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Reconstruction

(about 1500 words)

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“Eh, where you at mate?” Logan snapped his fingers.  “Didn’t you hear me?”

“Hear you when?” I said.

“Just now? Here you are, off on some distant planet.  Here I am,
spillin’ me bloody guts out about me mum.  All the while your off
rodgerin’ in some dream world with lord only knows what.”

“Sorry mate.  Just kinda spaced out ya’ know?” I wasn’t that sorry.
Whenever Logan was drunk, the first, second, third, and last subject
he ever talked about was his ruddy mother.  He would go on about how
she secretly wished for the Reconstruction to fail, or how she wasn’t
treatin’ his dad fair, an gettin’ round to the other toms on the
block.  She was a right fair git don’t get me wrong, but a bloke can
only be told the same tale so many times.  Besides, if Logan knew what
I knew through me dad, about the Reconstruction, he’d join his ruddy
ole mum and burn flags.

“Eh, you’re hopeless mate ya’ know that?” Logan said brushing the
golden shoulder length hair from his eyes.

I spaced out again.  It’s getting time to head to our  respective
lofts over on third street anyway.  We both live in the same men’s
dorm.  I’m not sure he’s going quietly or if he can even walk.  He
isn’t that much bigger than me, but we are both fairly short stout
blokes.  I’m fortunate to be a little more firm in the sinew than he
is though, so I can muscle him about if it comes to it.

It came to it only once before it did.  Some tom gets spouting off
about how the lass Logan was seeing is getting round.  Naturally this
strikes a chord with my hot tempered friend and he sees fit to break a
beer bottle on the bar.  Grabs the bloke by his arm and starts slicing
at his chest, all barbarian like.  I nearly broke his arm myself
getting him out of there.  Of course I took a slice to the arm while
trying to save him from arrest.  Bloody F5 Agents are crawling the
streets these days just looking for a good reason to send a young
bloke to a labor camp.  He looked alright tonight though.  As long as
we don’t run into any rebel Chavs looking to challenge her royal
Majesty’s new glorious way of living, we should be just fine.  Those
Chavs got it right if you ask me.

“But ya’ aren’t askin’ me, are ya’ mate?” I said to Logan.

“Ashkin’ you wha’? Logan slurred.

“That’s all I needed, let’s go mate.  Your mum’ll be expectin’ a call
that we got to the dorm safe.”

“Aye, Darren, so ish’ be.  Le’sh get on with it.”  Logan stood up and
started for the door.  He’s walking straight tonight.  This is a good
sign.  We should make it back without incident.  He stopped at the
door before opening it, wiggled his arms behind himself and into his
blue jumpsuit.  He zipped up the front, covering the yellow work shirt
and puffing out his chest to expose the embroidered image of her
Majesty on his left breast.  Bound for a warm room and a soft bed, we
set off into the icy night air.

Three blocks is all we had to make it.  Three bloody blocks, but no.
Logan catches a glint of something gold in the only eye he has managed
to keep open.  Turns out the gold glint is the toggle on the vest of
some Chav.  A Chav spray painting a big ol’ red X on the Queens vide
in the middle of some off shoot alleyway.  There she sits, smiling in
all her glory, and some Freedom Fighting Chav comes along to tag her
like a game of political bingo.  This strikes a chord with my hot
tempered friend.  He decides it’s time to teach this Chav a lesson.

“I’ma crush his vide in with my royal lovin’ boot Darren I am.  You’s
watch this.”

The idea of fighting seemed to sober him up right quick.  I’ll stay
out of it because I know just as well as that Chav does, it is illegal
to deface an image of her Majesty, caught by the wrong people and you
will pay the price.  She has worked so hard in the Reconstruction.
Bared so much of the burden, she is our personal Jesus she is.

Logan seemed right sober on the physical like, but in the head – he
is drunk enough to send me to the F5 Court himself for showin’
sympathy to a Chav, or even acknowledging that he might not be as well
pissin’ in her royal soup as to raise that spray can.  Like it
mattered, we were all headed somewhere if the F5 caught wind of the
disturbance.  Either way, I had to say something.

“Go easy on em’, eh? He’s just a young tom not knowin’ what he really
thinks.  Bloody parents are probably activists.”  This struck a chord
with my hot tempered friend on account of his mum.

“Bullocks Darren,” he glared at me and that was that.

Logan started off down the alley.  The gas lamps behind him created a
ten meter shadow monster moving toward this Chav, but the Chav stands
there smiling, vide to vide with Logan.  Like he isn’t scared.  Two
paces out and Logan has stopped.  He is eyeing the Chav deciding the
best way to make him understand how important it is to never shat on
her Majesty’s image.  Four more Chavs emerge from the shadows and
charge at Logan pouncing in the air.  Their boot heels point at his
chest.  He is quick to the reflex and grabs a Chav in mid air like.
The lad’s body is deflected straight into the bricks, he hits his vide
and lights out.  One Chav down, four to go, or maybe three.  The
original grinning bloke still stands in the back.  Hasn’t moved an
inch he hasn’t.  Just what is he playing at?

