120: Block Party Prison Fundraiser Timid Efficient Punishment

 Getting started: https://www.dylandrakes.com/writing-prompts and https://www.name-generator.org.uk/ 

• Genre: Crime/Prison
• Location: Block Party 
• Conflict: Having to Punish Someone
• Occupation: Fundraiser
• Positive Trait: Efficient
• Negative Trait: Timid
• First1 (Pro): Nadia
• First2 (Ant): Max

Two minutes on the clock... and go.

The block party had been a success. Well, it was sort of almost still a success. Only Max had apparently convinced half of the businesses to contribute to a non-existent fundraiser. And it had been going so well. It was well-attended, lots of families, lots of kids, lots of people lined up at the booths. The air smelled of popcorn and cotton candy, but also so many food trucks. And maybe even a little bit of exhaust from all their rumbling generators, but that was food trucks for you.

Nadia seethed. This was going to make her look bad. To hear the shopkeepers tell it, the story was simple and Max was so believable. And he was her co-chair for the event, so if a fundraiser was part of the festivities, why not chip in? 

She wanted to march right up to him and... well, she didn't know. She fantasized all kinds of violence, but, she wouldn't. She couldn't. But what could she do? She needed to confront him. He didn't know it yet, but he'd been found out and this was going to land him back in prison.

Grrr! She stamped her feet, now angry at herself for her inability to just confront him. To stick her finger right in his face and tell him what a bad thing he'd done. But instead, she felt weak and wanted to run to her car and hide and hope that the shopkeepers took the justice into their own hands.

And now, an AI:

The sun beat down on the pavement of Block C, where the "Block Party" was less about burgers and more about survival. Nadia, the yard’s most efficient fundraiser, clutched her ledger. She didn’t deal in contraband; she managed the protection pool, ensuring every inmate’s "subscription" was paid to the Shot Caller.

Nadia was valued for her math, but cursed by her timid nature. Her hands shook as she approached Max, a brute who had spent his commissary budget on tattoos instead of his weekly dues.

"Max," she whispered, her voice cracking. "You’re short. The bosses... they noticed."

Max laughed, leaning against the chain-link fence. "What are you going to do, Nadia? File a complaint? You’re a bean-counter, not a hitter."

The yard went silent. Nadia felt the cold gaze of the guards and the even colder stare of the syndicate leaders by the bleachers. She had been given a direct order: No exceptions. To maintain the system she had so carefully organized, she had to punish the deficit.

She didn't use a blade. She simply signaled the kitchen crew. By dinner, Max’s "protected" status was officially revoked. As the heavy hitters moved in to reclaim his bunk and his dignity, Nadia looked away, her heart hammering against her ribs. She had balanced the books with ruthless precision, but the cost was a weight her quiet soul wasn't built to carry.

And the AI's thoughts...

For next time, it suggested I:

• More Show, Less Tell (I'll probably continue to get this for awhile)
• Sharpen Verbs
• Deeper POV and Tigher Conflict for Timidity
• Sensory Contrast (perhaps the sweet cotton candy smell vs the sour feeling of betrayal).

I didn't ask for feedback last time, but I did notice how last time the AI had more sensory (especially smell) than mine, so that was one of the things I tried to improve upon this time.

I also overused "lots" and there was some structure I wish was better. Part of that might just be the nature of the short time-frame and the inability to go back and add or change anything.

120: Insecure Spontaneous Unpleasant Wilderness Coffeehouse Car Valet

Ok, let's give this a shot.  Thank you https://www.dylandrakes.com/writing-prompts

• Genre: Wilderness
• Location: Coffeehouse
• Conflict: Being assigned an unpleasant task
• Occupation: Car Valet
• Positive Trait: Spontaneous
• Negative Trait: Insecure

"Oh, it wasn't that bad," Fred admitted. But then he thought about it. "Well, it sort of was. The owner was nice, but that car was an absolute mess."

Penny stirred her coffee but said nothing. 

"But yeah," Fred continued, "I maintain cars for people. Not like private-jet people, but the first-class flyers, the sailboat owning crowds." He paused and then added "Some nice cars." Was this going well? He couldn't tell.

Penny smiled, but still said nothing.

"What about you? What do you do for work?" he prompted.

Several expressions flitted across her face in rapid succession but he had trouble catching them. 

Finally, she took in a deep breath, smiled and began to talk about her job as a park ranger and Fred realized that maybe going on about cars and his rich employers might have been at odds with her experiences. But, that seemed to have broken the ice and now she was positively radiating as she spoke of her love of nature and being able to get paid to spend her time outdoors. By the time the coffee was done, they'd committed to a second date: hiking. 

