The Gift – from OU TMA02

  By Liz Culver | May 22, 2012 - 16:17 | Dystopia, OU, Writing
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The Gift

‘Must be near Christmas.’ Warren said not meaning to speak the words out loud.

The fire in front of them glowed a hot orange in its center with charred, blackened wood cooling on the outside. He stoked it to get the flames going again then sunk down onto the floor next to Kristen, using the sofa as a backrest.

‘I was thinking the same thing.’ She looked past him out the darkened window.

Warren followed her gaze. Snow hugged the corners of the panes looking every bit like a Christmas card, except there would be no Christmas cards this year. Maybe there would be some celebrations at the government emergency shelters, if you could call it a celebration. For Warren it would be just another day like it always had been.

He doubted anyone was celebrating since the end of the world two months ago. He knew that’s what people would be saying, that it was the end of the world. For most people it was, he supposed, but not for him. Holing up in a cabin and living off the land wasn’t new to him. He could adapt to whatever life threw at him. He’d learned to survive. But most people? He figured they were hurting pretty bad these days.

It had started with a virus. The death toll worldwide sky-rocketed. He remembered seeing a live news report where the correspondent started coughing up blood on air. News reports were replaced by government emergency broadcasts after that. Then there was no media; no more radio, TV or internet. Government emergency broadcast messages had ended weeks ago.

By the time he stumbled across Kristen he was getting ready to retreat into the woods to wait it all out. She had been outside of her aunt’s house panicking about getting back home to upstateNew Yorkfrom where they were inVermont. Her aunt was his neighbor; a nice old lady who cooked him dinners and left them on his front porch in exchange for him mowing her lawn or plowing her drive in winter. Kristen had flagged him down and told him the news of her aunt dying of cancer, not flu, and wanted to know how she could get back home with the roads being blocked by military vehicles.Warrendidn’t want a permanent tag-a-long but there was a part of him that couldn’t leave her to the government shelters. He’d heard those places were getting to be like detention camps full of sick people and once you were in you weren’t coming out.

She had stopped in her tracks when he led her in to the cabin. He could see her thinking maybe she should have risked the government shelter after all. The cabin was winter proof but looked in a pretty sorry state. A worn sofa and cabinet with a door that never closed filled the living area. The small kitchen had a few broken cupboards and camping equipment to cook with.

Warren brought plenty of food to stock away but went out hunting every day just to have some space. One day she dressed up to go out with him but he shook his head and said, ‘No.’ A simple rebuff but she didn’t try again.

Some days he came back and knew she’d been crying. He pretended not to notice. When she grimaced at the canned fruit or fresh rabbit, he ignored it. What could he do for her? She needed to get it figured out on her own: either be stuck with some stranger in a crappy cabin or risk the shelters where they were rounding up everyone who might or might not be sick. They didn’t have much to say to each other but he knew where he’d rather be.

They were safe in the cabin in the woods for now. He knew that wouldn’t last forever but if it could at least get them through the winter then maybe things would have changed for the better out there.

He glanced at Kristen as she turned her head toward him and curled up to keep the heat of the fire wrapped within her. She gave him that weary smile of hers that was full of uncertainty and disbelief at their situation.

Warren reached over to the broken cupboard and took out a bottle of bourbon. He drank straight from the bottle and handed it to her. ‘Merry Christmas to Jim Beam.’

She took a careful sip and coughed. Her brown eyes watered and she waved a hand in front of her throat as the burn hit her.

He smiled and shook his head, ‘You city girls are weak.’ He teased. ‘You shoulda’ done more drinking in college.’

‘How did you used to celebrate Christmas?’ she asked ignoring his jibe.

Warren accepted the bottle from her and took another swig. He looked in to the fire and wondered how to reply. A Christmas memory from when he was about twelve flashed through his mind.

*

He crept down the hall past his father’s bedroom and peeked through the gap in the door. His father lay there in a deep sleep, snoring. Warrencaught a glimpse of the woman next to him. He didn’t know her name but recognized her from the local bar. Her yellow tinted hair was messed up and her face looked grimy with makeup. Warrensnuck downstairs half hoping he would walk in to the living room to find a Christmas tree lit up with presents underneath it. That train set he had seen in the window of Mr. Gregory’s pharmacy had caught his attention during his walks home from school the times his father had forgotten to pick him up, which was most days.

