where is he? But nothing of Basil's movements could be heard over the brother's voice and the sister's despondent cry. Nor anything of John, who would surely go to Carol if he could.

"Hello, Dorothy. Drop the gun."

Basil stood in the bathroom-door alcove, his revolver leveled at the wife of his bosom, holding John's limp body on his hip by the belt in his jeans. His gun hand was wrapped in a ball of handkerchief, stained red. John's head sported a red splash, too, in the hair at the temple.

"John! John!" she called, but he didn't answer or move. She looked purest venom into the face of her husband.

"Using your son as a shield! Coward! What did you do to him now?" she spat. The gun's barrel rose up. Carol and Mike fell silent.

"Ah!" It was a warning sound, a sharply uttered vowel. "Keep the gun low, Dorothy, I don't want to have to shoot." She arrested the rise of the shotgun. "Now drop it--!"

The twelve-gauge boomed. Basil's handgun spoke too, and all three conscious children cried out. Basil screamed, the blood freezing scream of a man in sudden awful pain.

But Dorothy was spring steel, and followed up after the recoil with a charge to get inside his aiming radius. She jammed the barrel as hard as she could end-on into his belly, which was big and soft and hard to miss, even with John hanging across half of it. His note changed as the air went out of him. He dropped John; he began to fall back against the book wall, then he screamed much louder and higher as his destroyed knee bent. His weapon discharged again into the ceiling as John struck the floor.

"His knee! Lookit his knee!" cried Mike. The younger two wailed in a crazy disharmony. Dorothy reversed the gun and bludgeoned his bandaged hand in a frenzy with end-on blows of the heavy steel buttplate, half a dozen blows two-handed, following it along as Basil moved it, missing twice to strike his shoulder and his cheekbone, repeating the words drop it drop it, until the revolver came out of the ruined fist.

Dorothy snatched the S&W and flung it down into the stairwell, ignoring the tinkle of glass when it knocked a picture frame down.

"Mike! Carol! Pull John out of here!"

The children hesitated to enter the arena. Basil's cheekbone was shattered and a dent had appeared sickeningly in his stubbled face. His left hand had its bandage, but her shotgun had struck him just above the knee, obliterating the far end of the thigh and the joint, so that it was twisted at a crazy angle in a welter of red meat and blue shreds of pantleg. John lay moveless across his good leg with his own bloody patch at the temple, and the pale green camisole was soaking up the blood from some sort of injury to Dorothy's head on the side they couldn't see.

The appalling scene left them frozen in place. Their universe had come unhinged in a paroxysm of bloody violence and the smell of burnt powder.

"You stay right still, Basil. Move a muscle and I'll use the other barrel, is that clear? You may speak one word."

"Yes."

"Come on, Mike, John is just unconscious. Help him, Carol, come on, just pull him out of here. It's all right."

Her eyes never left Basil's, but he closed his and sobbed, a horrible cackle noise, bubbling with the blood in his pharynx.

"Open your eyes, Basil! Look at me! Stay absolutely still." John's leg rolled a little, then he was dragged out of her sight.

"Good job, Mike, that's the boy."

Panic rose in Basil's eyes. He didn't dare say anything or move, but the blood in his throat was closing it off, preventing breathing. He felt he had to clear his throat or die, but given Dorothy's mood he decided to just hold his breath. Soon he had to interrupt the spasmodic efforts his throat wanted to make to blow the mass of liquid out, like ghastly little hiccups, each of which brought his fear to a peak again, as he expected his wife to fire on their account.

"Go ahead and spit it out," she said.

With John out of the way, she could step back and cover him better, so she did. The children uttered noises as their father coughed out a mass of blood onto his shoulder and the floor, causing renewed knee and cheek pain. It nearly caused him to black out. His face had turned bluish around the ruined cheek and was already swelling a little.

"Why didn't you just go, you fat fool?"

"Sorry, I'm sorry."

"What made you come in here and threaten my children! I told you to go, but you didn't go!" She sounded as if she were on the edge of some berserk rage. "You shithead! Shoot the house, break the door, hold my child hostage! What in the hell did you imagine you could do in here, Basil? Now I don't dare even call an ambulance because I have to hold you down like some kind of rabid dog!"

Basil sobbed and just nodded yes, almost exactly as John had done while the beating went on.

"Well? Answer me! What was the big plan, genius?" She noticed the blood on her breast, and took a quick mental inventory. My ear, I guess. He shot me after all, she thought.

