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Table of Contents
The Write Stories
The Write Poetry
Critique of the Month
Learn From the Masters
The Write "Stuff"
Genre: Short Story
Type: Fiction
Title: The Wedding Night Mystery
Author: Marianna, mhernan27@yahoo.com
Description: An unexpected night of babysitting turns
into chase for a notorious town burglar.
THE WEDDING
NIGHT
MYSTERY
Tonight was supposed to be my big night! Kelly,
the guys, and I were planning to go out to see this long
awaited concert performed by our favorite high school
band. But, like always, my daily responsibilities had
to cut into my once in a lifetime chance to have major
fun. At around seven, just as I was getting ready to
leave, I received a phone call from Mr. Craufield, the
person for whom I baby-sit. He informed me that his
plans had changed, and that instead of letting me have
a day off, he and his wife were leaving to a wedding
and I had to baby-sit their one- year old son Tommy.
As always my obligations to others come first and I
had to cancel all my previous plans. Even though the
whole babysitting idea seemed like a big drag at
first, in the long run it actually turned out a lot
more exciting than I ever imagined.
As I slowly walked up the rigid staircase to the
massive bedroom on the top floor, holding the child in
my arms, I heard a rush of footsteps rumbling around
the mansion. My heart began to race; I had never felt
it beat so fast before. As I turned around to peek at
the front door, I saw that the hosts had not returned
as I assumed they had, and the door was just the way I
left it. Dismissing what I heard as just a spark of my
imagination, I turned around and continued to walk up
the steps. Just as I got close to the bedroom door and
was beginning to turn the knob, the clamor of
footsteps came to my attention again. At that point,
even Tommy got frightened by the noise and began to
bawl, but in order to find out who was the intruder I
tried to keep the baby quiet. Quickly locking Tommy in
the bedroom, I flew downstairs to the kitchen.
The house was silent, and yet my intuition kept
telling me that there was something wrong-some
stranger was hiding inside the vast halls of the
mansion. Running into the kitchen I grabbed a knife
out of the silverware drawer, which I instantly hid
inside one of my vest pockets. Reaching quietly toward
the stove, trying hard not to make any noise of my
own, I armed myself with the heaviest skillet I could
find. Racing from the kitchen I frantically turned on
every light I could get to, to make it seem as if the
owners had returned. Leaping back upstairs and trying
to unlock the door, I realized that the door was not
opening and so I began to scream,
"Tommy! Tommy! Where are you? Are you all right?" only
to hear a cry loud enough for the house to tremble in
response. This was not my imagination; some intruder
was really hiding in the house. I had to put an end to
this horror so I ran to call the police.
Picking up the receiver to dial 911, I heard no
dial tone and after a lot of effort continuously pressing
on the reset button, I saw that the cord had been cut.
There was no way to get help now without running
outside, which I couldn't do because I didn't want to
leave Tommy alone in the house crying. I had no other
choice but to handle this situation by myself.
Suddenly, all of the lights went out, it was pitch
dark, and I couldn't see anything. Tommy stopped
crying and the only thing that broke the unbearable
silence of the place was the front door shutting
loudly behind me.
"Who are you? Where are you? Get the hell out of here
now!" I cried fiercely.
Right then the rush of footsteps had devoured the
entire mansion and holding the heavy skillet tightly
in my hand I ran back up stairs. Trying to knock down
the bedroom door with the skillet, I was able to see
another door opening across the hall. My
intuition strongly advising me to go in that direction,
I withdrew my skillet and walked quietly towards the
other room.
The room I walked into was dark. Stepping inside I
felt a strange feeling overcome me as if someone else
had entered the room besides me. Taking a step further
I suddenly saw a strange figure trying to escape from
there. Since it was dark, I wasn't able to identify
the figure. All I could see was his persistent motion
from one end of the room to the next. Trying to rush
in the figure's direction I yelled once more.
"Who are you? What are you doing here?" It didn't give
a reply and started to run away. With the highest
degree of rage and adrenaline rushing through my body,
I ran after the figure. It ran so quickly that I had
to chase it around half of the house, until I could
finally catch the culprit. Running behind the skinny
figure, I noticed it carried something in its hand and
when it unexpectedly turned around the only thing that
captured my vision was the French gold vase belonging
to the owners. Suddenly, the robber dropped the vase
on the floor. As the vase fell with a loud crushing
sound it smashed into a million pieces.