The living room greeted him with black silence. He flicked the light on and stood in the doorway surveying the same objects he saw in there every day of the year. Christmas Day was nothing special. Through the beer bottles and ashtrays full of stale butts,Warrenspied something that wasn’t usually there. A woman’s bag. He glanced back up the stairs. There was no way his father or that woman would be awake for hours yet. From the look of all the booze they’d drunk here, and at the bar, where his father had been last night, they had a lot to sleep off.

His heart beat faster as he picked up the bag and opened it. There were a few envelopes stuffed inside, some with red notices on the front. Warrenfelt around until his hand hit a smooth solid object. He lifted up the wallet and grabbed out a wad of ones. He shoved the purse back in and took the gum stuffed in the corner pocket. As he placed the bag back down he knocked over a bottle sending pale, flat beer all over the already stained carpet. He maneuvered around the mess and went in to the kitchen to get food. He spotted his father’s shotgun standing in the corner of the dining room, a room that never saw any family dinners and was only ever used to store stuff.Warren grabbed a box of Lucky Charms cereal and the gun and slipped out of the house.

 

He spent most of the day in his favorite place, a deer hide in the woods outside of town. He passed the time pretending to shoot whatever wildlife passed by, mainly birds  – bright red cardinals, blue jays with their blue feathers and black breast. When he became bored of that he ate cereal from the box and threw some out onto the white ground for the birds to peck. He wondered why their colors were so obvious against the winter snow. Shouldn’t they be dull colored to hide better? He knew he would be.Warren stepped out of the hide to head home when a deer tiptoed into view sniffing at the snow searching for food. He shifted and the deer snapped its head up to stare atWarren with its huge eyes. They both stayed frozen for a few seconds until the deer got a spooked look in its eyes and darted away.

‘Run.’ He thought as it disappeared into the trees, ‘Run away from this place and be glad you did.’

Warren hoped all the way home that no one would be there. As soon as he opened the front door his father hauled himself out of the creaking old green recliner and loomed at him.

‘Boy, you’s in a heap o’ trouble.’ his father grabbed his arm and twisted it. ‘You best have that cash you stole from Wendy.’

His father wrenched away the shotgun. The flat of his palm connected with the corner of Warren’s head with a hard thud sending him to the ground. The denseness of his father’s work boot connected with Warren’s spine shooting agony around his body.

Wendy bent over from the couch to get in his face. ‘You little shit, that was all my tip money for the week.’ She spit in his face causing him to recoil back into another kick from his father.

His father searched his pockets for the money and grabbed out the wad that couldn’t be spent today of all days. ‘Piece o’ shit.’ His father sent home another kick before he and Wendy left the house to whatever boozy hole would accept them.

Warren eventually dragged himself up to his room to avoid another kicking from his father when he stumbled home. The last thought in his head before he drifted off to sleep was of the deer he had seen in the silence of the woods.

*

‘Much the same as you, I expect.’ He shrugged at Kristen. He wasn’t about to unload any of that on to a near stranger. He didn’t want her to know his secrets.

‘Huge family get-togethers, endless carol singing and playing board games if your family was anything like mine.’ Kristen said staring in to the fire.

He watched her eyes water, her mind back with her family just as his had been.

‘And so much food you could burst.’

‘Something like that.’Warrenreplied and took a long pull on the bottle of bourbon.

‘Well, I won’t make you sing any carols.’ She sat up and turned to the side of the sofa and dragged a bag between them. ‘And I can’t promise you dinner will be anything great, although we do have that can of Spam. But I got this for you.’

He looked at the bag, ‘How?’

‘When I went out searching the other cabins I found them and thought of you.’ She grinned, her eyes shining with pleasure.

Warren rubbed the stubble on his face and stared at the bag unsure of what to do. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had given him anything. No one had ever sat in front of him and handed him a present just because they had thought of him.

‘Go ahead, open it. It must be nearly Christmas.’ Kristen said, her voice light with excitement.

Warren set the bottle of bourbon down and opened the bag. A hot flush crept up his neck and face making him uncomfortable. He pulled out a pair of work boots and stared at them unable to look Kristen in the eye.