"Dunno, wanted to just win, that's all. I'm gonna bleed out, honey." His voice was horrible to hear, weak, bubbling, sobbing.

"Too bad. Once you're unconscious, I'll call them, but I can't trust you to act rationally. Stay still and bleed. Now shut up. Win, indeed." She pitched her voice higher. "Kids?"

"Are you shot, Mom?" It was John's voice. The other kids acknowledged her.

"You're awake, good. Now everybody listen. The blood here is just my ear, Basil shot my ear. It's nothing serious, it's just bleeding.

"Someone has to call the fire department and tell them to send an ambulance to this address. Tell them gunshot wounds. Tell them the fight is over, tell them to hurry. Don't answer a lot of questions, just tell them. Then hang up, we don't care if they even say they'll come or not. We just want to tell them those three things. One, send an ambulance, two, we have a man who was shot, three, it's my father, he went crazy and shot at us but now the fight is over. Can you handle that, Mike?"

"I can do it, Mom," John said.

"Yep," replied Mike.

"Not you, John, I have something else for you. Go on down, Mike, and call the fire department. The number's on the sticker on the phone."

 

[cantdog]

Christ you people can write. Lucky, that was awesome.

 

[Guest]

speechless.
enjoying this thread more each day.

 

[Kassiana]

He stretched and yawned, sticking his tongue out as far as he could. He felt so good, warm and safe. The surface beneath his bare feet was warm and soft, and he was with the one he loved.

He talked to her in her language, soft and sweet, and after a few moments she responded. She loved him, too, he knew. He switched to the language he and his best friends used, and he was delighted when she spoke back. He nibbled her cheek and watched as his friends headed home, eyes alert to the slightest changes.

His outfit was chafing him, so he worked to set it right. Soon, he looked and felt good again. He moved to a seat between her and his other friends, and called to a third group in a third language. She tried, but could not speak it as well as the others. He didn't mind. She was good for other things.

His black and white head busily preened his feathers again, the blue and white ones of his breast and the pure white of his wings. He watched his cockatiel friends mating while his parakeet friends walked around getting food. He always kept an eye on his human friend, for she was part of his flock from the beginning. He talked to her again, making the kissing noises she liked and wolf-whistling. She talked in her other strange language, soothing him and calling him "good bird. Good Ku." Then she talked in the good language, his language, and called to him. He returned to the cage and began pecking at his bell. His bell. Ku's bell.

 

[Guest]

Silence. The world seemed insulated as the snow fell, carpeting everything with a virginal blanket. Jade rolled over and looked out the window, snuggling deeper into the covers as if just the sight of the snow could make her cold.

A small, appreciative smile graced her lips as she watched the fat crystalline flakes fall from the bruised sky. From her vantage point, she could see the beach. The snow now covered the rocks and sand, her summer time playground lay hidden beneath.

The smell of woodsmoke was heavy in the air and she knew that Liz had started the blaze in order to keep the house vaguely warm. They would need the mitten rack to dry the wet outer gear they would wear when they went out to build the year's first snowman and the snowball fight that envariably would follow.

As her gaze became heavy, her focus waned from the beach to her reflection in the glass before her. She could see the bliss, clearly on her features though they were rippled and distorted as windows do that to one's face. Feelings of love, security, and contentment, washed over her.

The sound of the door to the bedroom startled her from her reverie.

"Morning, blondie."

It was Liz, carrying in a tray with hot cocoa. Jade didn't even have to look as the smell of chocolate wafted swiftly through the air.

"Morning, gorgeous. Spoiling me today, are you?"


hrrrmmm....have to stop now...this has given me an idea for a story.

 

[Guest]

kassiana
i loved that... i could see it. thank you
*hugs*
v~

 

[cantdog]

Kassiana, vella

Evocative.

 

[jozef_the_dragon]

excellent

this was just something that popped into my head one morning while i pondered over the details of a completely diffrent story, i wrote it quickly and posted it in haste, it helped grant me the focus to continue on with what i was doing, i have reviewed the thread now and must say there are some excellent replys here, very inspiring, thank you, everyone who takes the time to read through and respond, i see alot of great talent, wonderful emotional appeal, vivid images that capture, and i was begining to loose faith, to those of you who have posted here, thank you so much, and i am sorry for not responding sooner, the chaos of the daily grind is really taking a toll on me, i will try to be more timly in my responces to this quite impressive thread, again thank you to everyone here

 

[Kassiana]

kassiana
i loved that... i could see it. thank you

::bows:: Always a pleasure, lady!

