Bad Boy

I've been a bad boy and haven't posted anything for awhile. Work has been a royal pain in the ass, although I can't really put too much blame on "work" as this blog is supposed to be my mental escape from just that.


I really need to finish "Werebitch," and I have every intention to. But of course, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I even know how I want to end it and have even written a few critical lines, yet for some reason I haven't been able to force myself to write the probably two-thousand words to complete the journey.


I haven't made any headway in regards to my Kindle book either, even though I've created the video for my Kickstarter.com funding project and have even paid to have an ebook cover created (which is pretty cool, by the way).

So, maybe this post with be the catheter to expell the fluid from my mind's eye. In other words, maybe I'll get out of my funkadelic funk and get on with my funky self!

Work Day

Hi.

I'm still working on the coclusion to "Life's a Bitch. A werebitch," so I thought I'd post a story inspired by my last two jobs. I wrote this story awhile ago and re-read it before posting. It needs some serious editing, but I decided to post it anyway.

“Jim, we,  er… I really need the stats on the Sanders account. All I’m asking is that you email them to me…”

“Yeah, yeah. Every morning. Do you think I have time to add another task to my day? Come on, Tommy. I’ve got my own thing to take care of here.”

“I really don’t think it’s asking too much and my supervisor said…”

“I’ll definitely bring this up to J.B., if that’s what you mean.”

 “Then I can expect your email.”

Tom’s last statement was followed by silence and a cold stare from Jim; who crossed his arms and waited for Tom’s retreat from his office back to Tom’s cubicle.

     Tom did retreat to his cubicle, trying to keep his composure as he felt the heat rise into his face. But he didn’t really have time to become angry. He was buried in work. It hadn’t always been this way. When he had started the position almost a year to the day, he had had a perfectly manageable work load. And although he hadn’t realized it at the time that his job didn’t offer paid vacation or sick days (which was very odd for a position with his title and responsibility), he had decided to stay on. He had been offered to be fast tracked for a promotion, hadn’t he? Well, he didn’t even have the time to contemplate.

Tom didn’t like the idea of having to approach J.B. about the email situation between himself and Jim. Although J.B. had been very accommodating to him from the start (even offering Tom to join him for a friendly game of golf every now and again) J.B. always seemed agitated when approached with a “problem.” Tom liked to think of them as “challenges” that needed to be addressed to further improve the organization, although  J.B. would ultimately say something along the lines of “Is this a problem Tom?” or “What do you feel we should do about this problem?”

     He worked through the pile of documents in his “in” box until the mountain almost seemed manageable, responded to the myriad of voice mails both on his cell and desk phone until it was nearly noon, then decided to take a few precious moments to address his Jim issue with J.B..

     Tom stepped into the reception area of J.B.’s office and asked Gwen if he were in and if it were possible to speak with him.

“I really don’t think he’d care to be disturbed right now, Tom, is it?”

“It will only take a moment. I have an issue in regards to a long standing client and…”

“…It is nearly the lunch hour, Tom…”

“I really think it shouldn’t wait, and I really need to get back to my…”

J.B. stepped from his office and the two broke off their sword play. He looked harried, although in his tie, dress shirt and Armani slacks, appeared every bit the thirty-something - GQ model. He locked eyes with Tom and with a sigh, said,

“What’s wrong now, Tom? I mean, is there a problem?”

“Not really a problem, sir…”

“Now Tom, none of this “Sir” thing; I work for a living,” spoken in weak humor, then serious as a tumor “Let’s discuss this in my office.”

“I’d ask you to sit, but as you could see, I was heading out for a quick lunch.”

Sure; a quick lunch. From noon to two or three, Tom thought, while I scarf down a sandwich and soda at my desk.

“Now.  What’s this about?”

“Well, it’s about the Sander’s account. I had asked Jim to email me the stats, and…”

“And he’s too busy to get to that, right? I totally agree. Tell you what, I’ll give you the code and you can access them from your computer. He usually has them correlated but you can pick that up, right? Only take you fifteen minutes or so. Well, that’s settled. Hey, you and I should have lunch someday. I’ll try and remember to have Gwen set that up.”