The other three set to work on Logan getting him on the ground.
Boots are busting him in the ribs, about the vide, and pulling at his
queer inviting hair.

Looks like he might have the upper hand now.  You see, Logan isn’t
feeling any pain, just throwing punches.  Every time he lands one and
hears a Chav yelp he is renewed in spirit.  Looks like he’s holding
his own, I’ll keep watch for the F5.  Fights are good for wearing
blokes out right quick like.

I look out the alley entrance in both directions, and see nothing but
steaming drains.  I hear the growl of Logan but with a high pitched
flavor.  I look back and the original Chav has got himself a broken
steel pipe he has.  He’s getting to work on Logan’s vide and I see my
mates blood start to stain the street – he goes limp.  I start running
toward them.

The main Chav takes the jaggy end of his steel and puts it to Logan’s
throat.  Prepared to shiv him in the neck and send him to Charon.

“Eh, easy mate,” I said, stopping and holding out my hands.

“You don’t want to be doing that.”

“Oh aye, I think I do.  You two toms can lick the royal Queen’s bum
all ya’ want.  Tis a bad day in the Isles when a young bloke can’t
stand up for what he thinks is good an decent.  Not without getting
the Queen’s blind hounds trying to stomp him and his mates,” he said.

“Look mate, I know where ya’ comin’ from, but I tell ya’ this just
isn’t the way.  He’s drunk and just got a temper is all.  Now let’s
just part ways, you drag your mate and I’ll drag mine, before we all
end up in the F5′s mitts,” I pleaded.

This Chav is ready to make this his defining moment in the
resistance.  He was going to make my mate a martyr, and himself a
legend, I could see it in his eyes.  There was nothing I could do.

He raised his arms and the jaggy steel cast a claw like shadow on
Logan’s swollen vide.  Light flooded the alley from both ends.

“Bleeding Christ it’s F5,” the Chav shouted.  He dropped the steel
and the four ran toward the alley exit closest; hoping for an opening
to give the Agents the slip.

An Agent stepped into the light wearing a black jumpsuit.  His chest
puffed out and the Queen’s embroidered vide on his breast displayed
his allegiance.  He gripped the chrome metal baton firmly in his hand,
which according to him, was just an extension of her Majesty’s own
arm.  The Chavs sprinted at him and split off in pairs, as to rush
past on either side.

“Evening lads,” he shouted.

In a right quick automatic reflex, he turned that baton all
horizontal like.  The ends extended and anchored into the brick walls
of the alley.  The Chavs all ran into it, hitting in the vide or the
throat, knocking them to the street.

“Four rebel Chavs walk into her Majesty’s bar,” he laughs.

As they lay gasping or clutching their vide with blood inking through
their fingers, he goes to work on them with the retracted baton.  An
Agent takes my arm from behind.

“Lets go, worker,” he says to me.  I move toward Logan and his grip tightens.

“…but my mate, what about my mate?…Logan,” says I.

I struggle and turn back to look at the Agent.  I see the reflection
of my own vide.  The eyes stare back at me.  In that split second I
remember everything.  Everything that led to this moment.  How they
came to power, how it all happened: the Queen, her Agents, the
Reconstruction, the dorms, the Rebel Chavs, the work camps, and my
father.

Lights out.

Give Blood and Thanks: Chapter 4 and 5 – Download PDF

Chapter 4: Plymouth rock blues.

Beep Beep Beep!

Remy blinked his eyes, ‘What the hell did I drink last night? My head hurts like hell.’

He looked up at the starry night sky in the moments between full consciousness and sleep.  Then he felt the weight on his chest and the memory came rushing back to him.

Beep Beep Beep!

The microwave sat square on his chest, but it felt heavier somehow.  He slid out from under it and laid it to rest on the ground next to him.

‘Hell of a price to pay for a good meal.  You are a heavy son of a bitch.’

Remy got to his knees using the microwave to push, it was warm to the touch.  He squinted  and braced himself as he reached up for the blood inspection on the back of his head.  A huge lump is all, but it still hurt pretty good.  The bum leg was throbbing and pulsing with a mild pain, nothing he couldn’t handle.  He inspected the microwave for damage – still looked like it came out of the box, even his finger prints were gone from the buttons.  He opened the small windowed door on the front.

“Holy shit! Double dose,” he said aloud to himself.

