“Jack” – short story pt. 2

author, bullying, character, characters, fiction, life, new, Short story, Uncategorized, Writing

Dad moved us into a cramped studio apartment on the fifth floor of the Cedar Dove apartment complex when he accepted his newest job opportunity. We’d made the drive, only two states over, packing our measly belongings into three suitcases before hitting the road. But that’s how we lived, out of suitcases, never putting down roots. Dad’s a rep for a pharmaceutical company. He trains hospital staff about new drugs and once he’s done, he’s stationed at a new hospital. He loves it, he calls our life an adventure. People must be jealous of all the places we’ve been, all the things we’ve seen, he’d tell me.
He comes home to find me sprawled on the couch that came with the apartment, flipping through channels on the small t.v. I watch his hands, he holds a small array of post cards. He’s always done this, collecting a post card from each place we visit and tucking it neatly in a small scrapbook. It’s always seemed like some sort of bread crumb trail to me. If we ever go missing, people will know the last place we were. I turn my attention glumly back to the t.v.
I hear the sound papers make when they brush together and know he’s flipping through the cards, picking the right one worthy enough for the scrapbook.
“How’d school go today?” Dad asks.
I shrug, though the movement is hidden by my loose fitting hoodie. “Fine.”
“Your tone says otherwise.” He sets the cards on the table near the door and crosses the room, taking a seat next to me. “Are you having trouble again?”
I chuckle at his phrasing, trouble. “Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”
Dad clasps his hands together in his lap. “I could make a call…”
I sit up quickly. “Don’t do that, please. I’m fine.” His expression is unappeased, so I continue. “We’ll be gone in a few weeks anyway.”
The concern flickering in his eyes fades before he nods his head. “Alright, then.”
“I’m gunna hit the hay, early day tomorrow,” I say, retreating hastily from the room.
He watches me go, closing my bedroom door and even then I still feel him staring. I pull a bottle off my dresser and shake a couple of pills into my palm before swallowing them down dry. The only good thing about my dad’s job is I get great drugs.
I’m out like a light in two minutes flat.
-Collins

Advertisements

“Jack” – short story pt. 1

Blog, bullying, characters, fiction, life, Short story, writing

It had taken the footballers of Cedar High School just half a week to discover the new kid and about fifteen minutes to make him feel welcome. Unfortunately by welcome I mean upend in the nearest dumpster. Did I mention the new kid is me?
Dumpsters smell like sour milk and mothballs and battery acid. The smell mingles in your mouth and stays there, especially when it’s constantly reintroduced. The only way I’ve found to get rid of it is cigarettes. The taste of dirt does wonders.
To say that bullies’ tactics are cliché would be an understatement. At this point, I would find it refreshing for some dumb jock to steal my gym clothes or give me a swirly. But no. Dumpsters are all I get.
It’s usually the footballers who like to upend me, but depending on the school, it could be the lacrosse team, or the basketball team, even the theater kids. I’ll admit, that one was a surprise, but at a school for performing arts, someone’s got to be on top.
I find myself leaning against the cool stone façade of my current high school, popping a cigarette between my lips and lighting it. I blow the smoke out through my nostrils and shrug my satchel into a more comfortable position across my shoulder.
A group of footballers sashay across the front lawn, several of them looking familiar. Sniveling idiots with leather on their shoulders and rocks in their heads. They cast me wry glances before turning toe in my direction. Luckily, the first bell rings and they decide against whatever they were going to do, chuckling as they head inside.
I can’t help the eye roll that happens as I take one last puff and crush the butt beneath my shoe.
Week two has given me enough time to memorize my schedule, my teachers’ names, and my locker combination. I haven’t bothered to make any friends, there’s no point. I spend lunch roaming the hallways, turkey sandwich in hand. A display case catches my eye and I notice it celebrates the Cedar Baron’s winning streak. The football team’s trophies and awards dazzle under the small fluorescent lights above, but those aren’t what concern me. Mounted in the middle of the showcase is a team photo. The name plate beneath gives away my tormenters’ names. Tad Drake, quarterback, Dillion Powell, receiver, Franklin Weal, Line man. I narrow my eyes at Tad Drake’s glowing face in the photo.
A girl trips over my foot and curses at me as she hurries down the hall. I don’t even have time to apologize as she’s fifteen feet away by the time I register what happened. The bell rings and I throw the remaining half of my sandwich into the nearest trashcan before heading to science class.  
The remainder of the day goes by without incident. Kids swarm the hallways, slamming lockers and buzzing about homework. I shove textbooks into my satchel and retreat from the building, using the chaos as my own cloak of invisibility from Tad and company. Feeling safe only when I’ve slid into a seat on the bus, I let out a sigh and turn my head to the window.
-Collins