With that, J.B. left his office, leaving Tom standing shell shocked. Tom hurried back to his desk, with no appetite for peanut butter and diet Coke.

     As Tom sipped water and scrolled through his many unanswered emails, Jim popped his head into Tom’s cubicle.

“Hey, thanks for taking care of that Sanders thing. What do you call a black guy on a bicycle? “THEIF,” funny, huh? Oh, got rezzies at Kennedy’s Grill, better be going…”

     The days turned to months as Tom struggled to keep his head above water. Why did it seem he was the only one stressing about deadlines around here? He was working nearly sixty hours a week, sometimes more when deadlines loomed, almost fifteen hours more a week than he’d contracted for. He’d bring it up to J.B., but J.B. had practically stopped talking to him, almost going out of his way to avoid Tom, unless it had to do with business. His first and only performance review had been lackluster at best, getting him a three percent raise, which was the base increase. He had been criticized for “not utilizing time efficiently.” Tom had tried to take the criticism seriously and nearly pushed himself to exhaustion before coming to the realization that he couldn’t possibly be more efficient. He’d been handed one account after the other and was near the breaking point. He did nothing but think about work. He even dreamed about it. Jim showed him his new BMW. Tom left for home three hours later after shutting down the computer systems, drawing the shades and setting the security system; in his 2002 Toyota.

     Two years of working, slaving in a cramped cubicle with a slow, outdated computer and printer; sitting in a faux leather armless second hand office chair that made him sweat through his J.C. Penney shirts (forget that he was promised “everything new” almost two years ago), Tom would leave in a heartbeat if he felt he could. He’d been looking. There was nothing out there.

     Six in the morning.  He’d come in early for the peace and quiet. He would be walking out the door around eight this evening. The first two hours and last two hours of the day allowed him to finally meet most of his deadlines. He’d had to pick up part of a Jennifer Hart’s workload after she’d apparently been let go last week. She had been the head of logistics; another totally unrelated position from his in an office building he didn’t even know Comptrol had.

     J.B. came in that day around eleven. He stood just outside of Tom’s cubicle, teetering back and forth on the heels of his Italian shoes.

“Hey, Tom. What do you know about accounting?”

“Not all that much, really…”

“Now, don’t be modest, my boy. Your resume says it was your minor.”

“Sure, but that was, what, ten years ago…”

“I need you to take on a few of the accounting department’s chores…”

“I thought we had an outside firm…”

“We do. That’s nothing for you to concern yourself with. I’ll email you the details later.”

Tom closed his eyes, and in the brief moment he had taken to formulate a response, J.B. was gone.

     It was seven o’ clock; Tom pulled the chords that closed the blinds on the darkening windows. He couldn’t believe what had happened this morning. Was J.B. fucking serious? Accounting? What was going on here? Jim, who seemed to do nothing all day but covertly sexually harass the few remaining female employees and “entertain” the rest with his tasteless racial jokes was being paid enough to own a fifty thousand dollar luxury car? And what about that title? Internal Marketing Manager? Tom didn’t even know what Jim did; and J.B.’s three hour lunches and eight hour workday while constantly reminding Tom about what a heavy workload he had? What about J.B. practically ignoring Tom unless it couldn’t be avoided, such as their few and far between staff meetings, where he always received the “thumbs up” and “Tom, you’re doing a great job”? He had to get out of here, if even just for the evening.

     Tom stepped into Jim’s office to shut down his computer. He looked in disgust at Jim’s pornographic screen saver. He moved the mouse, clearing the screen to the desktop when he realized that Jim had not signed out and he had access to Jim’s files. With a slight pang of guilt, soon fleeting, Tom sat in the plush leather chair before the mammoth flat screen monitor.  Now he would find out just what Jim did all day. Tom opened Jim’s Outlook email account. It was practically empty. There was one from his wife, which contained a tirade of where Jim had been the night before, and to Tom’s shock and amazement, an email from Jim’s probation officer. No others. He opened his document files; there weren’t any.  He dug around a little more and found a hidden file that contained the passwords to every other employee’s computer including Tom’s and J.B.’s. He’d seen enough. He shut down the computer. Tom decided to snoop through Jim’s desk and files as well. He pulled open the drawers one at a time. They were all empty, save for the one that contained an unopened ream of printer paper and an expensive bottle of Scotch plus tumbler.