Kassiana, vella

Evocative.

Glad I could bring something out in you by simply attempting to describe my parakeet's thought processes. Heck, I didn't even throw in sex.

 

[jozef_the_dragon]

a brief excert

Daddy calls me his little Princess. Even though I am not really little anymore, Daddy still says I am his little girl. My Daddy loves me, he tells me so everyday, and brings me special gifts when I am a good girl. Daddy told me that Mommy got angry with me because he loved me more. Mommy left when I was still really little, but I remember them fighting. I was too small to understand they were fighting about me, Daddy says that Mommy wanted to send me away. Daddy explained how Mommy used to hurt me when he was away at work. I don’t remember it; it was a long time ago. Daddy says he is all mine, now that Mommy went away. He taught me to do Mommy’s chores, like how to fix his meals and keep the castle and draw his bath.

Together we live just outside town in a big old castle, Daddy says it’s been in the family for generations, and that is why the outer walls are crumbling in some places. Sometimes when it rains real hard, the roof leaks in my bedroom and it gets my bed covers wet and I get to sleep next to Daddy. But he doesn’t mind as long as I lay perfectly still. Daddy says it’s easy for me to be perfectly still because I am perfect. He is always saying that I am perfect. In our castle, it gets drafty sometimes, as most of the windows have only tape and heavy plastic over them. I don’t have any brothers to do the big chores like that and Daddy just doesn’t have the time all by himself. He is a king after all, and kings have to work really hard to provide for all their subjects. Daddy says it’s because of the evil curse that things are the way they are, that when Mommy left she cast a curse upon our castle and upon me. I feel really bad that it’s all my fault. Daddy tells me not to worry so long as the well holds water.

Because I am the Princess, Daddy gave me a little garden near the corner of the yard. I work in my garden for two hours everyday, but nothing ever grows there. I carry my tools down the creaky steps, careful not to step in the middle of the boards. One time I did and the board broke, I fell and skinned up my leg. Daddy was really upset with me. But then I follow the trail worn through the stickers and stinging weeds down to the wall. Sometimes in the summer, I see snakes down there, curled in the shade almost invisible among the sticks and fallen stones. One summer Daddy got me a whole bunch of flowers. They were so pretty, blues and yellows and pink. I like the pink ones best. But they all died. Daddy says it was the curse and not my fault, but I still cried. Nothing I try to grow grows. I don’t understand this curse Daddy keeps talking about, and when I ask Daddy gets upset.

When Daddy gets upset, he likes to drink from the blue bottles above the stove. I don’t know what it is, but mostly it makes Daddy happy again. But sometimes, sometimes it makes Daddy sad and he will cry. Daddy doesn’t like me to see him cry, so he covers my eyes. The cool velvet feels good against my face but the buckles always pull my hair. Daddy says it’s for my own good not to see him cry. When Daddy covers my eyes, I have to stay next to his chair. I have a pallet there, so I can be close to Daddy when he is sad, but because too I could get hurt stumbling around the house. This one time I almost fell through the floor in the hallway. After that Daddy got me a special leash, it was pink with little jewels on it, and I have to wear it when Daddy is home. He says it’s so he can catch me before I am bad, but it don’t always work.

It was last summer when I met the girls from down the road. They were outside playing in the road and chasing a cute little puppy. I thought they were so pretty. Daddy was at work and I was supposed to be in my garden, but I heard them laughing and playing chase. I snuck over to the edge of the wall where it had fallen mostly. I told them not to play in the road; I told them that Daddy says it’s dangerous. They giggled and ran over to see me. The one girl was wearing a bright green dress and had ribbons in her hair. She asked me lots of questions, and they snuck in through the back gate near the well house. Missy was her name and she really liked my special collar that Daddy gave me, but Chrissie was jealous. She used to tease me and they would laugh, sometimes it hurt my feeling when they would laugh. I didn’t never tease them, nope.