She seemed to mistake his silence for disapproval. ‘I know they’re not new. They were in good shape so I cleaned them up. They were your size so I figured you…’

‘No.’ he said softly, ‘No, they’re just right.’ He kept his eyes on them. ‘I didn’t think to get you anything.’

‘You’ve given me enough. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’ Her eyes were large and serious. She leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. Her brown hair fell forward and brushed against his face.

Warren was grateful for her deliberate movement.  He saw the kiss coming, braced himself for the contact and accepted it without flinching.

‘My family is so used to a big get-together for Christmas. I bet they’re all safe at some government shelter making sure everyone is feeling festive. They pestered some poor worker into finding them a piano and they’ll be badgering everyone to join in singing carols.’

Warren watched the change in her expression from smiling when thinking about her family like these were normal times to clouding over when realizing where they were now.

‘This is probably the most peaceful Christmas I’ve ever had. I shouldn’t say that, should I?’ She stopped talking.

‘No, it’s good. It’s kind of nice.’ He shrugged and risked a half glance at her. He couldn’t tell her it was the best Christmas he’d had and the safest he’d ever felt with another person.

Warren watched as she blinked back tears. Silence stretched over the cabin as the unknowable outside their fabricated world took hold. He knew she would need time to accept that her world had ended and another reality had begun.

Kristen reached for the bottle of bourbon and took a swig, swallowing against the harshness of it again.

She handed him the bottle.

He let his fingers touch hers for a fraction too long hoping it would be some comfort. ‘Merry Christmas, Kristen.’

Lasting the Course

  By Liz Culver | April 19, 2012 - 16:57 | OU, Writing
1 Comment

My writing focus is completely on the OU coursework for the next six weeks until the 31 May when the final assignment is due.

The past few months have been pretty much focused on coursework – fighting my way through the poetry module, then life writing (which is more difficult than it appeared) now on to the final two assignments.

I am wondering if the close deadlines between TMA04, TMA05 and the final EMA are a way to get us used to close deadlines and being able to churn out decent work in shorter time spans.

 

Who is Behind Me?

  By Liz Culver | February 1, 2012 - 17:21 | Poetry, Writing
1 Comment

Who is behind me
Who follows my lead
We’ll conquer together
An end to their greed

The prompt ‘Who is behind me’ is an orphan prompt from the Indie Ink Challenge.

I would have liked to have expanded this more – and maybe will separately – but there’s too much poetry to be written for my course at the moment so I left it short with, I hope, a decent rhythm (don’t ask me what the meter is – I think it has two feet (but maybe it is 3 if there are 5 syllables) except for line three which is 6 syllables and 3 feet) and some rhyme.

The Toddler and the Kitten

  By Liz Culver | January 24, 2012 - 17:20 | Indie Ink, Poetry
8 Comments

The toddler and the kitten
came face to face one day
Hello said she
Meow said he
And each sat down to play

Where shall we go
To catch a mouse
What shall we do
Play in my doll house

It’s time for our tea
I’ll have fish
It’s time for a bath
A splash
And a splish

What now said he
for we seem to be
incompatibly
bound

I know said she
I see two beds
for you and me
to lay our heads

*

I decided to answer with poetry as this is what we’re learning in our creative writing course at the moment. The prompt seemed to lend itself to being a poem, so thank you, Chaos Mandy! I know it’s a bit clunky in places – I’m on a big learning curve!

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Chaos Mandy challenged me with “The toddler and the kitten” and I challenged lisa with “Try your best”

Dogs of War

  By Liz Culver | December 7, 2011 - 16:48 | Indie Ink, Writing
8 Comments

It was October 2001 and it was dark. I don’t know why I was outside. I was in the backyard. Maybe I had seen the lights from inside and that drew me out because it was the lights I was looking at. I had never seen anything like it and I probably won’t again. Up in the sky, light after light after light followed each other like a procession. There were too many to count. It was soundless but there they were flying overhead, marching in the air south eastward. Their blinking beacon lights were beautiful to behold but a dis-ease had settled in my stomach, the same feeling that had settled in many of us. It was awe. That’s all we got was the awe, not the shock. Not from this anyway. We had our own shock. A game changer. Now the dogs of war were on the move and nothing would ever be the same again.