     Tom left Jim’s office and headed for J.B.’s with J.B.’s password scribbled hastily on a sticky note. Tom figured the mystery would end there, since he was sure he would find the office locked. It wasn’t. He headed for the mahogany horizontal files that were custom built into the wall, just below the matching bookcases. They were full of hanging, tagged file folders, stuffed full. He pulled out the first, rifling through the contents. There were only blank sheets of paper. He let the folder fall to the floor; pristine white sheets sprayed across the sculpted carpet. He grabbed another, then another; all blank; the carpet now nearly obscured by a sea of white. At this point, he couldn’t have cared less about the evidence he left behind. What was going on here? There was something vaguely sinister about it. Tom rushed over to the computer and tried the password. It had been changed. He opened the desk drawers, finding nothing, not even the human weakness of alcohol. Tom frantically gazed about the room, looking for some kind of explanation.  He eyes fell on a double door floor to ceiling cabinet. It was built from the same mahogany as the bookcase and file, but appeared newer. There was a very odd and seemingly ancient padlock that looped through the door handles. The longer he looked at it, the more he was drawn to it. He was taken over by a rash desire to see what was inside. Tom stood and approached the cabinet, hearing the blood rushing through his ears in the silent room. He reached out and grasped the misshapen brass lock. It was warm and throbbed in his hand. His stomach heaved and he let go. He looked at his palm, ashen except for the pink-red imprint left by the lock. He was afraidH, yet his fear could not overcome his desire to see what was inside. He brazenly struck the lock with a cast bronze African idol that had decorated J.B.’s desk. He struck the lock again and again until it finally broke free, falling with a thud on the carpet. Taking a handle in each hand, he opened the cabinet. He stared in disbelief, his mind trying and failing pitifully to take in the sight that lay before him. Two black candles impossibly glowed alight, their flames licked and smoked; a mummified cat stretched lying on a shelf above. Dried chicken talons were mounted in a semi-circle above it. Below the cat, a burlap effigy stood, long hat pins with red ball tips stabbed into its oversized head; an oversized head with a picture of Tom’s grinning face mounted to it, a picture taken at the last Christmas party; a picture taken the same night that Jim accidentally had broken a glass in Tom’s hand, cutting his thumb. The same thumb that J.B. had wrapped in his handkerchief until someone retrieved the first-aid kit.  Tom’s memories came flooding back to him. J.B. telling him of his fascination with Africa; his multiple vacations to Haiti. He had just returned from Baton Rouge Louisiana when Tom was hired. He remembered J.B. telling Jimmy that Tom was the solution to all of their problems.

     He began to shake, panic rising like flood waters. What was he going to do now? Tom warily approached the cabinet, a wave of nausea coming over him. He let his head clear for a moment as he decided his next move. He grabbed the two candles, one in each hand. He felt them writhe like snakes, but once pulled free from the cabinet, they returned to sticks of wax. He attempted to blow them out, but like gruesome trick birthday candles, they sprung back to life. Turning to the closest potted plant, Tom shoved the candles wicks first into the potting soil. A sizzling snake-like hiss came from the wet earth; a faint odor of rotting meat assaulted his nose. A shiver ran up his spine. Tom’s hands trembled as he pulled the talons loose from the back wall of the cabinet; he tossed them onto the floor. Stomping them into the carpet, he was quite sure he had seen a few trying to avoid his heel. He pulled the cat corpse out using the bronze statue, expecting the thing to spring alive, but it merely broke in two, scattering dry fur and brittle flesh when it hit the floor. He stood panting in front of his effigy. He instinctively knew he couldn’t destroy it. Tom reached out tentatively and removed the first pin. He felt a lightness in his mind; a good kind of light. Tom gingerly removed all the pins, one after another. A rush of relief came over him. His mind cleared like the sky after a summer cloud burst. He was free from this place.

