Posts Tagged ‘Blog novel’
Tuesday, October 13th, 2009
The “great room” in an anonymous McMansion is doing a good job of impersonating a casino poker room. Five top of the line oval game tables and fifty players crowd the space. Players keep their distance from a group of cops, who are busy restraining a man in a Hawaiian shirt.
Bored hands nervously shuffle poker chips. The constant clicking of chips blends with the hum of voices speaking softly, a low, masculine buzz punctuated by the occasional feminine voice. This white noise is broken by the grunts of a man on the floor with a broken jaw.
Alastair and Wes lean over the man, assessing the damage. He’s most likely in his thirties but a baby face hides his true age, blood trickles from a small wound on his chin, sopped up by his black hoodie. The remains of his sunglasses dangle from one ear.
Alastair asks, “Can anyone tell me what happened?”
Jeanette steps out of the crowd. A simple t-shirt and jeans cling to her curves. Long, dark hair surrounds a beautiful but emotionless face. “You know what they say, don’t tap the aquarium.”
Wes doesn’t get it, “Could you translate that into English.”
She responds, “Mister opinionated annoyed the wrong novice player. Who’d of guessed he has a glass jaw. It’s a shame, this is usually a friendly game. I guarantee neither of them will be invited back.”
Jeanette watches carefully as they get their patient loaded onto a stretcher.
Alastair asks, “Is this your place?”
Jeanette blushes with bride, she’s the queen of this particular hive. “All mine.”
Alastair continues, “This is quite a setup, aren’t you worried the cops will shut you down?”
She responds, “When I do something, I go all the way. Besides, some of my best friends and regular players are cops, they know I run a clean game so they don’t bother me.”
The sea of players parts as Wes and Alastair carry their patient out of the home. Jeanette follows closely.
Just as they reach the door, Jeanette decides to raise the bet. She looks Alastair in the eyes, “Did you have a father or uncle who worked at the hospital in the mid eighties, you look like someone my pops knew.”
Alastair nervously shakes his head, “no.” He doesn’t engage her as he guides his patient through the doorway.
One of the poker players slides up to Jeanette, “Can we start the clock, the natives are getting restless.” He notices her focus, still on Alastair, “What’s up?”
She says, “I’m pretty good at spotting a bluff, what’s he got to hide?”
Copyright 2009, Wendy Pierce
Friday, October 9th, 2009
An unusually slow night. The ambulance is parked at an anonymous suburban strip mall. Wes naps. Alastair prowls.
***
The bright lights of a mini mart, the only store open for blocks, attracts the sleepless and desperate. A poor little rich boy leaves, loaded down with a two cases of imported beer. His clothes say he’s in his twenties, but the circles around his eyes suggest he’s seen a decade more than he’d care to admit.
Poor little rich boy’s car is in the same shape he is. Once a luxury vehicle worthy of envy, the vehicle now shows all the bumps and scratches of hard living. The rich boy gets in, dumping his beer casually on the passenger seat.
He tries to get the car started, it grinds and sputters but won’t turn over. He pauses, in case he flooded the engine. Click, click, click… still no ignition on the second attempt. The rich boy pounds the steering wheel in frustration. Time to take the edge off, he breaks open a case and pulls out a beer.
Suddenly Alastair, who was hiding in the back, pounces. The poor rich boy fights ineptly.
***
A random hotel room. The poor rich boy drinks and watches porn on TV.
Someplace overseas, drinking and watching the nightly “striptease news,” where world events meet T. & A.
In a sports bar, he drinks and watches a scantily clad waitress. A friend taunts him.
Hangover recovery, Bloody Mary in hand, watching the workout channel as a female fitness guru does pelvic thrusts.
Another hotel room. An unsatisfied woman puts on her dress and politely waves goodbye.
The brightly colored images from a dull life fade.
***
Alastair disengages, slashing his sharp teeth across the rich boy’s throat. It looks more like an animal bite than something a human-based being could create.
