#3500narrative

Marcus wasn't usually the anxious type. While rigid at times, his largely mellow interior was often masked by the precision with which he executed his life. Time did not matter; seconds did. Each minute needed to carefully scripted, each day carefully executed. This routine gave him the freedom to relax a bit, as the well-oiled machine that was his schedule ran largely on its own. Yet Marcus knew. He knew that when the machine failed, when its gears hitched, the voice returned. His inner anxiety was not part of it, it merely resided inside. It was a parasite, feeding off the unexpected. It craved chaos. Only the ticking of the clock, and his meticulously crafted schedule, kept it at bay. When that failed, it reared its ugly head and Marcus was no longer himself.

His hand relaxed, releasing the pen from its grasp. The incomplete sentence was stopped mid-word. His shoulders slumped, his head, and he slept. He had been writing almost non-stop for days it seemed. The words had poured forth, the sentences built themselves, and the pages flew by. It was a blur of creativity, unstopped by time or the necessities of life. He did not remember any it and had no recollection if he slept, ate, or even performed the most basic bodily functions. All he knew was that he wrote. He wrote until he could no longer write. The slumber he escaped into was no ordinary slumber. It was deprivation fed by inspiration. Their mix had fueled him, the motivation to write powered by its energy. As he dreamed, he imagined the words righting themselves, the newly born work self-editing itself. Each word finding its place, each missing comma materializing, each gap in the plot being filled. Unaware of the pages in front of him, he slept on. The notebook was two-thirds filled as a result of his outpouring. It held the hopes and fears of his innermost mind. The pages relayed the story of his fragile interior and laid bare his darkest fears. Yet those pages were fluid. The effort expended had emptied him and changed the story. The best was rewritten and the context now different. Those fears were no longer fears, but strengths. The exposure had tamed them. This newfound strength had permeated the pages and taken the story from a timid beginning to a fierce and formidable conclusion. He was not aware of this yet though. The contents of those pages were foreign to him, despite being written by his own hand. He had been a mere puppet, unable to control or change what poured forth.

What are some of your favorites so far?

Rick's ability to paint, to create on a whim, had made him famous. He deftly, and efficiently, worked, and videos of his process were marveled upon. Classes were even built upon his unique style. As an artist, Rick was enjoying his success. For the last seven years, he had effortless produced some of the most admired modern paintings in the world. No gallery had ever turned him down either. From when he first approached a tiny gallery in LA, he had seemed blessed as an artist. Now, he sat in front of the canvas uninspired. This was not common for Rick and usually his depressed moments drifted by like a leaf in the wind. Yet he had sat for two hours now, feeling nothing but the weight of the empty canvas. He did not know how to react, or what to do. Something felt wrong and the longer he sat, the worse it got. Rick stood and walked to the balcony. Opening the door, he stepped out onto the small wire frame stuck precariously to the side of the building. The city surrounded him, its bustle a comforting contrast to the silence of his studio. He breathed deeply, taking in the crisp air along with a hint of car exhaust. His mind cleared of the empty canvas but latched on to the past. Rick had never thought much of the past, instead enjoying the present and his current success. It often surprised him when he thought of before, back when he had ignored that voice beckoning him to create. Now, as he reminisced, he was reminded that it was the lack of thought that guided him. It was separating his mind from the moment and painting that had rewarded him so. He turned, and walked back inside to the canvas. --- A moment of writer's block inspired this tale. What do you think?