     Tom found a box to place the effigy in. He left for home. He didn’t set the alarm. He didn’t lock the doors. He just left for home. He found a safe hiding place for the horrid doll. As safe a place as he could find. He knew in his heart that his life depended on it. After a few months, he’d found a new job. He drove by the empty office building that was once Comptrol every day.

 

Check out my two short stories on Amazon Kindle...

Here are the links:

TRAILER PARK FROM HELL

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BAKU8IS

LIFE'S A BITCH. A WEREBITCH.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BFCMNMU

Lots of horrific fun for only 99 cents!

Video to be posted on kickstarter.com

Here is the video I've created to promote my creative project, the publishing of my short story anthology on Amazon Kindle. I still plan on tweaking it a little.

Dream On (Part 3) Fini

 Continued

   

Sure, John had been frequently late, but had never missed a day of work. Connie had just found an easy way to save on expenses and fired him, thought Emma, she never really liked him anyway. Two days had gone by since Connie left the message. Emma asked if she had ever talked to him personally. Connie said that that wasn’t necessary she had made her intentions clear enough. At first Emma was a little put off that John hadn’t called her, but the sentiment soon turned to concern when John didn’t pick up his last check the following day. Emma decided to give John a call. They had exchanged numbers at one time, although they had never called one another. She let the phone ring, leaving a message once the machine picked up.

“Hey, this is Emma. Give me a call. Let me know that you’re ok, I guess.”

That was all she could think of to say. I was beginning to think we could be more than just friends. She thought, Who are you trying to kid, Emma, you’ve had the hots for him since his first day on the job. It seemed to me he was starting to feel the same way.

     Emma still hadn’t heard from John by the end of her shift the following day. The more she thought about him, the more troubled she became. She decided she would check on him personally. Connie had left early, giving Emma the opportunity to pull John’s employee file. She jotted down John’s address, and as an after thought, wrote down his parent’s phone number, listed as his emergency contact. When her shift was over, she boarded the bus to his neighborhood. She walked the block to his apartment building, past empty store fronts and anemic consignment shops. Emma took note of John’s blue Vespa sitting in the parking lot next to his apartment building. There were bits of trash and leaves blown up against the wheels, caught in the spokes.

     She entered through the double doors, and stepped into the foyer; one wall lined with ancient brass mail boxes. There was an elevator marked “Out of Order, Use Stares”. Emma, not accustomed to such deplorable trappings, headed cautiously up the stair well. Finding John’s room, she knocked on the door. She waited a moment, then knocked harder.

“John, are you alright? You didn’t show up for work. I tried calling…” she said, raising her voice to be heard.

There was no response. She stood at his door, trying to decide her next move, when she noticed the odor of something burning.

“JOHN, can you hear me? I smell something burning. JOHN?”

“Whoa! Whoa!” came the voice of the building “super,” “Young lady, you’re disturbin’ the peace, already! What’s the problem here?” he asked, hobbling quickly down the hall.

“My, my boyfriend, he lives here… I haven’t been able to get a hold of him for days. He’s not answering the door, and I think I smell smoke,” Emma blurted out.

“I think I do too,” he said, fumbling through the keys on a huge key ring fastened to his belt.

“Stand aside, little lady.”

The apartment supervisor entered the room first, with Emma close behind.

“There’s your problem. Dummy left on the space heater. Really singed that couch…”

Emma was headed towards the bed, where John lay motionless. The odor of urine hit her as she leaned over him. He looked to be sleeping. She tried waking him, first gently shaking his arm, with no response, she shook him harder.

“Wake up. Wake up!”

She began to panic and slapped his face hard. “Wake up!” she screamed. The super took her by the shoulders and led her back to the hall.

“Get a hold of yourself, young lady. I’ll call the EMT’s,” he said. “In the mean time, you come with me.”