Physically but not mentally satisfied, Alastair throws his “empty container” onto the seats with contempt. Alastair flinches in pain as the poor little rich boy’s alcohol-laden blood hits his brain. A moment of intoxication followed by the gnawing of withdrawal as the booze speeds unnaturally through Alastair’s system.
***
Alastair slams the passenger door, waking Wes up, he’s still queasy from his “meal.”
Wes notices the change in his partner, “Lay off the junk food.”
Alastair responds, “I wish I could. Sometimes I don’t have a choice.”
Wes starts the engine, “There’s always a choice, it’s just that most people are scared shitless, so they keep doing the same thing over and over again. Life’s too short.”
Alastair thinks, “Even if you could live forever, life’s still too short.”
Wes looks at Alastair, rolls his eyes.
***
Although lacking the razzle dazzle of Freemont Street, this downtown road could also be labelled an “experience.” Local homeless scatter, trying to find shelter from careless drunk tourists.
The ambulance pulls up behind a single police cruiser, Nathan observes a homeless man slumped against a building. He nods a greeting to Wes and Alastair as they approach, “He’s all yours.”
As if on cue, the homeless man clutches is chest, “My heart.”
***
The homeless man lies in a hospital bed, he’s hooked up to a monitor showing a strong, steady heart rate. Dianna leaves his bedside, closing the partition curtain as she leaves.
Alastair smiles awkwardly, “Sorry.”
Dianna’s nonplussed, “He knows the system, claiming chest pain means he stays for observation.”
Alastair’s frustrated, “I hate being a taxi.”
She softens, “It’s better than leaving someone sick by the side of the road.”
He appreciates her kindness. “Any new research projects?”
Dianna’s eyes sparkle, “Mozart. There are dozens of possible causes of death, and of course it would be difficult to exhume the body for an autopsy, because there are probably four or five other people in the same plot, they’d have to figure out who’s who before they got to cause of death.”
Alastair remembers, “Only the rich and royalty got the honor of being buried separately.”
She studies him, “How do you know things like that?”
“I just do.” Alastair watches, enjoying her curiosity. In a fit of boldness a question crosses his lips, “Would you like to go out sometime?”
She runs through her customary excuses, “I swore I’d never date anyone I work with.”
He offers a helpful excuse, “The ambulance company and hospital are two different employers, so technically we don’t work together.”
Dianna comes up with a better reason, “Then again I never thought I’d meet someone who cared about my hobby.”
He presses for a decision “So, will you?”
“I don’t know.”
He tries another approach, “We can always meet in a casino. The eye in the sky sees all.”
She frowns, “I hate those places.”
“Me too.” His excuses are gone, all that’s left is a sincere plea, “I haven’t dated in a while. It’s a lot of complication and stress and half the time it isn’t worth it… but I just have a feeling that you and I could share something special.”
Dianna smiles. “I’m off Sunday and Monday.”
Copyright 2009, Wendy Pierce
Tuesday, October 6th, 2009
The Medictrans offices were created for function, not comfort. Green tinged florescent lighting turns the beige furniture a sickly gray. Several computers sit idle, this place runs on paper, a wall lined with in-boxes awaits the latest patient and billing records. Alastair sits at a large table in the middle of the space organizing his records from the evening.
Chuck walks in, still looking like there’s shit under his nose, and takes a spot next to Alastair at the table. Chuck’s longer shift means more paperwork, a stack double the size of Alastair’s, he immediately spreads his papers all around, taking over the table.
Alastair asks, “What’s wrong with you?”
Chuck looks Alastair in the eyes, “I don’t believe you.”
“About what?”
Chuck doesn’t even try to hide his disgust, “You come in with this sob story about some tragic illness and they have to hire you because that’s the law. All I see is a guy who can’t pull his weight.”
Alastair stands up to him, “Maybe I can’t work the same hours, but I guarantee I’m ten times better as a medic than you’ll ever be.”
Alastair finishes his work, slamming his papers in the appropriate in-boxes then leaves, slamming the door behind him.