And since Gary and Nelly had pushed them together for this surprise date and were sitting by the door of the coffee shop, as they were leaving Fred and Penny were quite pleased to tell Gary and Nelly it was a double-date and they had a hike to look forward to in their future.

And just for fun, here's Gemini's take with the same prompt and characters...

The smell of burnt espresso beans usually felt like home, but today the Roasted Bean felt like a cage. Fred adjusted his damp car valet vest, his hands shaking slightly—a physical manifestation of the insecure voice in his head telling him he wasn’t cut out for this.

"Change of plans," Penny barked, slamming a rusted key ring onto the counter. "The mountain pass is blocked. We’re moving the fleet through the Blackwood wilderness trail. Fred, you’re driving the lead truck."

Fred froze. The Blackwood trail was a jagged ribbon of mud and unpredictable rockslides. Being assigned this unpleasant task felt like a death sentence for someone who usually just parked sedans in level lots.

"I... I don't know the terrain, Penny," Fred stammered.

"Gary and Nelly are already at the trailhead," she countered, eyes narrowing. "Don't overthink it, Fred. Just drive."

As he stepped out of the coffeehouse, the biting wind of the high country hit him. Suddenly, his spontaneous streak—the one that usually only surfaced when ordering off-menu—flared up. He didn't check the GPS or wait for a briefing. He hopped into the lead 4x4, cranked the engine, and roared toward the treeline before his anxiety could catch up. He might be terrified of a parallel park back in the city, but out here, where the road didn't exist, he felt a strange, frantic freedom.

120: Yellow

It had to have been on sale for a really good price, right? As much as he hated his neighbors, were they really the type of asshole who would buy a car that color? Why would anyone buy a car that color? It wasn't quite the color of a banana. It wasn't quite the color of mustard. It wasn't even the color of a yellow caution sign. It just lay there. An uninspired, ugly, boring annoying color. 

The bright color made one think of a toy, but this would be one of those toys that languished on the shelf, a depressing, uninspired color that drained the life from you just to look, improving with each layer of dust until it was shoved to the very back of the shelf and hidden behind a collection of stuffed animals. The stuffed animals hadn't been placed there. They'd just sort of migrated to that spot to hide that ugly toy.

And there it was, parked on the street, always in the corner of his peripheral vision.

How did it even come to be? In an era where car manufacturers only painted in blacks and grays and whites and dealers purchased an even more limited selection, who looked at a soiled diaper and thought "I want a color even less pleasing to the eye?"  Was there a mistake in the factory? Had the mixing machine had a failed software patch or a broken spray nozzle? Was this the winning bet in a "design a truly hideous paint color" contest?  Was the purchase itself even a part another bet?  Did someone win because the car sold at all?

Snapping his fingers he thought maybe he finally had it - perhaps his neighbors were colorblind. Yes, that must be it, he thought to himself. Perhaps they could only see in shades of gray. Perhaps the color was a nice gray, like battleship painted in eggshell with several clearcoats. That helped. Now he felt sorrow and pity for these pool colorblind neighbors and at the same time envy - they must have no idea how disgustingly banal their infectious ooze-colored car was.

Sill, he decided that was no consolation - the car would probably never be hit. Unless its color drove someone to madness, in typical everyday driving, it was more likely that anyone that looked it at would reflexively jerk the wheel away, causing the car to blissfully drive down the street leaving revulsion and collisions in its wake.

120: Stuck

 The pocketwatch seemed to be stuck. I was holding it in my hand, but as soon as I pressed the button on the side, it became stuck. I couldn't move it. I slowly opened my hand and lowered it. The pocketwatch hung in midair where I'd left it. This shouldn't be possible. I stared at it. It was no longer ticking. In fact, it was quiet. Everything was quiet. I couldn't hear the traffic outside or my family downstairs shouting back and forth to one another. I listened, but there was nothing. I reached out to the watch again, prodding it. I wrapped my fingers around it and pulled. Very slowly, with much effort, I was able to bring it towards me. But as soon as I stopped, it was stuck again. I pressed the button on the side a second time and the watch dropped into my hand and I was knocked over by the sudden overwhelming sensation of sound - the cars, the kids, the ice cream truck, a plane overhead, my dad downstairs yelling to my mom. 

It couldn't be, right? I had read a book about a magic pocketwatch when I was a kid, but now here in my my grandfather's house, going through his old things, I had to be imagining things. Pocketwatches that could stop time were a thing of fantasy, right?

I dropped the pocketwatch into my pocket, climbed down the ladder from the attic and headed downstairs to where my mom was inventorying furniture and my dad was looking through my grandfather's file cabinet.  I ran past both, threw open the front door, reached into my pocket, pressed the button. 

and.
everything.
stopped.  

Well, this was going to be fun.