She didn’t resist, although she made a feeble demand to stay with John. When the paramedics arrived, she hurried back to the room, followed by the building supervisor. She hovered over the two paramedics as they tended to John; checking his vital signs, directing each other in low tones.

“What’s wrong with him?” her voice cracking, “What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing, from what I can tell,” said one paramedic, not looking at Emma, pulling back John’s eyelids with his thumb, first one, then the other. “He seems to be… sleeping.”

“Fifteen years, and I’ve never seen anything quite like this,” said the other. “Maybe some kind of coma?”

Emma felt faint. She wasn’t understanding any of this.

“Are you related?” said the first.

“No, she’s his girl,” said the super, interjecting into the awkward silence.

She gave the name and number of John’s parents to the paramedics, and watched helplessly as they transferred him to the ambulance. She asked where they were taking him, and headed there by bus.

     John was completely content as he lay in bed next to Emma in their penthouse apartment. The Hancock building never had a penthouse apartment, but now it did. The taste of champagne was still on his lips as he remembered the evening’s events. Just as he was drifting off to sleep, Emma shook him.

“Wake up! Wake up!”

What’s going on? What could possibly be wrong? He didn’t want this, didn’t ask for this. John rolled over to face Emma, annoyed more than alarmed, until he saw the look of fear and desperation on her face.

     The ambulance pulled up to the automatic sliding doors of the E.R.; the two paramedics exited the rear doors of the emergency vehicle. Pulling out the gurney with John on it, releasing the wheels to the pavement, they hustled him inside. He was examined by a medical intern, assigned a resident doctor, and was transferred to a room. Emma arrived shortly after. She took vigil beside John’s bed. She was tired and confused. So much had happened in so little time. John really means something to me, why couldn’t I have let him know sooner? All she could do now was pray that they would make it through this. Emma stayed until two in the morning. She left with great reluctance, kissing his cheek before heading into the cold damp evening. She needed a few hours of sleep before returning to work at the café.

     John watched incredulously as Emma’s skin darkened, her grip on his arms tightening, her eyes sinking deeper into her blackening face, then she was gone. He lie alone in the bed, the silk sheets bitter cold against his skin, the light dimming, his surroundings becoming less defined. A wave of depression came over him. He left the bed, stumbling forward through the hall that should lead to the living room, only to be confronted with more hallways, darkly lit with deep blue shadows crossing the floors. He headed blindly down one of the halls, walking for what seemed like hours, randomly choosing his path as hallway branched off of hallway. He was overcome with a deep feeling of dread. Desperation welled up inside of him as his walk became a run, his footsteps echoing behind him. He finally came to a dead end, and realized he was standing in front of an elevator door. It was the elevator door to his efficiency apartment. He was dressed in his usual dress of black jeans, t-shirt and sneakers. He rode the elevator to the third floor. He had never been this glad to return to his tiny self imposed prison. As he stepped from the elevator, he saw two men carrying another on a stretcher from his apartment.

 “Hey, what’s going on? I live there! Hey!”

The men didn’t acknowledge him as they headed away from John towards the stairwell. He saw Emma. Emma! Following after them, her head down, rubbing her eyes with her palms. The building supervisor headed his way.

“They’re taking you to the hospital,” he said as he passed.

I’m still dreaming. John desperately tried to wake himself up as the hallway grew darker, deep blue shadows crossing the floor.

     Emma visited John every evening for months, even crossing paths with his parents more than once. She quizzed the doctors frequently until she realized that they couldn’t offer any real explanation or hope. As she once again took her post and sat next to him, she thought of the dreams. The dreams she had of John were so real, it was as if they really had been a couple. A tear slipped down her cheek as she realized now that those few fleeting dreams would never be a reality. She leaned over John and kissed his lips delicately, as if this would somehow break the spell, but he slept on. She turned and walked out of the hospital room, biting her lip, biting back the tears. John slipped slowly from her life. John slipped deeper into his sleeping hell.

Check out my two short stories on Amazon Kindle...

Here are the links:

TRAILER PARK FROM HELL

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BAKU8IS

LIFE'S A BITCH. A WEREBITCH.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BFCMNMU

Lots of horrific fun for only 99 cents!