As my eardrums almost cracked from the loud noise,
I began to feel pain in my right foot. When I reached
down to feel my heel, it was bleeding. I figured I
must've slashed it on one of the broken pieces. The
robber, seeing this as his perfectly good chance to
escape, pushed me out of his way and ran. I vowed to
myself that I would catch that sneaky little thief no
matter what, even if I have to crawl on my knees to do
it. I jumped up from the floor with whatever strength
I still had left and began to run after him. Reaching
close behind the thief, I took the heavy skillet and
knocked him over the head. The culprit immediately
collapsed to the floor with a bleeding forehead, as I,
deprived of all my remaining strength and losing a lot
of blood myself collapsed across him.
Meanwhile, a neighbor hearing the racket going on
next
door sensed that something was wrong and called the
cops. Minutes later, two police cars and an ambulance
arrived. The crook was handcuffed and taken down to
the police precinct. I was rushed to the hospital for
my injury. Soon after my recovery, I was proclaimed
the town hero for catching the notorious town burglar
who had been robbing people for over five years. The
Craufields were very much astonished by my boldness
(and were extremely grateful to me for risking my life
to save their little boy, whom the cops actually found
sleeping peacefully in his crib).
How he got there? I don't know. The only thing I
remember was leaving the boy in the Craufield's
bedroom, and, well, that's how everything started in the
first place.
I guess that even if a lot of things have been
solved about this night, some things are just always
going to remain a mystery. The thing I do know is that this was
a once in a lifetime adventure and definitely one
night in my life I will never forget
THE WRITE POETRY
theology
StraightRazor99
the man
picks through
garbage,
dreams,
sadness,
and looks up
with dirt,
blood,
and caked saliva
embedded
in wrinkles
dug deep by years of
insane laughter
and the flow of tears.
hands calloused,
desperate,
helpless
he holds them up
to the sun,
looking at the rays
spilling
between stretched fingers
like sand
counting hours
days,
years,
a lifetime ago,
when he was a boy
and his hands
were unable to
hold back the sun.
Helping Hands
A whisper of hope lingers in the hearts of America.
With each passing useless day, despair fills their minds.
Hands of trust reach out to help them with their shattered dreams.
Prayers of determination fill the heavens of the Lord.
One devestating action strung a chain of kindness.
That terrible day changed America forever in a way so unpredicatable,
By uniting all the souls of America together.
-Claria, sweetiepie144@hotmail.com
Catharsis of the Soul
[mhernan27@yahoo.com]
Lying on the hospital bed
Struck with a pounding rhythm in my head
Feeling as if everything just moves around me in slow
motion
But, I don't seem to care; I'm just an outsider in all
this commotion
I feel like I'm in a different place
I feel like I'm in a different world
I doubt that after all that's happened I'll embrace
The cruelty of life I've come to know and scold
The IV flows into my vein
As I drift off to sleep
I know I must be strong to face the pain
But then again, how could I? My wound is just too deep.
Internal hurt and sorrows just draws forth
As it fills up into my chest
The feeling's just too strong to conquer now
The night is here but I can't seem to rest
The dizziness absorbs me
As my subconscious self calls from within
From all the things that have been happening around me
I feel my body is just worn thin
I'm on the verge of fainting
I cannot move, I can't get up
I pray for someone to just come and save me
Help me through and lift my spirit up
My pulse is rushing, racing
My heart just skips a beat
And, as my eyes continue to see double
I feel like I should just concede
I thought I was strong, I can take it
I thought that I could tolerate the pain
But, really I am on the verge of breaking
And just keep wondering if I have turned insane?
Life can be so cruel at times
I just can't fathom why
Why can't it just be simple?
Why can't it just be full of happiness all time?
I guess I'll never understand
I guess I'm just too dumb
Or maybe it's just not time yet to understand
Maybe sometime later it will come
But, until then, while I keep learning how to deal
I'll try my hardest to keep it real
And, maybe in the end it will turn out all right
Maybe I just made it too dramatic out of fright
In any case, I am just glad
I had the strength to pull it through
And, hopefully the courage I hold inside me
Will have the power to keep guiding me through
CRITIQUE OF THE MONTH
"Every word that was spoken between us is still fresh in my mind, as if I will awake to (with) you by my side, and we will create thousands more convorsations (conversations) together. But that will not happen now. I look forward to only my own words, my own voice, and my own unanswered questions bouncing off the dark walls of this room."