"120" is the umbrella under which I place my creative writing (it's been a long time! Again!) - it refers to one of the practices: writing for 120 seconds on a single topic with no chance to go back and edit - there may be mistakes, typos, embarrassing spelling errors.  Such is the nature.  I might continue writing after the timer ends, but it's about sitting down and writing something. (This one didn't go according to plan, I kept getting interrupted. Oh well, at least I wrote something.) Click here to read more 120s.

120: Tsunami

At first, it was a little water, creeping onto the pavement. And then a little more.  And soon water was sliding over the entire driveway, slowly rising up the wheels of the cars. The water kept coming, moving northward across the lot.  Before long, it was up to the tops of the wheels.  Larger and larger pieces of debris flowed with the water, first curving around the cars, but eventually smashing right into the cars.  The cars began to shudder from the force of the water, yielding and then pushing back. But the water, it just kept coming. One of the smaller cars gave up, allowing itself to be lifted on the wave and pushed down the aisle.  A large truck held its ground, getting beat mercilessly by the water and the debris.  A few more cars succumbed, sluggishly bobbing free of gravity, pushed away by the water.  A large plank slammed into a van, shattering the windows and sealing its fate.  It would not become a boat today, water rushing to fill the insides, it would remain on the ground, eventually rolled end over end, not that anyone would see it.  It was time to move up to the third floor.

"120" is the umbrella under which I place my creative writing (it's been a long time! Again!) - it refers to one of the practices: writing for 120 seconds on a single topic with no chance to go back and edit - there may be mistakes, typos, embarrassing spelling errors.  Such is the nature.  I might continue writing after the timer ends, but it's about sitting down and writing something. This particular effort was because I watched a video today from 2011 where the tsunami in Japan overran and airport. Click here to read more 120s.

120: Misdirect

"There he is again!" shouted one of my guests.

We turned to look as the guy ducked behind the bushes. But it was quite clear that he was looking in on our party from our neighbor's driveway.

I walked out the front door and shouted for someone to call security. I walked up to the man. He looked down at me, I looked up at him. I shouted "Tan pants, light blue windbreaker" as he started for me. As he got within range, he looked as if to say "Come at me." I continued to shout back descriptions to the guests spilling onto the front porch.

"5 foot 2 inches tall!" I shouted.

He looked puzzled, stopped and sputtered "Hey man, I aint no 5'2" - I'm at least six..."

And that was when I yelled "SWEEP THE LEG!" and kicked him hard in the shin. Sure, I didn't actually sweep the leg, but it knocked him off balance, I pushed him over and lept onto him, twisting his arm behind him as a few of my guests arrived to help subdue him.

---

"120" is the umbrella under which I place my creative writing (it's been a long time!) - it refers to one of the practices: writing for 120 seconds on a single topic with no chance to go back and edit. This particular effort was the attempt to retell a recent dream I had where I was pretty awesome. Click here to read more 120s.

120: The Kitten

This was no "throw-the-ball-throw-the-ball-throw-the-ball" of a dog, this was the steely gaze that said "throw. the. ball. I. will. destroy it."

The little playful chirp was a red herring, the muscles were taught, the claws were out, this kitten was ready for the fuzzy blue ball with the pieces of shiny blue pieces of metallic-looking plastic thread sticking out of it.

You knew that when you threw it, there would be no "Why, hello.. what do we have here? Hello, Mr. Ball, I think I'd like to play with you."  No, this was going to be a massacre: throw the ball, pounce, sink teeth.

Someone might say "Awww, look at the little kitten play" but they were people who had not yet had the kitten declare war on their toes.

120 is a the umbrella under which I place my creative writing. It refers to one of the practices - writing for 120 seconds on a single topic with no chance to go back and edit. Click here to read more.

120: Random Quote

starting from http://www.feath.com/idea/quote.htm. Standard rules: 120 seconds of writing, no editing, proofreading, thinking or correcting (except for typos).

"The key is to commit crimes so confusing that police feel too stupid to even write a crime report about them."

-- Randy K. Milholland

It was so brilliant. It just made such perfect sense. And the guy's name was Randy, just like his. In an instant, Randy fell in love with the idea of a confusing crime. Of course, Randy might have plenty of time to plan his crime because Randy wasn't a brilliant man. In retrospect, having six burritos before robbing this house was a really bad idea and now as he sat there, reading the homeowner's Reader's Digest, he just hoped he'd be able to escape the house before police arrived. But for now, he was going to be there awhile.

---

Ok, fine, not my best, but it's been too long since I did a 120.