Dream On (Part 2)

continued from 1-26-12

He slept soundly, rudely awakened by his alarm. John hit the snooze button twice before getting up. He could barely remember his experience of last night, and was surprised by his fatigue, having just slept nine hours. John drank two cups of coffee while watching the cold rain fall in the alley outside his window. He watched as a rat scurried out from under an over-stuffed black trash bag to a pile of graying wooden pallets. He had to forgo his usual breakfast, as time had slipped away from him. After showering, he donned his rain parka and hit the streets on his scooter.

    Yawning, he clocked in to work, scarfed down a muffin, and headed for the front. He was fifteen minutes late. Emma wasn’t there. Sunday mornings were the slowest, so Emma had the day off. John had the pleasure of working side by side with Connie.

“I’ll need to speak with you after your shift,” she said, looking him directly in the eye.

“Oh, ok, sure," he said. Must be about that big promotion I’ve been striving for, he thought, jokingly.

The day dragged by unmercifully. A few surly customers came and went. John repeatedly mopped the floor, wet from the rain tracked in by the patron’s soggy footwear. Connie’s mood was more grim than usual. John cleaned the counters, Connie took inventory, and the next two “Café Gurus” arrived for their shift.

     John headed to clock out, scooting by Connie as she counted boxes of paper cups and coffee filters. She didn’t say a thing as he put on his poncho, swiped his card and headed into the evening.

     The ride home was miserable. He had forgotten his gloves. The rain had stopped, but the temperature had dropped by twenty degrees. Gloves or no gloves, riding a scooter in thirty five degree weather was brutal, in John’s opinion. It would be the bus tomorrow. Scaling the steps to his apartment, he thought about missing out on his little meeting with Connie. He needed to be careful. As much as he was beginning to despise his job, he needed to keep it even more so. He ate a meager dinner, his appetite anemic, despite the cold. He turned on the electric space heater, sat in front of the TV and watched three sitcoms back to back. He found himself nodding off as the TV droned on nonsensically in the dark. Switching off the set, he headed for the comfort of his bed. Not caring about the early hour, he fell fast asleep.

     Seemingly within an instant, John found himself back at work. Emma smiled at him. It was a very different smile, a seductive smile. She motioned for him to follow her, as she walked out of the coffee house onto the streets of Chicago. John followed. They were no longer dressed in their work clothes. She wore a fitted teal t-shirt and tight black jeans with white stitching, her feet wrapped in teal leather pumps. John didn’t know what he was wearing, and didn’t care. I’m dreaming! He realized. She took his hand as they strolled through the city. Late afternoon turned to evening .The couple ending up at Cicerella’s Bistro, dining on the patio. As the evening unfolded, John could still recognize that this was just a dream, but it became more real with each passing moment. There were no jumps in time or confusing imagery as in most dreams; no distorted or miss-remembered locations. He soon let himself go and came into himself in the dream, no longer a casual observer.

     Emma looked deep into his eyes. She pushed up from her chair and lightly kissed him on the lips. He reached out and touched her arm and returned the kiss, pressing harder. She broke free and whispered “I love you” into his ear, her breath as warm and gentle as a summer’s breeze. Dazed, John became aware of another voice.

“Sir, the check. Would the lady or yourself be interested in a dessert?” asked the waiter.

“No, we should probably be on our way, we have a show to catch,” said John, opening his wallet and finding a dozen hundred dollar bills there.

A siren blared as he paid the bill, leaving a hundred dollar tip on the wrought iron table. An ambulance pulled up to the curb, siren shrill.

     John quickly became awake, shutting off the alarm. He wanted to go back to sleep, continue the dream, but was too excited by what he had just experienced. It had all seemed so real, but more than that, it was different than any dream John had ever experienced. He had decided the course of action, but yet again, he hadn’t, completely. When he knew he needed money, he had it. When he had longed for Emma’s kiss, she responded. He remembered nearly every detail. He lay in bed contemplating what had just transpired. Calming down, it occurred to him that he was not scheduled for work today, or tomorrow.