*

I found this prompt really difficult because I was thinking about people as opposed to a thing. I don’t relate ‘fear’ with ‘respect’ when it comes to people. I think respect is borne out of admiration for who or what someone is or does and fear doesn’t come in to that for me. Anyone I fear I don’t feel respect for. I can relate fear and respect to something like – military or a dog or a horse or fire. Interesting prompt – has really made me think about how those two words can relate to each other.

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Niqui challenged me with “The relationship between respect and fear” and I challenged GUS with “the waning sun”.

Ridin’ the Bull

  By Liz Culver | November 30, 2011 - 15:59 | Indie Ink, Writing
3 Comments

‘Margarita, anyone?’ Clare laughed and pushed the tray containing a frosty pitcher of light green heaven and three martini glasses onto the table.

The empty glasses on the table clinked against each other as they were pushed together to make room for the next round.

Sam pounded on the table and gave a hoot, ‘Let’s go, girls, down the hatch.’

Jenny leaned in to the others, ‘This place is crazy. Look at those cowboys at the bar.’

Sam raised a glass toward a a couple of guys at the bar who were glancing over at them. ‘Well, ladies, looks like we got somethin’ to ride tonight!’

Clare clinked her glass with Sam’s, ‘The one on the end is Billy and he promised me he’d teach me how to line dance.’

‘Well, look at you, Mrs-Blain-Summers-to-be, a secret cowboy just one week before your wedding? What will the Hudson Valley Summers family say?’

‘What goes in Mud Creek, Texas stays in Mud Creek, Texas.’ The margarita slid down like an iced tangy treat in her throat. Clare reached for the pitcher and poured another round, raising her glass to Billy when he looked over again.

She woke up with a start and looked around. Nothing looked right. This wasn’t her bed. Her room. She turned her head to the sleeping person next to her. This wasn’t Blain. ‘Oh shit.’ She sat up and held her head.

How had this happened? She tried to remember anything after the fifth margarita. There had been line dancing. Christ, she didn’t know how to line dance. What had she been thinking?

The guy next to her stirred and half turned to her, ‘Hey, there.’

Clare put a hand to her forehead, ‘Oh my god.’

‘You college girls are crazy ass wild. How many no-hand shots did you do? Whoo-ee! That was fun to watch.’ He slid out of bed and padded in to the bathroom naked.

‘What’s a no-hand shot?’ she wondered and had a vague recollection of drinking shots with just her mouth, hands behind her back. ‘Oh, jesus, what have I done?’ she lay back down and pulled the sheet up to her neck.

Billy reappeared from the bathroom and put his hands on his hips, ‘Ready to ride the bull again now you got all that booze outta your system?’ He grinned at her.

Clare stared at the ceiling. ‘I’m getting married in a week.’

‘Well, consider this my gift to you.’ Billy crawled on to the bed all muscle and farmer’s tan.

She got out of bed and grabbed her clothes to her, ‘I can’t. This is wrong. What was I thinking?’

‘You were thinkin’ you were lovin’ it last night when you were drinkin’ those last shots from between my thighs. One of your friends called it PKM so I know you know what you were thinkin’. So relax and just enjoy it now while you know what you’re doin’.’ He grinned at her again.

‘You took advantage of me like that!’

He pulled a pillow in front of him to cover himself up. ‘Whoa, just hold on a minute. I offered to take you ladies back to wherever you were stayin’ but your friends went off with two of my friends and you were fixin’ to ‘ride the bull’, as you kept sayin’, so don’t put this on me.’

Clare bolted in to the bathroom and threw up, her head in the toilet. Never again, she thought. I will never ever drink again.

*

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Tara challenged me with ““Always do sober what you said you’d do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut.” Ernest a Hemingway” and I challenged Michael with “A quiet moment”.

That Much I Know

  By Liz Culver | October 30, 2011 - 17:51 | Indie Ink, Writing
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It was the morning after. She had locked herself in the hotel bathroom belonging to a man she didn’t know. Her heart thudded too fast in her chest; no relief from the adrenalin surging through her.