120: Time

The clock on the wall said 3 o'clock.  Last call for alcohol.  The night air was chilled with a slight breeze along which the smell of last call wafted. It was dark but for a small bit of moonlight filtered down through the fog between the taller buildings a few blocks over.  The streetlight overhead wasn't lit and few cars passed along on the street. There was raucous laughter as a party of three spilled out onto the street, only staying upright because of how tightly they were clinging to one another.  Wobbling down the street I hoped there was a bus or a cab in their future but they turned the corner before too long.  I pulled my coat tighter around me and tried to breathe without sucking in the cold air or the stench of the street - a mixture of dashed hopes, going home alone and desperation of various kinds.  Two police offers walked my way, but I set my face into a hard, stony look and nodded as if I knew I belonged here.  They looked carefully but proceeded on.  In the morning, they wouldn't remember me, I blended in.  If they remembered anyone at all, it would be a bouncer or private security, not that there would be need for the police to even consider this evening or this street.  Before too long, a shaft of light crept from the stoop onto the sidewalk and he stumbled out, a fat balding man in a cheap gray suit.  I stepped away from the lamppost and intercepted him just as he began to fall.  "Woah, buddy, you alright?"  I asked, softening my face into a compassionate smile.  "Thankrssshhh" he drawled, grabbing for my arm.   The non-descript blue or brown van pulled quickly to the curb, the door opened and I used his momentum to push him right in. Just as quickly the door closed and the van pulled quietly but quickly and I walked off trying to remember which side-street my motorcycle was parked on.

120s are my creative writing exercises.  Sometimes they are literally all I can fit into 120 seconds, other times I may spend longer on them.  I don't do these nearly frequently enough.

120: Mad Lib

Rachel provided 3 nouns: world, drinks, food.

"You want food?" the elephant asked the squirrel.

The squirrel nodded and then elephant blasted him with water.  "Have a drink first!" He said, laughing.

The poor, wet squirrel ran off crying.  He returned a few minutes later with a Red Panda and a small Arctic Fox.

"Oooh, I'm so scared," the elephant said, laughing.

The started towards him menancingly.  The elephant, it turned out, was scared.  He was a big bully.

He fell down the hill and into their spaceship and they blasted him off into space.  And he had a nice view of the earth.  Until his oxygen ran out.

120: The Sound

As he got out of his car and walked to the track, he marveled at how spectacular a day it was.  Blue skies, a few wispy clouds.  Warm, but not overly so.  He walked onto the track and immediately broke into a slow jog to warm up.  His shoes made a soft and rhythmic thud.  A slight breeze created a headwind, but it felt oh so good.  The overgrown brush alongside the track and the trees amongst it rustled slightly and the smell of cut grass rose up to meet him.  In the center, two families played at opposite ends of the soccer field, joyful shouts.  As he picked up speed, he passed two ladies walking slowly and talking about their day.  White noise from the nearby road provided a backdrop over which birds chirped and the soft drone of a plane could be heard as it passed overhead.  Not by him, though, his headphones shoved in his ears and loud music cranked up robbed him of one of his senses on this fine day.

120: Night

Interesting how the night could be so dark, so black, so oppressive.  Because, actually, it was not as dark.  If there had been no clouds, it would be darker.  If there were no clouds, you'd be able to look up, see the stars, feel the breeze.

But the cloud cover was extensive.  As far as the eye could see.  It was a dark, dark gray.  The clouds felt so close, like he could reach up and touch them.  There was no breeze, stiffing even.  The cold pressed in, you could feel it, like a physical force pressing in on your skin.

Each breath in was like drinking, the air had a weight to it.

120: Now

The only sound in the house was the sound of the computer's fan.  He padded around slowly in his socks, listening.  Nothing.  The creaking of the floor, the sound of his own feet, and as he passed the window, the white noise of the nearby street.  But otherwise, nothing.  There were three other people in the house, but they weren't making noise.

He continued his survey, walking in a circle and returning to the computer.  He began to type, still listening for noise.  He'd wished the house was a little darker, but he could see several lights on.  It had been a long day, a good day, but now he was grateful for the silence.  There had been meetings, oh, so many, many meetings.  All but one had run long.  And as a result, he'd had but a 30-minute lunch and he spent that working as well.  Good thing he enjoyed his job so much.

He wiped at some dust on the screen and then leaned closer to blow on it, pausing, listening.  Still no sound.  Surprising.  He made the circuit again - dining room, kitchen, hall, living room.  The creaking of the house, the padding of his footsteps, the ticking of a clock and the sound of traffic, the clicking of light switches being turned off.  Still, so silent.  The refrigerator.  Shouldn't that have been making noise?  He opened the door.  The light was on and it felt cold.  Maybe it was quieter than he realized.  Ah... there it was... shortly after closing the door, a motor quietly kicked on.

He leaned against the wall and sighed.  It had been a long day, but a good day.  And now he was content to just stand quietly at the computer and be still.  Or at least try to be still.  After a few seconds of standing there looking at the carpet, he found himself swaying.  Too much caffeine or sugar or ADD in his blood, stillness wasn't really an option.  And so he began pacing, still enjoying the peace and quiet, pulling aside curtains to stare into the darkness -- (no rain) -- before settling on the couch resting with his eyes closed.