Chuck gets up from the table, grabs a note pad, and pulls all of Alastair’s paperwork. He carefully takes notes as he spies.
***
Alastair rushes home, just ahead of the dawn. He’s one of many arrivals as the industrial complex gets ready for a new work day.
A red Chevy Suburban is parked three doors down from Alastair’s space. Magnetic signs read: Timothy Kent, Fire Investigator (702) 555-1969.
Timothy uses a makeshift ladder to climb down from the roof, he descends with ease as firm muscles flex underneath sun-beaten skin. His worn face is framed by a regulation crew cut. Halfway down he pauses, coughs violently for a moment but never loses his grip. Once he gets his feet on the ground, he opens the tailgate of his truck, sits and has a smoke.
Alastair can’t avoid Timothy as he heads for home.
“Hey!”
Alastair turns and stares at his neighbor, “Can I help you?”
Timothy examines this new arrival, “What happened to Jerry?”
Alastair tries this best to be nonchalant, “He… disappeared.”
“He always was a punk. Made great cabinets though.” Timothy’s need to know isn’t satisfied, “What’s your story, did your wife kick you out or something.”
Alastair sweats as the sunlight gets stronger, “How I got here is a long story for another time.”
Timothy watches, taking a drag on his cigarette, as Alastair backs away. Alastair fumbles with his keys, dropping them on the ground. Next to glimmering metal there’s a tiny splotch of dark red liquid, Alastair carefully rubs a drop of the liquid on his finger. It’s fresh blood.
There’s no time to dwell on it, he grabs his keys and forces his way inside. Out of the sun, Alastair carefully examines his home, nothing seems out of the ordinary.
He slumps against a wall and stares at the blood on his fingers.
Copyright 2009, Wendy Pierce
Tuesday, September 29th, 2009
The ambulance takes a right turn off one of the main streets into the Scotch 80’s, a classic development from the 1960’s. Although ranch and mid century homes dominate, this is no bland pre-planned development.
As Wes drives, Alastair gazes out the window, dwelling on the redhead and her stepfather, “You realize we’re just going around in circles.”
“I know you’re not talking about my driving.” Wes immediately regrets his sharpness. “What?”
Alastair hopes talking about it will somehow make it better, “Someone gets hurt, they grow up to hurt someone else, on and on it goes.”
Wes vents, “I don’t buy that hopeless cycle bullshit. There’s always a choice.”
Alastair shows his age, “Yeah and most of the time people make the wrong one.”
“I just try to stay out of other people’s drama as much as I can.”
Alastair sighs, “I try, believe me, as much as my nature allows.”
As the ambulance pulls to the curb, Alastair watches Wes curiously.
A fire truck follows the ambulance. They pull up to an elegant, well tended ranch-style house. Vintage charm mixes with swanky luxury.
A firefighter helps Wes and Alastair with their gear as they walk up the front walkway. Wes walks slowly, taking his time to admire his surroundings, “I think I found my dream home. Just need to work for the next hundred years to get enough coin to buy it.”
Alastair sighs, “I’d need two hundred years, I’m not good with money.”
They reach the main door and hunt for a doorbell, but there isn’t one. Instead, there’s a large, circular brass knocker featuring a dragon and phoenix chasing each other around.
Anne answers. She’s waifish, with dark blond hair and skin that hasn’t seen the sun in ages, her delicate features are twisted by worry. Saying nothing, she props the door open and motions for the medics to follow. Wes lights up the moment he sees her.
As Alastair and Wes enter the living room they’re startled by the unique decor. Tasteful contemporary furniture is upstaged by crucifixes, Native American totems, laughing Buddhas; anything and everything religious decorates this room. The room is crowded from floor to ceiling with items collected over many years. It’s the kind of collection that would make a museum curator drool. Alastair moves through the room confidently, unafraid and unaffected by the display. He runs his fingers along a large golden crucifix displayed on an end table.
Anne’s voice echoes off the high ceilings, “My grandmother’s having a hard time breathing.”
Wes’s concern shows, “For how long.”