     John dressed without showering. He skipped his morning coffee; he didn’t need it. He was still riding high on his evening’s adventure. He threw on his wool jacket and tromped down the stairs. Catching the bus, he rode to the nearest branch library. Once inside, John looked up “Lucid Dreaming, the Healthy Escape.” It wasn’t available yet. Of course not, it’s just been released. John entered “Lucid Dreaming” into the computer database. Ten different books covering the subject appeared. John jotted down the information on the four most recent publications and proceeded to pull them off the shelves. He sat in a gloomy corner of the library at a study desk and began searching through the pages.

     John could not find a description or documented instance of lucid dreaming that compared to his. All accounts spoke of an awareness by the dreamer, but none spoke of a near complete control of the dreamscape, as he had experienced it. Neither was there any mention of the feeling of a sense of reality; on the contrary, most accounts stated that the subject was very aware that they were in a dream. However, what he did find was information in one specific book on LDS, or Lucid Dream Supplements, that can increase and strengthen LD episodes. John photocopied the names of the various supplements, a litany of chemicals including galantamine, calea zacatechichi and silene capsensis, among others. Returning the books to their rightful places, he left for the bus stop.

     It was late afternoon, and John was back in his tiny apartment. He thought of leaving soon and heading to a health and nutrition store, hoping to find the LD Supplements, but a numbing fatigue had begun to settle over him. Confused by his exhausted state, he soon abandoned any idea of going out. Instead, he lay on his bed, still in his wool jacket and drifted into sleep.

     John and Emma were together in a taxi, but then no, it was a limousine, pulling up to the Oriental Theatre. The chauffer stepped out into the evening drizzle and opened the door for them with much fanfare. The couple hurried in out of the rain, laughing as they did so. The theatre was fantastic; plaster gold leafed dragons adorned the walls amid elaborate moldings. Asian frescos loomed majestically overhead. They took their seats as the play was about to begin, although John hadn’t decided what it would be yet. Emma was more beautiful than ever in a white strapless sequined gown; John dressed in black suit and white tie. He heard the muffled ring of his cell phone. He took it out of his pants pocket, saw that it was Connie calling, and shut it off. The lights dimmed as the curtain rose.

     John’s apartment phone was ringing, but he slept on. The answering machine took the call.

“John, this is Connie. If you’re not in here in the next twenty minutes, don’t bother coming in at all. This can’t continue. If you’re not in here shortly, you’re fired.”

John’s breathing was steady and shallow. He lay completely immobile. The day passed from morning to evening to morning again.

to be continued next post...

Dream On (Part 1)

This is probably the second short story I ever wrote (and actually finished). It's about a young man who toys with the concept of lucid dreaming and suffers the consequences.

     John’s alarm startled him awake for the five thousandth time, once again interrupting a most pleasant dream. He dragged himself out of bed, stepping onto the cold tile floor of his efficiency apartment. Rubbing his head and rear simultaneously, he stumbled to the bathroom, bleary eyed. After using the facility, he took the thirty-some steps to the kitchen and poured himself a huge mug of coffee. Thank God for timers, he thought as he took a sip, grabbing the TV remote from its place on the back of the couch. He sat slowly as to avoid scalding himself, and switched on the cable news channel; the same channel that had lulled him the night before. John knew even before glancing at his watch that he had less than an hour before having to slog off to “the coal mines”.

     “Hey, thanks for joining us on American Morning. The program that helps America rise and shine!” expounded the cheery talking head.

Man, these dudes must be up before dawn. How many cups of latte has that guy had? thought John, mildly amused.

“Tabitha, what’s on the agenda this morning?” asked the over-zealous anchor.

“Well, Bob, we’re going to have an interesting conversation with Dr. Phyllis Schulz, author of the new book, Lucid Dreaming, the Healthy Escape -  A Guide to True Inner Peace.”

“Before we approach this dreamy subject Tabitha, let’s hear a few words from our gracious sponsors. We’ll be right back with more American Morning.”