120: Plink

Delvin's soft-soled shoes went "puhm puhm puhm" as he walked in front of the large store window.  And then  he heard the sounds.  "Plink, plink, plink"  At that same moment, three small holes appeared in the window.  Instinctively, he dropped to the ground and tried to peer into the store from the bottom of the window, but was blocked by signs for the latest sale.  A few seconds there was a kind of "scritch scritch scritch" that grew louder, closer and closer together until they were on top of each other.  And then "pop" and "whoosh".  He pulled his jacket over his head.  "Tink tink" it began.  He felt the pieces hit his jacket "pat pat" and then the "tink tink" too grew closer to and closer together, building to a deafening crescendo.  And then silence.  And "aaiiiieeeeeeeeee" of a woman screaming and a muttered "ugh" and a "slap" and then "ffft-ffff-ffff" of stuttered breath, but no more screaming.  Another "uh" and "clunk" of a heavy object being placed on a counter.  The "shick shick shick" of cash register keys pushed in rapid succession and the telltale "ding ding" and "zzzzzrt-shink" of the drawer sliding open and coins sliding around.  There was a low "ohhhh ohhh" and then the "frunk".  He couldn't tell if someone had been shot or maybe pistol-whipped, but they'd certainly just been kicked while they were down.  The "hoo hoo hoo" of soft-crying could be heard.  There was a "errr-unk" of the bill-weight being flipped up and the "flisk flisk flisk" of money being hurredly pulled from the register.  Then silence.  And then a "yeeee-aaaargh" of frustration, another "frunk" and another "ooooof."  What was this guy's deal, Delvin wondered?  Why kick him again?  He heard the "shash shash" of a paper bag and then "bom bom" of heavy steps.  Delvin quickly used his elbows to drag himself though the glass ("rask rask") towards the door.  Suddenly a cheerful "ding ding" and then a low "wrrrr" and then "bvvvvvvv" of the door sliding open.  In the distance, Delvin could hear the "wooOOOO woooOOOO" of sirens.  He looked up, saw the shadow and lunged forward.  There was a "klump," an uttered curse and then a juicy, sickening "whump" as the robber fell.  Delvin calmly knelt on the man's back and waited for the police.

120: What do you want from me?

He sighed when the beeping started.  He shouldn't have really been surprised.  He couldn't see how he'd triggered it.  Was it a delayed reaction to him walking through the gate, or was there a motion detector of some kind on the path?

He retraced his steps to the gate.  Opened, walked through, closed.  He pulled out his phone, paused his workout and waited, the stupid beeping continue.  Who would believe he was just out for his lunchtime walk and wanted to say "hello" to the chickens? Or that he had done this just last week with his boss?  Only things were slightly different, now that he thought about it.  There hadn't been a gate.  There had been a couple of chickens, but some of the holding pens were still under construction - fencing incomplete, newly poured concrete foundations.  'What have you stepped in this time, bud?' he asked himself.

There was a breeze on the ridge and he wondered just how long he'd have to wait.  Finally, he could see some dust and eventually he could see a small cluster of people coming towards him - guys with sunglasses on motorcycles and several women, each with an obscene number of mall store bags on Segways rolled across the dusty dried grass to where he stood, waiting.

She motioned for him to have a seat at her desk and she walked past to stare at the large whiteboard.  She sighed and pulled it from the side.  It hinged down, covering the worksurface below.  He'd only caught a glimpse of the beakers and burners and other things he'd not seen before, having never taken a chemistry class.  The outer walls were higher, so the whiteboard formed a lid, hiding it all from view.

She sat down at the desk and turned her attention to him briefly before looking at the stack of papers on her desk and slowly sifting through them.  "Now, to talk about who you are and why you're here," she said, leveling a gaze at him.  "There are three things I want to know... I don't understand why you're here, what you were looking for.  And you're not a runner.  I find that puzzling."  She seemed distracted.  He waited, but there was no more.

He took in a deep breath.  "It sounds like you're asking who I am and why I was there.  But I'm sorry, what was the third thing?"  He figured it was best to just play it straight, but seriously, what was she getting at?  He often was a runner, just today he felt like taking a walk instead.

She dropped the papers and stared at him.  "Let's start with why you're here, since you so artfully tried to dodge that," she said testily.

And there it was, or so he thought.  Had the line been crossed?

"That is a good question," he responded.  "Why am I here? I don't even know where here is.  You're obviously not part of the security detail, you've not threatened me with trespass.  You didn't even check my backpack.  To be honest, I find this all extremely sloppy."

She stared at him in disbelief.