The Start of Something

book, characters, death, excerpt, excerpt of the day, Short story, Uncategorized, Writing

I was only a young boy when they first came to me. I was supposed to be sleeping, but instead I had my flash light on under my covers reading my favorite comic book. If my mom knew, she’d tan my hide. But I did it anyways. If I had been sleeping…I doubt they ever would have found me. But I had to know what happened to my favorite characters. Did they defeat evil? Did they lose their damsel?
I never found out.
Now I live in fear, for every day when I lay in bed she comes to visit me. With her three other friends. The most beautiful sirens I have ever seen, except it’s not real. None of it is. I lost track of reality that day as a young boy with a flash light.
I’m now a shell of a man, a man who has to sleep with the lights on.
It’s pathetic really. I mean…they have to be a figment of my imagation. There is no way three raven haired women come into my room every night to taunt me. To feed on my soul.
Or do they?
God…the confusion is the worst part.
My parents never believed me. They told me it was a nightmare, it was in my head. They took me to the best doctors in town for them to say the same things. Sooner or later I realized my best bet was to agree with them, to not tell them that it was real. That I had the scars to prove it littered around my body. They became a shameful secret. I was a shameful secret. My mother and father never told anyone what was happening to their son, they simply pulled me from school. Told their friends I was out, or I was sick and that’s why I wasn’t around.
When I finally finished my schooling, I packed my things in the middle of the night and left. I was hoping that maybe if I left that house…the four women wouldn’t follow. But they did. And now they’ve got me trapped down here…because they no longer simply come at night. Now that I’m alone? They come whenever they feel like it. They’re going to kill me. I know they are, I can see it in the gleam of their eyes as they stare at me. In the pitch of their laugh as they taunt me and ridicule me. Telling me that time is running out to be a good boy.
I’m not a boy, I’m a god damn twenty-four year old man, but you’d never know it.
Hell, maybe I’m already dead. This is hell, it just has to be.

 

-Turner

Prompted

author, canada, characters, controversial, creative, fiction, new, Short story, truth, Uncategorized

Hey, happy belated birthday to our blog, how exciting is that? Again, I’m late on the draw. But I will have you know I did a happy dance on the day.

So, just a few hours ago I asked a trusted friend for a writing prompt, help me get the juices flowing and all that, ya know? She gave me this:

“Explore the relationship between two people who are married or marrying but not for love.”

So I immediately put pen to paper…or fingers to keys, you get the drift. This is what came out. A little rough, but it felt good to be creative again! What do you guys think about writing prompts? I personally love them for times of writers block or to combat boredom. Let me know and enjoy.

-Turner

 