Well, one day in late summer when it was really hot outside, Missy wanted to play in the water by the back porch. I said no because if Daddy found out he would get angry with me, but she ran up the path toward my castle. Missy got her hair wet and the water ran down her and soaked her brightly swirled shirt and even got her shorts wet. I laughed as she wiggled, the colors looked painted on her, and I could see through her shirt. Her small breasts were hard. Missy kissed me for the first time. Her lips were so soft and she pushed her tongue into my mouth. I got scared and wanted to push her away, but I couldn’t, I wanted her kiss, and I wanted to kiss her back. Missy took off her shirt and shorts, tossed them on the porch rail, and then she splashed me and held me next to her, she was kissing my lips and neck.
Chrissie watched us from under the apple tree; she was laughing and telling Missy where to touch me. Daddy caught us there on the porch.

Daddy was really angry with me and with her. Daddy said he was going to make an example for me. I had never seen Daddy so angry, I was so scared that I could not talk as he dragged me into the castle by my collar; he carried Missy by her hair. I never told about Chrissie, how she was just down the path, how it was all her fault. Daddy said Missy need to be punished for being a lout, and told me that I was naughty for letting her in the gate. Daddy slapped me for the first time that day. Daddy dragged Missy and me inside, and threw us down on the floor. My eyes were covered and my hands bound, I sat on the floor and tried to stay quiet. I could hear Daddy yelling, Missy was crying, and I could tell from the noise she was fighting with Daddy. After a while the sounds stopped. I was really afraid. I couldn’t see and it was really quiet, but I dared not move. It was a long time before Daddy spoke to me, I could smell the bitter fumes from the blue bottles on his breath, his hands were wet, but sticky wet, it was weird. Daddy said he was sorry, then lifted me over his lap and spanked me. It hurt, hurt bad, but I didn’t cry out, it makes Daddy really angry when I cry out after being bad. I could feel my body burning with each stinging blow. I couldn’t hold still anymore, it was like molten fire burning out of me, I tried to struggle, but Daddy held me pinned. I tried to cry but Daddy stuffed a towel in my mouth, it tasted like blood. I was really scared, and it hurt like never before, but Daddy did not stop. The more I tried to fight the harder I was punished until I was lost to the pain and to the dark.

When I woke up my hands were free, but the velvet was stuck to my face from all my tears. I couldn’t hear anything so I tried to sit up and pull off my mask. My hair was all twisted in the buckles and it hurt my throbbing head. I remember the first thing I saw was the blood. It was everywhere, Daddy was trying to clean it, but there was so much. At first I thought it was mine, but then I saw. Wrapped in plastic and smeared with fluids, all I could see was her face. Those cold, empty eyes staring like some broken doll, hair matted and torn loose, her face still twisted in her finial defiant moment. Her lips were swollen and blue, like they were painted, her skin so white, like fresh linen. She looked so sad and afraid, I kissed her lips to wake her, but she was cold. I held her head in my lap; there was no screen on the kitchen window so the flies were invading. I saw the knives on the table, the small brown paper packages neatly wrapped and stacked, and something inside of me snapped. I crawled across the kitchen floor, smeared and pooled with blood and fluids, my legs wouldn’t work, my back ached. Daddy never heard me as he scrubbed the baseboards. I pulled the plastic from the edge of the table, the packages rained down on me, beating me with heavy noise and the knives followed. One stuck in my arm, another sliced my ear and several more clattered to the floor. Daddy turned, and we looked in each other’s eyes, he was not sad or angry anymore, but there was something about his eyes. He only stared at me as I pulled the knife from my arm. The blade stuck through my arm into the floor, but I heaved and blood sprayed my face when the knife pulled free. It was warm. Daddy only stared at me. I used the table to stand, blood freely pouring from my wounds. Daddy stared at me, never moving, never blinking. I stumbled as the muscles of my legs and back strained and knotted. Daddy watched. I told him, “Good-bye”. Daddy never moved, never blinked, as I put the blade under his chin. I watched him slump to the floor, that empty stare still on his face. I was angry with him, I wanted to scream at him, but I was fixed on the crimson pool that flowed out of him, making strange patterns across the stained linoleum. I watched, in the deepening darkness the little light behind his eyes slowly fade, and was angry he never cried. I could hear sirens approach, the flashing lights made strangely eerie shadows dance. I am not afraid anymore. The mighty king has fallen.
__________________________***

just a little something disturbing for everyone, this is more of an outline, really, the story is still under construction, with all my focus on another project i have not had the time to give this story the attention it deserves so i outlined, hehehe, this is an outline, i think, anyways i hope everyone enjoys, and and Vella_ms thank you for the comment, i really enjoyed your piece, And to you Lucky~ imressive, this is great everyone, really, keep up the good work, be seeing you again soon, have fun!!