"I don't know what you mean by 'not a runner' - I often run at lunch but today I felt like taking a walk.  And as stupid as this sounds, I thought I would stop and say 'hi' to the chickens as I walked past.  But I'm guessing you must actually be talking about how I didn't run away when the alarm sounded.  Why I waited patiently for you guys to show up."

She said nothing, but color began to rise in her neck.

"So I waited, you guys showed up, obviously back from a lunch break at the mall, march me back down the hill to this building with no name on it, bring me in through the side door on one of the guy's keycards, deposit me in this office.  I can see your whiteboard with your equations, your table with all that chemistry stuff on it.  Frankly, I was expecting to get sweated in some windowless office underground by someone from security.  You're obviously not from security.  You haven't threatened me with the actual police.  This is all a stupid misunderstanding, but I went along because I figured it was the easiest way to get this over and done with.  But now, I'm starting to get curious."

She began to stammer as he rose to his feet.

"No, no, it's cool.  For all you know, I've got a bomb or some kind of recording device in this backpack.  But you didn't bother to check.  I'm going to save you the trouble."  He hefted the back onto the table and began unloading its contents.  An iPad, the latest issue of Fast Company (in print, of course), pens, pencils, a notepad, some post-its, a charger for a Dell laptop (but no laptop), an extension cord, a long ethernet cable, a small wireless router, some gum.  By now, the myriad pockets were all unzipped and he forcefully upended the back, showing how light it now was, shook it over the table and nothing but a few packets of Splenda and some crumbs fell out.

He slowly began placing everything back in the back.  She sat there silently watching him.

"Futhermore," he said, "here's my ID badge.  I work for the small start-up down the street.  We write computer software to help people organize their lives.  All day long I try to keep the bad guys from gaining access to our systems.  Whatever you're doing here," he waved his hand broadly at her office and behind him at the open cubicles a level below them and the natural light from the ceiling made of windows three floors above that central core, "whatever all of this is -- I have no idea.  I have no interest.  I was just out exercising on my lunch break and I went somewhere I shouldn't have.  And now I really, really need to get back to work."

Oddly, she was now smiling.  "Please," she motioned, "have a seat."  She pressed a button on the phone on her desk as he nervously sank back into his seat.  "You're right," she said calmly, "you don't need to know what we do here.  But your observations are correct.  In terms of security, we lack," she paused for effect, "a certain level of discipline.  We have the patrols, the perimeter alarms - we knew about you 10 minutes before you knew we knew - but it's all come together organically, ad hoc, as needed."

And the next thing he knew, those jerks at Park Pharmaceuticals had stolen another one of the employees from the small start-up down the road as he agreed to fill the newly created role of Vice President of Security and Access Controls.

Poetry

I was listening to "New York Minute" and struck by the poetry of the words. Specifically,

But men get lost sometimes
As years unfurl
One day he crossed some line
And he was too much in this world

and

The leaves were falling around me
The groaning city in the gathering dark
On some solitary rock
A desperate lover left his mark,

I love the atmosphere, the attitude conveyed in so few words. I don't know if I could come close.

I'm sitting in the family room right now. The walls have a chocolate brown and the light is underpowered for the room and I've just watched some TV that was uninspiring and disappointing. Now, granted, it's still on and distracting me, but I'm hard-pressed to try to bring you that feeling in very few words.

Dark walls leaning in,
No air left to breathe,
I stumbled for the door,
The exit my reprieve.

Eh. Sorry. I've failed you and wasted your time.

120: Interrupted

It was a hot afternoon and there was no breeze whatsoever. Glenn held the paper loosely in one hand, fanning himself. He knew Stephanie would have liked to have saved it for a scrapbook or something, but it was folded now and keeping him from melting. He was sure she could probably call Beth in a few weeks and get another copy. It wouldn't be the copy they got today, but she should have gotten her own copy instead of just telling saying she'd share his. Or Beth and Derek should have picked a place with air conditioning.

It felt like it must have been 100 degrees and Glenn felt himself drifting. He jerked himself awake to hear "...If any of you can show just cause why they may not lawfully be married, speak now; or else for ever hold your p---."

"Now hold on a minute, son," came a voice from the back of the church.

In an instant, everyone was roused and there was a lot of noise as the entire church turned to look towards the back of the church.

Now that, Glenn, surmised, was a man who was about to pass out. He raised his hand to his brow and wiped the sweat from his eyes with white handkerchief. Multiple rings adorned his pudgy fingers.

Murmurs began to arise and a few people laughed nervously.

Glenn swung around quickly to look at Beth and Derek. They were grinning, hardly able to contain themselves.

"Now, I hate to bring bad news to all you kind folks," Elvis drawled, "but these young'uns can't be married today."

The murmuring came to a halt and a few gasps were heard.