(This is quite short, and frankly, I don't think there's too much to say about it. Nevertheless, it's well-written, concise, and I like the imagery of your unanswered questions bouncing off the dark walls.)
[Um...it's nice, I guess. I'm not sure what to do with this. No grammatical errors, spelling's all right, content is short and sweet. Nice complex metaphors to wrestle with. Not a whole lot of plot. Characters are null....I have nothing to say.]
LEARN FROM THE MASTERS
"The American novelist and dramatist Joseph Heller, b. Brooklyn, N.Y., May 1, 1923, began his writing career as the author of short stories but won immediate acclaim with Catch-22 (1961; film, 1970). A protest novel underscored with dark humor, Catch-22 satirizes the horrors of war and the power of modern society, especially bureaucratic institutions, to destroy the human spirit.
Heller's second novel, Something Happened (1974), an expose of the capacity of the business world to crush the individual, is a pessimistic statement about the effects of prosperity on the human condition. We Bombed in New Haven, a play produced on Broadway in 1967, is a tragicomedy similar in theme and mood to Catch-22. Good as Gold (1979) involves a humorous portrayal of Jewish family life and a satire of national politics, including attacks on real people such as Henry Kissinger. God Knows (1984) is a humorous retelling and analysis of the biblical account of King David.Heller's works are characterized by a satirical sense of the absurd, speaking out against the military-industrial complex and those organized institutions which seem to manipulate people's lives in the name of reason or morality. Among his later works are the novels Poetics (1987) and Picture This (1988). No Laughing Matter (1966, with Speed Vogel) is a chronicle of Heller's recovery from Guillain-Barre syndrome."
Bibliography: Merrill, Robert, Joseph Heller (1987); Nagel, James, Critical Essays on Joseph Heller (1984).Text Copyright 1993 Grolier Incorporated
~http://www.levity.com/corduroy/heller.htm
http://human-nature.com/rmyoung/papers/heller.html
http://www.mishalov.com/Heller.html
For authors you may like if you like Heller:
http://www.globalnetworkofdreams.com/books/related/joseph+heller.php
Jibber Jabber Volume Fifteen
By Andrew Burnette [qfmandrew@witty.com]
***Doctor Dilemma***
With the various subjects I have covered I find it hard to believe I forgot one of largest obstacles in life.
I am talking about none other than visiting the doctor.
First, visiting the doctor is odd all in all if you really think about it. Here you are coming into someone's office to tell him or her about how bad you feel. It never is that easy though. First you must traverse through the dreaded waiting room.
As far back as I can remember, when you go to the doctor, you have to wait in this room with a bunch of other people. The problem is, these people are sick, too! I would have no problem if I were the only sick one in the room, but what if I get what they have? It's horrendous!
But eventually, we all make it past phase onethat waiting room. Sure, we slide past that debacle, and get to the smaller waiting room where the doctor has us sit on that weird bench/bed. The nurse always rolls out a fresh sheet of wax paper for you to sit on because sheesh, they don't want you to catch what the last fellow had. Even if you were sitting next to the patient as the person coughed up a hairball for twenty-five minutes.
I digress. You get into the room and hop onto the table, the nurse leaves, and then there's silence. That long eerie silence, except for the occasional scream of a patient getting a shot, there's silence.
Oftentimes there may be a few magazines back there, and the doctor's office always has the very outdated issues, back when People's biggest story was the banishing of Adam and Eve from the garden of Eden.
But there's no time to leave, because the doctor will be here soon. It's time to prepare your story, and the story you deliver has to be a believable story. I mean, you know you're sick, but you have to make this person believe you're sick. You want to get the story right, too-what if you pointed to the wrong sore body part, and got diagnosed with something else?
Sometimes I feel like I'm not using powerful enough words to describe my pain, so I bring along a thesaurus and study before the doctor comes in.
"Yes doctor, I have such an excruciating discomfort in my portside tootsie."
"Your portside tootsie?"
"My left foot"
"Right"
Well, you give your story and the doctor looks you over. There's a lot of prodding and poking, touching and rubbing. Then the doctor looks at that notebook and starts scribbling notes and gives you his prognosis.
"Too much school."
I knew it all along, Doc; I knew it all along
Thanks for reading my Jibber Jabber.
Just a little tip for life:
The phrase "Jibber Jabber" translated into Espaol is "Jibber Jabber."
Please feel free to check out my site for more Jibber Jabber nonsense!
http://www.geocities.com/jibberjabberonline
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