She gripped the white porcelain sink and looked up into the brightly lit mirror. The face looking back was unrecognizable. She turned away. The black eye would be a reminder of last night for weeks to come. Blood diffused in her eye ringed with swelling and discoloration ranging from green to red to purple to black. An impression from his ring was at the epicenter.

She turned on the faucet; splashing her face to scrub away the blood, hers and his. Water stung the cut in her mouth and a faint taste of coppery blood remained.

Another glance in the mirror. Who the hell are you? The shower behind her caught her eye. She turned and flipped it on. How much can you wash away? Not enough. What the hell happened? When? She wondered, when exactly are you referring to? What time frame?

Are you safe now? She looked at the locked door of the bathroom. He was asleep on the other side. He wasn’t going to hurt her. He had stopped Simon and… And what? What had he done?

She stepped in the shower and cradled her face in her hands. The light spray cascaded around her. Don’t think about it.

When did you lose yourself?

A long time ago now. I can’t even remember when it happened or how it happened.

You had a scholarship to the University of Virginia. You were studying computer sciences and…

And, so what? Shit happens.

Shit like Simon. Simon who rearranged your face on countless occasions. Do you remember the first time?

Of course. No one forgets their first time. I had made dinner in his apartment. A surprise. He came home from work in a bad mood. He wasn’t happy I’d let myself in. He wasn’t happy I’d cooked. He wasn’t hungry. He flipped a plateful of food against the wall, turned all in one motion, and backhanded me. I was stunned and I think part of him was too. He was so apologetic afterwards; took me out for dinner, bought a bottle of wine, put a flower in my hair. I remember the tears of remorse in his eyes.

So, last night?

I don’t want to think about it. She put her hands on the shower tiles to steady herself.

Last night when Simon was hurting you, again, after he’d done all this to you…

She turned her head to the bathroom door contemplating the person on the other side.

Why are you still here? Why don’t you run?

I don’t know how anymore.

So you’re just going to stay here and do whatever this guy tells you? I don’t know you anymore. What happened to the girl who had a smile on her face? Couldn’t wait to get out there in the world and make your mark?

He saved my life and said everything would be okay but we had to go because of the cops.

Because of the cops?

He hit Simon with a fireplace poker. Hard. The sound repeated in her head bringing bile in to her throat. She gagged and watched it wash down the drain.

And then you ran with this stranger who just brained your boyfriend? Ran away with another man of violence?

He saved my life. He said he was working for someone who had a business offer for me. They knew I was a hacker, a good one. But this problem of Simon needed to be dealt with. Tears mixed with the shower water and disappeared down the drain.

Ah, that sounds plausible. And where is the murder weapon?

She put a hand to her throat. The choke marks on her neck hurt when she cried. Murder weap..?

Yeah, that poker that split Simon’s skull open killed him.

The guy handed it to me. I dropped it on the fireplace. Her stomach rolled again.

He was wearing gloves so only your prints are on the murder weapon.

I’ve been set up. She quickly shut the water off and stepped out of the shower. She hurried in to her clothes and opened the door a crack then further to slip out silently.

That’s it. Let’s get out of here. You need to run and keep running then maybe you’ll find yourself. That girl you were before Simon.

The man on the bed stirred and she dropped in to the chair, defeated.

What are you doing? Get to the door before he wakes up. Go, run. This will end up being a redux if you stay.

I can’t. Not today. Not yet. She looked up and caught her reflection in the mirror on the dressing table. Not like this. That much I know.

*

Thanks for reading. This is part of a WIP I’m working on at the moment.

For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Random Girl challenged me with “I’m the shell of the girl I used to know well” and I challenged Head Ant with “You’re not alone”.

Beware Extinction

  By Liz Culver | October 26, 2011 - 13:44 | Indie Ink, Writing
2 Comments

The knock against the window is loud enough to wake her. She sits up in bed looking at the window. The sound comes again. She throws back the covers and stumbles out of bed toward the window. She swallows visibly and her expression is tight with fear. Her hand touches the curtains and she pauses. You can tell she is debating whether or not to open the curtain. She does and recoils in fear, stumbling backwards, landing on the wooden floor and backing away, crablike, from the heart stopping terror at the window.

‘Cut.’ The lights come up.

‘What now?’ Christina asks irritated as she stands up. A stage hand rushes forward and hands her a robe to put on to ward off the cold of the cavernous set.