The jumpsuit must be straining at the seams and smell awful, Glenn thought. He wondered if it was a rental or if the fat man owned it.

Derek's father rose to his feet as Elvis strode towards the front of the church but Derek's mom grabbed his arm, practically yanking him back down. He looked troubled but she was smiling and patted his arm.

As Elvis reached the front, the pastor handed him a microphone. Glenn settled back in his seat. He had wondered how Derek and Beth were going to explain this. Elvis quickly explained that Derek and Beth had already been married, a few weeks prior, in Vegas. What was happening today was actually just a renewal of their vows, a way to make the commitment in front of their families that they had already made to each other. After three years of dating, why the Vegas wedding a few weeks earlier? Elvis said something kind and soothing, but Glenn knew. The families had been out of control, frantic. Beth and Derek had had enough and they had hopped a plane to Vegas, gotten married and turned around and flown back. It was the only way they had to maintain any sense of control on what was supposed to be their event. Glenn knew there was something different about them in the last few weeks leading up to it, a sense of calm as the madness swirled around them and wondered what they had up their sleeve.

But this, pure genius.

---

120 originally referred to creative writing that took 2 minutes (on a timer) but now refers to any creative writing I do on my blog.

120: Unfortunate Acts of Others

"You suck!" yelled the driver as he inched by in his blue sedan.

There was nothing Jared could do. The truck had clipped his Sportage and pushed it into the railing where it was now stuck. Of course, the truck hadn't stoppped. So Jared sat on the edge of the railing and waited. He had tried to extricate himself, but the car wouldn't budge.

It was a hot day and the sun beat down. The air was still. He would have given anything for a breeze. Or a working cell phone. A woman who had seen the whole thing called the highway patrol for her, but then she, too, had to move on. The mountain pass was narrow and she couldn't stay either.

He wished he had a watch. He had no clue how long it had been. Or even if there was a tow truck or patrol car somewhere in that long, long line of cars that stretched as far as he could see. Eventually the winding road curved around a hill and he couldn't see any further, but so far, no relief was in sight. And at the speeds these cars were edging around him, it was going to be quite some time.

The truck had been tailgating him for some time, a large pickup with big tires and a menacing grill driven by a menacing jerk. This was not the place for lessons, so Jared had kept to the speed limit and had hoped a clearing would present itself before the guy did something stupid. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case and so near the top of the hill just as it flattened out, the driver of the pickup had seen the oncoming lane was clear, floored it, trying to charge past. Only he'd misjudged, tapped the corner of the SUV, pushing it to the right, towards the guardrail and the cliff. The bumper was pushed under the guardrail and when Jared got out to take a look, the car lifted just enough to catch and become stuck.

The pickup had stopped, but as soon as Jared got out of his car, it raced off. "Chicken" Jared thought. Jared was a big guy, but not a confrontational one. Of course the guy in the pickup didn't know that, they were obviously a coward who made up for it with an oversized truck.

Jared looked again and counted. 14 cars slowly making their way up the hill and squeezing past. Over his shoulder, he looked down. The hillside was flat rock for quite some ways. He had no idea how steep, but he guessed several hundred feet. After the rocks, it quickly spread out, grassy and covered with trees. It was an idyllic spot probably not glimpsed since the last time the guardrails were worked on.

Again, he lamented the lack of a breeze and wondered if he had any bottles of water in his car.

A family in a minivan crept slowly by, four faced turned to stare at him, children in the back with their mouths opened wide in curiousity and the sight.

Yep, it was gonna be a long day.

Resolved: I Will Write More (Consistently)

I was inconsistent in writing this past year.  I did quite a bit of creative writing, but I could have done more, I could have worked harder at writing more regularly.

I looked back over the year and I started off a lot more prolific than I did at the end. I'll need to figure out a way to be consistent. Because I feel like I didn't write a lot, but I went back and looked and yeah, I guess I did. So I guess I need to work more at being consistent. On one hand, I guess I wrote when it occurred to me. On the other hand, why write at all? I think it stretches me, pulls me away from the reality. I also write a lot of solitary or observant stories.

I also think I have an overused conceit - often ending with a twist or a surprise or some kind of hint at something beyond my story. I need to work on that in the future.

Last year:

• Tailgater - a fantasy piece. Surprising, not rooted in an experience at the time I wrote it.
  
  
• Meeting
  
  
• Dear Diary - writing from a female perspective
  
  
• Fractured Facebook 2 - need to do this more. fun.
  
  
• Heist, pt. 3 - my slowly (very slowly) unfolding story. Need to step back and actually plan this out if I want to keep going.
  