There it was, another turkey dinner.  Emerald peas, fluffy white potatoes, gravy lake, turkey slabs and the delicious cranberry sauce.  He took the plate out and sat cross legged.  His trusty spork in hand he enjoyed a second hot meal of the day.  Someone was really up there watching over him.  He didn’t much believe in that god stuff, but there had to be something out there.  They could have helped him get the damn microwave off his chest, but he wasn’t going to argue with another free meal.  If the meal was still this hot, they must have just put it in moments before he came too.  It was too bad, he would have liked to thank them proper.

Remy sat and stared at the microwave, it stared right back.  It looked different somehow.  The street light outside his little alley made the glass front into a mirror.  Mirrors were something to be avoided in a situation like Remy’s.  The oily grey streaked brown hair would soon need to be cut, he couldn’t have it at the shoulders.  The short wiry beard would also have to go soon, he could never grow a full beard.  Genetics kept him out of the height of fashion in the 70′s.  Remy was having second thoughts about selling the microwave.  If this thing was going to be used as a drop off point for food from his Guardian Angel, then he better keep it around and accessible.  Despite being knocked out most all the day, he was still tired.  He put the microwave next to his Maytag home so that it was sheltered from street view but still accessible.  The laces on his boots gave with ease and he slipped them off and set them on top of his new mechanical friend.  No one would steal anything if it was under your shoes, it was one of the unwritten laws of courtesy amongst the homeless in the city.  As the sandman made his decent, Remy decided he would keep the microwave until he needed the money bad enough.  Or at least until he was hungry enough and it stopped producing.

Chapter 5:  Jumpy alien boy!

Detective Martian’s squeaking breaks broke the stillness of the night air.  The neighborhood Snoogins lived in was dead.  The residents were no doubt locked down thanks to the fantastic media coverage.  It was just like he thought it would be.  The pictures that were beaming to people on the 7 o’clock news contained footage of the coroner rolling the body out and his own brother carrying what was left of Emily’s arm in a clear plastic bag for the whole damn world to see; the blender at least was in a dark container.  Although the news coverage mentioned the blender too.  Some asshole was spilling everything and probably on the take for it.  He would need to bring it with the Chief tomorrow.  He parked his car outside Snoogin’s residence and ducked under the crime scene tape.

He got to the door and used the key he had copied from the evidence room.  He reached inside to flip the light switch on.  Nothing happened.

‘They cut the power on the first day of investigation, what a bunch of fucking morons.’

Arthur felt around in the pocket of his oversized tan trench coat for his flash light and clicked it on.  The beam of light revealed the innards of Emily’s house.  Arthur began to make a quick mental inventory and room assessment like he was taught to do in the academy.

One baby blue lazy boy couch with matching reclining chair, one dark oak table with clawed feet, four matching chairs, crocheted coasters on the end tables, one cat litter box, one scratch post with the name Mittens carved in the side, things are clean, and nothing is noticeably out of place.  He made his way through the living room and dining room bypassing the kitchen for now.  The hallway had plastic lining the floor, this is where things were bagged and tagged by the forensics guys.  The plastic crinkled under Arthur’s size twelve brown Dunham Windsor shoes.

The bathroom door was propped open with a plunger stuck to the white tile acting as a doorstop.  Arthur examined the high window above the bathtub for any scrapping marks or tiny specks of anything that would be out of place on a window ledge that high.  The window was locked tight and didn’t show any sign that it had been opened in the last five years, just judging by the depth of the dust.  He clicked the flashlight off, put it on the counter, kicked open the toilet seat and unzipped to take a piss.  Starring at his moonlit face in a mirror that hung above the toilet, he released his stream of justice into the waters of crime.

Arthur looked at himself in the mirror.  He hated mirrors, he looked too much like the damn old man he had been trying to forget but just couldn’t shake.  Walking in his father’s shadow was bad enough, why was he cursed looking like his twin brother?  They both had the high cheek bones, the thin dark hair that hung down the forehead, the broad chin, the constant neglect of shaving which lead to their identical stubble as soon as he was old enough to grow it.  Arthur was giving his junk a third  firm shake when he heard a window creak open in the bedroom.

Cautiously and quietly, he withdrew his .357 Magnum revolver from the shoulder holster.  He pulled the hammer all the way back effectively giving his hand cannon a hair trigger.  He gripped the wood grain handles with both hands and peaked out into the hallway.

Slipping out of his shoes he carefully placed his steps on parts of the plastic that flushed with the floor.  There was a draft coming from the open bedroom window, the entrance to the room was two feet away.  He waited about ten seconds for any signal of movement, a sound, a shadow.  He raised his gun chest level and leapt into the door way prepared to fire.