‘The T-rex didn’t move. The electronics must have frozen up. We’ll need about ten minutes to reboot it. Everyone take five.’ Simon, the director, addresses everyone.

‘Or ten or twenty.’ Christina complains as she walks off set to her chair and grabs her phone.

Someone hands her a coffee while she presses a button on her phone and listens to it ring.

‘Yes, Christina, what can I do for you now?’ her agent, Bess, says wearily. This being the fifth call from the little starlet today.

‘Get me off this frigging show is what you can do for me now. Did you read in the latest Hollywood Insider that the TV blogs are saying this show has jumped the dinosaur, not the shark? Ha.Ha. And the rumor at the network is that it won’t last until Christmas.’

‘I know. I know. Let’s just see what happens. They brought in some new writers to boost the ratings. There is a whole sweeps week coming up where they’re airing a double episode. I also heard they were trying to woo Charlie Sheen on to do a three episode arc. Let me tell you, honey, if there is anybody the audience wants to see eaten by a dinosaur he’s got to be right up there.’

Christina can hear Bess blowing cigarette smoke out of her nose (and up my ass, thinks Christina) on the other end of the line. ‘I want to know as soon as this thing is Playboy Clubbing because I want out beforehand.’ She refers to another TV show that lasted all of two episodes, if that.

‘You’ll be the first person I call, Sweetheart.’

Christina hangs up and strides over to Simon at the director’s desk. ‘How much longer? I’m supposed to be wrapping up early today to start doing interviews to drum up some viewership.’

Simon doesn’t look at her, his irritation emanates from his pores. ‘I’ve asked for a script change so it’s going to be a little while. We’ll call you in your trailer.’

‘Ugh.’ She says with venom and irritation and storms off set.

The knock against the window is loud enough to wake her. She sits up in bed looking at the window. The sound comes again. She throws back the covers and stumbles out of bed toward the window. She swallows visibly and her expression is tight with fear. Her hand touches the curtains but before she can part them the window breaks and a five foot head careens inside letting out a deathly roar as it knocks her to the ground.

‘Cut.’ Simon calls out again. ‘You just finished your last scene, Christina. We’ll CGI the dinosaur eating you in the editing suite. You’re free to go.’

*

For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Cheney challenged me with “You wake up in the middle of the night and there’s a T-Rex standing outside, peering into your bedroom window with its huge, unblinking eye. What do you do?” and I challenged Carrie with “I no longer trust you with my heart”.

Ghosts

  By Liz Culver | October 5, 2011 - 19:21 | Indie Ink, Writing
7 Comments

They are everywhere. When I close my eyes I see them. When I open my eyes they are there. I can see them out of the corner of my eye, shifting, floating. The scenes replay over and over again and they are always there. It is burned into my memory, the major events on those days that won’t leave me alone, that won’t leave themselves in the past.

Noises and smells can make it worse, trigger the ghosts from their hiding places and send me right back there with them when they were alive up until their final moment.

Whenever they appear, I sweat. At first it hits me like a blast of hot air. My recall of how the heat feels, that heat that fills every molecule of air. It is inescapable. Then the cold fear hits me. It is clammy and uncomfortable and I am helpless to move.

When I am back there I see and feel everything.

The kids, that’s what gets me the most. I see them running around, playing, being kids, unwanted dogs running after them hoping for some food, some attention. Kids flying kites, running and laughing then in the next instant they are red mist. Gone, like they never existed. Same with my buddies. One minute we’re talking, laughing, playing music to get us pumped then we hear the whistle followed by the blast that turns everything silent, sucked in to a momentary void,  before we’re dropped back in to the action. Muted chaos is all around us. Where is everybody? The dust is thick and there are glimpses of bodies strewn around me, not moving. They have changed from lively, tanned people to gray, still mannequins.

At this time of year, I ignore the knocks on the door. I don’t need to see the grim or gruesome, the axe through the head and the blood running down faces, the zombies with their flesh rotting away leaving exposed bone and dead eyes looking back at me; I’ve seen it first-hand already.

*

For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Chaos Mandy challenged me with “Grim Grinning Ghosts” and I challengedStefan with “Nanotechnology”.