Anne struggles to separate the days, “A week, maybe a little bit more.”
They take a left turn down the hall, into a bedroom. Monastic simplicity, basic clean furniture, punctuated by an oil painting of Lucifer’s fall from heaven and a statue of the ever changing, though destructive, Hindu goddess Kali.
Helen sits in a reading chair next to her bed breathing uncomfortably. Her long silver hair is neatly arranged in a bun, framing the face of a lady who has seen it all. She wears an elegant blouse with a collar that covers most of her neck with khaki pants fit for an explorer.
Helen eyes the medics and firefighter warily as they enter. She reprimands Anne, “I told you I don’t need help.”
The firefighter, bored of medical calls, sets his gear down and heads for the door, “I’ll be on the truck.”
Alastair’s the last to walk into the room, as he gets closer Helen’s discomfort grows. Her change alarms the medics, they break into their gear.
Wes tries to keep it professional, “We need to monitor her heart rate.”
“On it.” Alastair starts to loosen Helen’s blouse but she’s uncomfortable.
Anne steps in, “They’re here to help.”
Alastair watches as Anne helps her grandmother loosen her blouse. She backs away, giving Alastair room to move. As Alastair attaches the electrodes for the heart monitor, as he works he notices something odd… Two small wounds on Helen’s neck, open yet somehow bloodless. Alastair instantly recognizes the handiwork of another of his kind.
Wes breaks Alastair’s concentration, gently pushing him away to fit an oxygen tube to Helen’s nostrils. The heart monitor activates with a familiar beep, monitoring her rapid but steady beat.
Stunned, Alastair backs away from Helen. As he does, Helen’s rhythm gets stronger and slows to normal.
Wes looks to Anne. “We should get her in the hospital. You want to ride along or follow in your car?”
Helen steels herself, looking at Alastair with anger and fear, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Anne pleads, “You need help. Better to play it safe.”
The old lady is unrelenting “I’m not safe anywhere.”
Wes sees Anne’s concern, guides her into the hallway for a privacy.
“She can’t refuse help.” Anne asks desperately, “Can she?”
Wes tries to get his facts straight, “She’s still considered mentally competent, right?”
Anne sees where this is going. “She’s not senile.”
“Then it’s her right to refuse transport.” Wes brushes his hand along her shoulder, she responds to his comforting touch.
***
In Helen’s room, Alastair keeps a polite distance between himself and his charge. Her vitals have stabilized. She examines him with a wary curiosity.
Alastair whispers, “You shouldn’t take your life for granted.”
“Do you even remember what it is to be alive?”
Alastair looks out the bedroom door, Wes and Anne are out of earshot. “It wasn’t that long ago.”
Helen’s fear is overwhelmed by curiosity, “How long since you were changed?”
He recites the answer, “Ninety-nine years.”
She knows the deal, “That explains why you’re still running around like a mortal. You can’t face immortality, and can’t give your powers away.”
Alastair’s stunned by her knowledge. He quietly stares at Helen trying to put the thoughts racing though his mind into words but before he can ask anything more of Helen, Wes and Anne return.
***
The fire truck pulls away, leaving Wes and Alastair to struggle with an overload of supplies as they make their way back to the ambulance.
Wes takes a look back, “I hope they’re all right.”
Alastair keeps his mind on business, “I’m sure we’ll get a call if things change.”
Wes responds eagerly, “I’m keeping a copy of her book in the ambulance from now on.”
“Her book?”
“Don’t you know who she is” Wes rolls his eyes, “Helen Nolan, ‘The Zen of Monstrosity.’ It’s kinda like Jung but more fun to read. Helped me to understand my dark side.”
Alastair smiles as he considers what Wes’s deep dark secrets might be.
Wes squirms, suddenly uncomfortable, “What?”
Copyright 2009, Wendy Pierce
Tuesday, September 22nd, 2009
A round casino bar invites visitors to enjoy a drink before squandering their money on the gaming floor. The place is filled with the usual mix of honeymooners, conventioneers and college kids looking for a good time. Alastair sits in a booth with a commanding view, a low table separates him from a man and woman who are making out frantically.