  
• Point-Counterpoint - trying to work on believable characters interacting and action
  
  
• Rain - re-imagining a day
  
  
• Character Study
  
  
• Awakening - imagining the horror of something like the Haiti earthquake
  
  
• Disjointed - daydreaming while waiting at a stoplight
  
  
• Wrong Turn
  
  
• De-plane - tried for realism in a scene partially recreated, partially made-up
  
  
• In Plain Sight
  
  
• Overplan
  
  
• Rainstorm
  
  
• Past Half (Heist, pt. 4)
  
  
• Wind
  
  
• Fractured Facebook 3
  
  
• And Again - trying again for action

Any suggestions on something I should attempt in the new year? (If you're reading this in Facebook, please click through the blog and post your suggestions there. That'll make more sense later.)

120: Prep

Chef Gregor looked over the stock in the walk-in freezer. Again, too much chicken and too much cabbage. Why did they keep ordering so much. He sighed, shook his head and began to think how he might get rid of this stuff. Looked like another "asian-inspired" Crispy Honey-Vanilla Chicken salad. This was not what he had in mind when he agreed to help his friend's floundering restaurant. This was not why he had returned to school to become a chef, to make garbage like this because someone had over-ordered a product that no one wanted.

Still, it was a Friday night. Crowds would be decent. If nothing else, the location near the theater would draw pre-show crowds early in the evening, then there'd be a lull, and then the late night crowds would pack in for simpler fare and nice fat checks racking up a lot of alcohol. The theater nights were staff favorites. It could be busy, but tips were generous from the out-of-towners who came in on the train for the rare date. The lack of parking in the area meant there wouldn't be a lot of children running around, spilling drinks. And even if Gregor had to push leftovers as yet another soul-crushing "Chef's Special" that was definitely far beneath him, the customers would be steady.

The locals hadn't yet discovered the place since his friend took over, but they weren't sure if that was a good thing or not. Locals could provide some regularity and predictability in traffic, but they often had a sense of entitlement and pushiness.

Gregor assembled the staff, went down the list of things to suggest to indecisive customers, noted which items were running low, and then unveiled tonight's special. It was met with groans. Gregor extended his hands, palms down in a gesture that was equal parts acceptance and reminder that he still was the head chef. Also always, Tiffany quickly got to work on the welcome board, noting the special and adding flourishes. She thought they made it look fancy, but she was alone in that thought. Still, no one else had any interest in making up the board each night, so for now, she'd do.

The team, scattered, wait staff to light candles and straighten napkins, the kitchen staff to check in on the prep work they'd begun before the meeting. As they were dispersing, the rear door opened.

"Gregor!" Jeff called cheerfully. His face fell as he looked around. "Did I miss it again?"

"You know you did," Gregor replied curtly. You know roll call is at precisely 4:30 pm.

"I'm sorry man, I had trouble getting away. There was this thing at work --" Jeff cut himself off to grab a ringing phone. "Marcos," he answered. He listened and then began looking around the desk. He began snapping his fingers frantically and Eric ran over with the reservation book. "Let me see what I can do," Jeff answered calmly, frantically flipping through the book. Finding the page, he slid his finger down the page. "Absolutely, he said cheerfully. We can do that. Great! See you at 10:30! Thank you."

Jeff placed the phone back on the hook, scribbled something in the book and handed it back to Eric wordlessly. Eric quickly retreated before Jeff had a chance to ask him why he hadn't taken the call in the first place.

"Good news, Gregor. The entire symphony will be dining here tonight after their performance. What do we have on tap as a special?"

Gregor muttered but didn't answer, concentrating on the salad plates he was laying out on the prep table, muttering and counting, and moving slightly, trying to ignore Jeff.

Jeff sighed and left the kitchen, returning before the door had stopped swinging. "Again?" he asked.

"Hey, man, I don't do the ordering. I told you what I needed, but I keep ending up with the same old, same old. This is not what I had in mind when you asked me to come here."

"I know, I know, this isn't what I had in mind, either. It's not quite 5 yet. Maybe there's still something I can do. What do you need?"

"I doubt it, but whatever." Gregor quickly began listing off ingredients. Jeff began looking around again and before he could start snapping impatiently, a member of the wait staff quickly ran up and handed him a pen and a pad, making sure her name tag was clearly visible, then backing away before he could ask why she was in the kitchen and not out making sure none of the table cloths had any folds.

"I'm on it," Jeff said, never sure if Gregor was truly mad at him or if it was just his way of reminding Jeff that even though he was the boss, in the kitchen Gregor was the boss and things only worked if everyone else believed that.

Gregor checked the clock. Three minutes to go. The phone was again ringing and he could see over the video monitor people beginning to queue up outside the front door. One of the kitchen staff began arranging salad on the plates and another began pulling items from the refrigerator.

Gregor turned the heat up on a large pot of water and said "Showtime" to everyone or no one in particular.