My future husband was as unfamiliar to me as a stranger on the street would be.
I didn’t know his likes, or dislikes. I didn’t know if he had a good childhood or about his college experiences. I’d never heard his voice nor felt his touch.
I did know that he was forty-seven, to my eighteen. I knew that his hair was only starting to turn gray. I did know that he was six feet one inch. He didn’t have any children and he had been married once previously, before she divorced him for a much younger man. I knew that he had at least fifty thousand dollars in his bank, seeing as that was how much it cost to buy my hand. But that was all his profile said. He wasn’t an unattractive man, which just confused me more. Why would a handsome, rich man need to utilize our services?
Not that I would complain, Andrew Marshall was rescuing me from my bleak existence in eastern Europe. In turn, he would be saving my little brother from a life of crime, and my mother from the tragedy of that. Not that she agreed with my choice, but she wasn’t against it anymore. Not once I pointed out all the things that would be better for it.
I on the other hand, was terrified. I’d never left my small home. I spoke English, but not very well. I was also a virgin, I’d never been in love. As a young girl I always hoped that a young, handsome man would ride up on his white horse and save me from my life. But that didn’t happen. Instead, my Papa had a heart attack, leaving my mother with a mountain of debt and a delinquent little brother who was lashing out. I had to do something. My friend Jasmine had done this exact same process and was now living in Los Angeles, she told me all about it. How much she enjoyed her older man and the life he could provide for her in America.
It was as if all the answers to my problems suddenly appeared in front of me, I didn’t hesitate. I set up a profile, using the same formula Jasmine did only a year before and within three months, I had an interested bidder. The company I signed up through takes a percentage of the price my suitor is required to pay. The rest goes to my family. After that, he purchases me a plane ticket and applies for all legal permits before I am whisked away from my home, bought, signed, and done. Within a few weeks, I will become Mrs. Tatianna Marshall.
Who she is, or who she will be…is a mystery to me.
I only hope she is someone her Papa would be proud of.
That’s the only thing I have to hold onto.
I’m about to be thrown to the wolves, god help me.

My first and last dance with mr. sam jib

Blog, characters


 

The idea that Harold could kill someone was completely ridiculous. I knew this. I did. Yet, the longer I thought about it, the less sure I was becoming.
I thought back to the cocktail party at Mr. Jib’s house. We’d arrived around six to his lavish estate, Harold looking dapper in a slick tuxedo and I in a floor skimming down that dazzled as I exited the car. The party was in full swing as we entered through the enormous front doors. Several servers offered us champagne flutes from trays they carried. We smiled and accepted.
Mr. Jib lit up as we approached through the crowd and greeted us warmly.
“Harold, such a pleasure you could make it,” he said, shaking Harold’s hand firmly. “And, this must be your wife.” He regarded me with sparkling chestnut eyes.
I offered him my hand. “Millie. I’m very pleased to meet you finally. Harold’s told me so much about you.” Mr. Jib was Harold’s boss down at the steel mill.
“All good things I assume.”
I grinned a little. “Of course.”
Harold stares at our entwined hands before I clear my throat and Mr. Jib lets go. I shuffled back a step and leaned into Harold’s side. Harold forced a smile onto his face. “Thanks for inviting us.”
“You’re welcome. I hope you enjoy that party,” Mr. Jib said as we melted into the crowd.
“Let’s dance,” Harold suggested, grabbing my glass and setting it down in a nearby table along with his. He led us to the middle of the floor and proceeded to guide us through the waltz. The music was enchanting and we spun around the floor between other couples for what seemed like hours.
A tap on his shoulder had Harold turning around.
“Mind if I cut in?” Mr. Jib grinned.
Harold’s face took on a light red shade but seeing at Mr. Jib was his boss, he decided letting him have one dance with his wife was alright. “Fine,” he grunted before dropping my hands and walking off the floor.
“Mr. Jib,” I smiled.
“Please, call me Sam,” he laughed, taking up Harold’s position and leading us around the floor in a flurry of spins and foot work. It felt like I was flying. “So, what do you do for work?”
“Well, I’m a secretary. I type memos, fetch coffee, records notes…” I flush lightly as I notice Sam’s eyes remain focused on my face as I speak. I avert my eyes, staring down at his chest, at the pocket square protruding from his breast pocket. “Enough about me. Harold tells me you’re considering a merger with the rival steel mill?”
“Yes. It’s all good business sense. Tell me, how did a fine looking gal like you end up with ol’ stick in the mud Harold?” His tone is joking, a flash of gleaming teeth visible between his parted lips.