One of my best friends was in town, and the last line of this story is from her. Enjoy! --- Katie looked up at the sky and sighed. The last few days of warm sun had spoiled her a bit, giving her a taste of summer. She looked ahead to the improved weather and the eye candy that came with it. Visual treats passed through the coffee shop she worked at, and in the summer, they shed their layers. Their pale skin exposed, the sun shone brighter, as if reflecting off of them. It was a welcome change from the blustery winter days when multiple layers rendered everyone into a shapeless blob. Katie loved the warm summer days. The sky above did not portend summer. Dark, gray clouds were slowly moving into the area. A cool breeze had pushed aside the warmth of the previous day. It did not bode well for tomorrow and she was disappointed that spring had not yet yielded to summer. It was the time of the year when the seasons fought epic battles, turning the days into mishmashes of cold and heat as well as wet and dry. Katie had acclimated to the weather's moods, yet this season she was unusually anxious for summer. While not a particularly harsh winter, she was eager for more consistency. She yearned for that time of the year when the temperature did not wildly fluctuate and she would not have to depend on a hoodie or an umbrella. The day so far had yielded a bit of rain and some sun. As Katie left the coffee shop, the sun had dipped toward the horizon, turning a bright red and casting an orange hue across the city. Some clouds hung in the sky, and the earlier rain yielded a rainbow in the distance. Amid the setting sun, Katie looked at it and thought, "That's the evilest rainbow I've ever seen." --- Ah, summer. What do you think? Are you ready for summer?

Sure enough, he had a message from Wayne. Pete stared at the screen incredulously, taken aback by what he read. It revealed how they had become close and somehow knew just what to say to each other. It was almost as if Wayne had read his mind. The message simply said, “Variety is the spice of life. See you soon.” —

Beth waited for the machine to finish its whirring and deliver her another cup of coffee. The machine was fickle at times, but a much appreciated addition to her office's kitchen. By providing free coffee to its employees, the company soothed many a worn nerve. Beth definitely enjoyed the perk of free caffeination. Her own expenses were lessened and it also eased her internal justification of the addition. Coffee had become a part of her life that she was not willing to give up. Her body let her know as well, the headaches and irritability a sign that another cup was needed. She happily yielded to the need as well. Usually, it meant three or four cups a day, which to Beth was completely rational. Through the office's new addition, she was able to almost completely eliminate her own financial contributions as well. It did not matter that the coffee was mediocre at best. Free almost always tasted good. The brown liquid trickled out of the machine and into her chipped ceramic mug. The steam rose from the murky sea and greeted her senses with its scent. She sighed contently and retrieved the mug from its resting place. Back at her desk, Beth turned her attention to her work, refocused. She did not notice the momentary band of red swirling in her coffee before disappearing back into its depths. She was part of the trial. Though not aware of it, Beth had been selected after a rigorous background check and observation period. She was the ideal candidate, with a calm disposition and a fairly undiscerned palate. Flavor trials had proven successful, as she took no notice of the additions. So far, Beth had given them hope for future rollouts. They looked forward to more expansive ventures with even bigger ambitions. --- Hmm. What's in the coffee? What about the story itself?

The thick smoke permeated the area causing Dean to cough. Its density blocked out the sun and made it hard to see more than a few feet ahead. Dean cleared his throat as best he could, covered his mouth with his shirt, and pressed forward into the smoke. He had to find her. Dean was not as worried as he could be, but instead was resigned to what he discovered. This was not the time for worry or panic. Instead, it was a time for action and a time to focus. So Dean focused, and felt an unnatural calmness descend upon him as he slowly quickened his pace. They had been leaving the apartment building when they heard the noise. Shortly after, somewhere distant, a plume of smoke launched itself skyward. Dean walked ahead a bit and they were separated by about 20 yards. It was then the second noise rang out, this one far closer. His ears still rang slightly from it. Seconds after that one, the smoke did not launch itself into the sky, but rather rushed forward like a wave, descending them into darkness. Dean was not sure what had actually happened. The noises did not sound like explosions and honestly, he could not recall ever hearing similar sounds. If anything, it was akin to something bursting forth. Maybe. Dean just could not isolate it. Instead, he heard it again, further in the distance. It was like popcorn slowly beginning to pop. Again and again. The smoke thickened, as the frequency of the sounds increased. Dean expected the ground to shake, or to sense something, but only the sound and the deepening darkness from the smoke greeted his alert senses. Plunging forward, he finally heard something else. Something human, though the shape seemed strange. Was it her? —- What is more important? What happened or where she is?