The only sound to be heard was his heavy breathing, a combination of adrenaline and cigarettes.  Arthur looked down the sight of his gun into the lifeless room.  The breeze from the open window blew the hair down into his eyes, he shook his head to put it back in place.  The bushes outside rustled with movement, Arthur locked his elbows and reinforced his stance.

“Come up slowly, hands first,” he called out.

A bright white flash came through the window.

Human reaction time is easily tested.  Remember that van back in school,  the one where you would go in, put on head phones, and push the button when you heard sound?  Or maybe the one with the brief case with the red light inside, with the button to push when it went off?  These are ways of measuring the health of your eyesight or  hearing based on the reaction time to visual and auditory stimulus.  The average reaction time for a visual stimulus is about 190 milliseconds for a young adult.  As we grow older reaction times increase, tiredness and distractions also increase reaction time.

Our reaction time no matter what state we are in is always the fastest when there is only one response that can be performed.  Hick’s Law states that choice reaction time increases in proportion to the logarithm of the number of response alternatives.  Essentially, more options means more time, we have to think about it.  Is the light red or green? What does that mean? What action do I take?

Law enforcement can not afford this kind of time for decision making when their lives are at stake.  There is only one reaction to be taken for certain worldly stimulants programmed into the mind of a cop.  A muzzle flash, fire your weapon.  The glint of gun metal elevating, fire your weapon.  The unmistakable auditory direction of a weapon being discharged within ten feet, fire your weapon.

Arthur Martian fired his weapon at a target eight feet away.

A one hundred twenty five grain .357 hollow point bullet will travel at about 1300 feet per second, or 1.3 feet per millisecond.  To travel the eight foot span of Emily Snoogin’s bedroom, the bullet would only take 6.2 milliseconds, the point is, it takes Arthur longer to decide to pull the trigger than it does for the receiving end to feel the effect of his decision.

To say a grenade was tossed in a bucket of open red paint would be putting the scene before Detective Martian in a conservative made for TV horror film.  Emily Snoogin’s trundle day bed sat below the window, her pink floral quilt was spattered in blood.  The porcelain dolls placed with such precision and care all cried hemoglobin tears.  The white painted trim oozed blood, and shards of broken exploded red stained glass clung to what was left of the single pain latching window.  Arthur stood engulfed in a wave of astonishment and surprise.  He couldn’t make out very many pieces of what he shot, they were to small.  He inched toward the bed.

A glint of what looked like cheap rhinestone caught the moonlight beaming through the window.  It was sitting in the lap of one of Emily’s dolls;  a happy faced doll that had a hand up waving at passers by, to bad she looked like she just ate a cherry pie face first.  Arthur picked up the remaining half of the jeweled band.  Spelled out in cheap bedazzled plastic rhinestones was the same name on the scratch post in the living room, “Mittens.”

“Fuck me,” Arthur said.

There was an assignment in my writing class (now over) that involved outlining.  I took advantage of it and outlined my novel.  Just by sitting down and figuring out what happens next worked wonders.  I didn’t have to write chapters only to scrap them later, just a couple sentences about each sequence of events.  You can experiment with your stories very quickly this way, and in large projects that is what I will need to do.  When I become a successful writer and have to work with a deadline, outlines are going to save me much wasted time in throwing out chunks of precious word count.  I take a different approach to short fiction, you need to explore ideas to their fullest before they are tossed.

Just the other day I opened up my word processor and I waited, just staring at the screen.   I imagine my brain like a scrolling marquee of ideas.  After watching the ticker for a bit I just picked one and wrote it.  I was able to expand off of this and got about a 1000 words during a lunch break.  I like the story and I plan on keeping it fairly short (2000 words max I think).  This method of “winging it” has worked but also failed. The Las Vegas story I scrapped last weekend was a wing it session.  I explored some ideas to maturation and they just didn’t work.

So do you outline or do you wing it?  That is your question to answer.  I can only speak for myself.  What works for me is outlining the big ones and winging the short ones.  If you are not even pondering this sort of thing try what I am trying.  If it doesn’t work then try something else.  The simple fact that you trying anything at all sets you apart from all the other people out there who stop at the “want to” portion of their writing career.

*panic! gasps for air! WHIZ! BANG! POP!*

Normally in a given day I have about 10,000 ideas that I can pull from thin air.  If I’m given a prompt to write from I can easily generate all sorts of ideas for the criteria.  However tonight I’m drawing blanks and just can’t seem to get past a couple sentences before I run out of gas.  I think maybe my brain is just fried.  Anyone who knows me or can read the top part of this website knows I have been hitting the words pretty hard lately (everyday for hours), and I just need a break.

I can’t think anymore and I’m struggling to even finish this post.  I’m taking the night off unless by some miracle that one great idea comes to me but I doubt it will.