Alastair’s day off clothes, a black button down shirt and jeans. A woman in a micro mini, tank top and a bridal veil passes with two girlfriends. The women give Alastair the once-over, appreciating the goods, but aren’t inspired to stop. He doesn’t need a watch to tell him what time it is, the patrons tell him everything he needs to know, it’s currently “slightly buzzed and drowsy from a heavy dinner.”
A rock song with primitive drums plays. As he taps his foot to the beat, Alastair’s mind drifts. The beat pounds into his soul, past the memories he’s gathered in his ninety-nine years, unlocking the knowledge of his predecessors.
***
Drums announce the arrival of a group of early human settlers walking in a blissful, green savanna carrying the corpse of an animal freshly killed by stone spears. A boy following the hunting party stops, calls out to his elders and points to the horizon. The tribe watches helplessly as a wave of darkness slowly washes over the lush countryside.
Enveloped by darkness, an elder holds out her hands collecting ash as it drops from the sky.
Later, darkness continues to rule the skies, a distant campfire dims burnt down to its last embers. Nine adult members of the tribe surround a young boy as the child struggles for life. Both the young and old are gaunt from starvation. A tear falls down the cheek of one of the elders as she runs a razor-edged basalt rock along the boy’s skin releasing a stream of blood. The woman leans down, tastes the boy’s blood then backs away. The other eight members of the tribe follow, ritualistically repeating her actions.
***
The song changes, startling Alastair back to reality of the hotel bar. Ancient hunger gnaws at him as he scans the crowd.
The bartenders and servers stop what they’re doing, climb on the bar and various platforms and begin a dance designed to lure more customers in for a drink. Alastair watches the four women and one man as they dance. They’re sexy enough to be on display but lacking that extra “something” that might get them into the cast of one of the big production shows. He watches the crowd hungrily searching for the weak in the herd.
Alastair’s drawn to a redheaded dancer working the platform closest to him. Her henna-dyed hair is faded from too many washings. Although her body moves well, her face is dead.
As the song ends the redheaded dancer returns to work taking drink orders. At the next booth over a group of frat boys flirt with her, admiring her slender body. She takes their drink orders quickly, efficiently, ignoring their attention.
The redhead approaches Alastair, carefully avoiding looking him in the eyes, “You need anything.”
He smiles, “I’m all right. How about you?”
“Same as always.” She slips away.
***
Later, Alastair has relocated to a slot machine with a view of the round bar. He patiently plays the machine, allowing a web of thirty pay lines to devour his quarters.
Finally, new waitresses and bartenders come in to help with the after-show rush. The redhead dancer leaves, Alastair follows. Excitement races through her body as she heads for the exit.
***
Burnt out street lights help Alastair as he carefully approaches a two level apartment building. Overgrown hedges keep visitors from noticing the paint peeling from the wooden siding. As he approaches one of the front doors, Alastair slides on a pair of exam gloves. He touches the doorknob, discovering that it isn’t locked.
Fast food wrappers, empty gallons of ice cream and other food debris litters the beige-on-beige-on-beige interiors. Alastair walks, careful not to shift any of the litter. He grabs a steak knife from the kitchen counter. The sound of retching leads Alastair to the bathroom.
Another open door, as the redhead dancer hugs the toilet a wooden spoon falls from her fingers. Alastair stands directly behind her, patiently waiting for her to finish puking her guts out.
Empty, she crawls backwards, pulling away from the toilet bowl. She breathes heavily, sweat drips from her forehead. Wiping the tears from her eyes, her vision clears, allowing her to take a look at the doom standing just inches away from her.
Alastair scratches her forearm with the knife blade. Five short, shallow cuts along her arm punctuate her old, self-inflicted wounds carefully covered in makeup. He drinks.
***
A younger version of the redhead dancer sits on her bed crying.
Feminine hands paint an address on a mailbox.
A steel-haired man walks into a bedroom, locks the door and drops his trousers.