Bob’s practiced grin led the show into the commercial break, and John took the opportunity to pour himself a bowl of bran flakes with skim milk. He took his place again in front of the tube, its glow no longer the only light in the room as the sun began peaking in through the window, John only half interested in the interview in progress.

“Lucid dreaming can be achieved by anyone. It basically means that the dreamer is aware, and is able to manipulate the experiences in their dream environment.” The Doctor explained.

“So, if I decide to dream of Angelina Jolie, say, I can make the dream play out any way I choose?” asked Bob.

“Be careful tiger, your wife may be watching.” Tabitha chided.

“I know you meant that for a laugh, but to answer your question, no. The dreamer can alter certain aspects of a dream, but cannot completely dictate the outcome. The subconscious is still in control, or should I say, out of control.”

     John glanced at his wrist watch. Jeez, I’d better hustle. He was surprised at how much time had elapsed. He took a five minute shower, beating his best time by a good three minutes, shaved and dressed, heading out his apartment door within a half an hour from the time he’d clicked off the set. He hopped on his Vespa scooter sans helmet, which remained bungeed to the back, and headed for work. Parking his Vespa beside the dumpster (his very own private parking space), John headed in the back door of the Café Cliché, Chicago’s latest entry into the over-saturated coffee house market. Swiping his I.D. card through the time clock, he hollered out, “I’m here!” to no one in particular, realizing that he was five minutes late once again.

     John grabbed an apron and pushed his way through the double swinging doors, right side labeled “enter”. Emma turned and looked his way, a tight smile on her face, and said,

“Good thing you’re here. Not that we’re busy or anything. Connie’s gunning for you, you know.”

“I know. I know. Maybe she won’t notice.” At least not until she sees the time clock, John thought in exasperation.

     Connie was the manager, and took every employee infraction seriously, a little too seriously. John knew that the shop had been struggling lately. They were down to two “Café Gurus” on the morning shift; Café Guru being the Café Cliché’s moniker given to their employees. John could be on thin ice, but was surprised that he really didn’t seem to care. Originally, he’d taken this job to support himself through his internship, but once out of college and unable to find a job in his field, he’d found his way back here.

     John went through his day as usual, mindlessly preparing a litany of coffee concoctions for a seemingly mindless group of patrons. He joked and flirted with Emma, a cute twenty something with died black hair and an eyebrow piercing. At the end of his shift, he collected his meager tips that at one time could total upwards of seventy dollars, clocked out, gave a wink and a “see ya’” to a scowling Connie, and hit the employee exit.

     John climbed the stairs to his apartment on the third floor. The elevator had been out of order ever since he’d moved in here. The apartment was cold. Winter, although not officially here, was definitely breathing down John’s neck. Soon the Vespa would not be a viable form of transportation. John hated the busses. Tired, he made a quick sandwich and had a glass of milk. Is this what my life is all about? Making just enough money to pay the rent and see the occasional movie or eat the occasional pizza? I have a few acquaintances here, but no true friends. Maybe Emma… but do I really even know her?

    After a few hours of television, John realized just how tired he was and decided to turn in. He knew how ridiculously early it was, just past nine, but could hardly keep his eyes open as he sat on the edge of his bed. He skipped brushing his teeth, stripped down to his underwear, and slipped between the sheets. His mind came back to the American Morning program and the conversation of lucid dreaming. John dozed off thinking how nice it would be if Emma were to keep him company in his dreams.

     Drifting into a deep sleep, John’s mind soon entered into the realm of nightmare. His boss Connie stood before him, her too thin face scowling at him. “You’re late again!” she screeched, spittle flying from her pinched lips, landing on his clean brown apron. As he was about to respond, he noticed that her Café Cliché uniform had been replaced by a ragged clown costume, her long emaciated fingers becoming longer as she reached for his throat. This is a dream, floated through John’s mind, and he forced open his eyes. He lay staring at the moon lit ceiling of his room as his heart rate slowed to a normal pace. Was that a lucid dream? he wondered. He was exhilarated at the thought. Could he control his dreams? He didn’t totally grasp the possibilities, but was excited by the prospect.

to be continued 1-27-12