***
Alastair drags the redhead dancer’s lifeless body into the hallway, laying her to rest in a graceful pose.
Urgency fills Alastair as he backs away. Grabbing a pen from his pocket and a fast food napkin, he forces himself to focus. The address painted by the young redhead dancer onto her mailbox manifests itself on the paper.
***
The hand-painted mailbox is the only sign of individuality in a twenty year old development filled with identical houses. Trash bins line the street, it must be pickup day.
Alastair’s car is parked a discreet distance from he house he’s casing. There are no garbage cans in front or other signs of life. Alastair sits in his car, keeping his focus on the mailbox as he nervously taps his fingers on the steering wheel. The first rays of dawn trace their way across distant hills.
Just as Alastair’s fingers drift to his car’s ignition key, the front porch light of his targeted house flips on. The steel-haired man shuffles out his front door, tying the belt on a thick bathrobe in a useless attempt to ward off the early morning chill.
As the steel-haired man moves to the side of his house, Alastair steps out of his car. A supernatural burst of speed eliminates the gap between predator and prey. Running at full speed, Alastair hits the steel-haired man, sending trash bins to the ground before they slam into the side of the home.
Alastair scowls, “You know a redheaded young woman, who is she?”
The steel-haired man’s in shock, “My stepdaughter?”
Alastair pounces, smashing the head of his prey on a bit of exposed cement foundation.
***
Seen from the assailant’s eyes, the young redheaded girl backs away from the door as her stepfather locks it.
Suddenly the image shifts, the stepfather’s mind reveals a moment from his childhood as a sun-beaten construction worker walks into a boy’s bedroom, secures the door and drops his jeans.
***
“Shit.”
Alastair drops the stepfather’s body. He quickly backs away, fleeing both the rising sun and one family’s cycle of pain.
Copyright 2009, Wendy Pierce
Tuesday, September 1st, 2009
At first glance, it’s just another windowless space in an anonymous industrial park. Within these four ordinary walls a fragile illusion of normalcy hides an oasis, a crypt, a bunker, a home.
Overhead lighting from two fluorescent tubes barely manages to cut through the darkness. A man in a welder’s mask works with an acetylene blowtorch. He quickly but carefully fuses the metal garage door to its track. Nearby, a metal pedestrian door is fitted with the best locks on the market; a row of sandbags line the bottom of both entrances. On the shop floor, the elaborate woodworking tools left behind by an unfortunate previous occupant collect dust. A bathroom, kitchenette and an enclosed office on the far end of the space round things out.
The only resident, Alastair, finishes his work. He discards his mask, heavy gloves, blowtorch and other tools. Judging by his looks, he’s in his early twenties. Pale, impossibly smooth skin surrounds knowing eyes. A full head of dark blond, short but shaggy hair looks dark against his fair skin. Lean but muscular, his body is in good shape and he carries himself well.
He paces the shop floor for a moment, as if putting off something unpleasant. Finally, he returns to the office.
In the office cheap, durable work furniture is covered with a few unusual touches. An old, brown leather medical bag sits on a table. Gold lettering reads “Dr. A. Tomlinson.” A few name tags are attached to the handles including: “Alan Tresse, RN” and “Al Tandy, Orderly.”
On another table he puts two “number candles,” the kind used for a child’s birthday, into a sophisticated dark chocolate cake. He lights the numbers “99.”
The water welling in his eyes is a stark reminder that this is an unhappy anniversary.
Alastair whispers, “Ninety-nine supernatural years plus twenty-six real ones.” His frustration grows as he tries to think of a wish. Defeated, he blows the candles out.
Seconds later he lashes out, embarrassed by his own indulgence.
The cake and candles fly into a trash can, making a hollow thunk as they land.
He swaps a simple cotton tee for a uniform shirt, dons his most recent name tag, “Alastair Thomson, EMT-P.”
Alastair grabs the trash on his way out. He kicks the sandbags clear of the door with a bit too much ease. The door slams, locks click shut.
Copyright 2009, Wendy Pierce
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