“We were high school sweethearts, married for seven years this March.”
“How very romantic,” Sam said without much enthusiasm. He dipped me suddenly and in a rush I was nearly upside down. He pulled me back up and wrapped his arms around my waist. “I could show you real romance.”
“I beg your—“
He leaned in close to my ear and we rocked back and forth. “You’ve been stuck with the same guy. Boring, serious Harold for years. Don’t you wonder what you’re missing? What I could show you?”
“Mr. Jib, I don’t know what you think—“
He tilted down suddenly and kissed my cheek. I bolted from his grasp and bumped into a couple behind me. Harold barrelled through the crowd and grabbed hold of Mr. Jib’s lapels.
“Do not touch my wife again!” he shouted, the music drowning out the gasps around us.
“We were just dancing, weren’t we?” Mr. Jib asked innocently, his eyes darting to me.
“Don’t talk to her. I saw what you did. If you touch her again I swear I’ll… I’ll…”
Mr. Jib chuckled, pulling Harold’s hands from his jacket. “You’ll what?”
Harold looks down at his hands, then slowly back up to Mr. Jib. “I’ll kill you.”
I stepped forward, clutching Harold’s shoulders. “Harold! Don’t say such things.”
Mr. Jib appeared amused at Harold’s sudden bravery. “You keep that spark of bravado and you might just be able to hold onto your wife. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have guests.” He departed, though not before offering me a wink.
Harold was practically vibrating with anger.
“Come, Harold, let’s go. He didn’t mean any harm, he was just drunk.”
“I meant what I said,” he whispered as we exited the party.
“Sure you did. Let’s just go home and forget the whole thing,” I said. “I’ll make us some tea and we’ll watch the Ed Sullivan show. You like that show.”
I’d thought everything was forgotten, but a few weeks later, Harold came home happier than usual. He threw his lunchbox down on the kitchen table and kissed me.
“You’re home early, dear.”
“Yeah, they let us out early. There was an accident at the mill.”
I turn to him, sliding on a pair of oven mitts to retrieve the casserole from the oven. “That’s terrible, what happened?”
Harold opens today’s newspaper as he sits down at the table, flipping to the sports section. “It was Mr. Jib. He was up on the catwalk surveying the progress of a new shipment when he slipped and fell at least thirty feet.”
I freeze with me hands half way inside the oven. “Is he going to be alright?”
Harold flips the page. “He’d dead. Enough about that, when’s dinner going to be ready?”
It takes me a moment to respond. “Half an hour.”
“Call me when it’s ready,” he says, jumping up from the table and tossing the newspaper down. “I’m going to take nap.” He heads up the stairs, whistling a tune.
I stare after him. He…. Couldn’t have, could he? I shake my head and grin a little. No, not of course not. Mr. Jib was right when he said Harold was a stick in the mud, boring, and serious. Harold wouldn’t have the gall to do something that rash.
I chuckle to myself, crossing the kitchen to empty Harold’s lunchbox. When I open it I find something peculiar. Beneath the apple and half eaten sandwich is a pocket square. A red pocket square. I hold it up to my face and examine it. Mr. Jib wore a pocket square exactly like this one the night of the cocktail party.
I drop the pocket square and brace a hand against the table for balance. He did it. He really did it. Do I turn him in to the police?
He did it for me, because I mean so much to him. He couldn’t bare for another man to put his hands on me. It was for love. A crime of passion. A smile starts to spread across my face. He loves me.
With that, I return to preparing dinner. Harold’s getting his favourite dessert tonight.
 
-Collins

It’s going down, Jacob

Blog, characters, death, excerpt, fiction

It’s going down, Jacob.Newest installment. Enjoy.
It’s been too long since blood has coated my skin. Since I watched the light drain from the eyes of a victim.

I’ve been so engrossed in my Angel I’ve put my urges to the side, just soaking up as much of her as I can. Most of the time she knows I’m there, but I still lurk in the shadows. I just can’t help myself.

My mother has called a few times to discuss my abrupt exit from dinner two weeks ago, but I’ve ignored them. I know I’ll have to call her back eventually for appearance sake, but until then, I’m going to bask in the after glow of my kill.

The body is already rolled up and buried deep in the forests ground. My blade is sheathed in its home, resting against my hip. However the blood remains, I run the sticky remnants between my fingers as I make my way back to my car.

Just then my cellphone rings. I check the time, my fingers leaving a red smear on the glossy surface of my I Phone. I’ll have to disinfect the damn thing…again. The ringing stops by the time I’m finished my thought. It’s three am and Angel’s name is flashing across my screen.

“Angel.”

“Jacob…Jake…I need help.”

My heart stutters.

“Excuse me?”

I hear a whimper. “I’m…I’m out, and…someone is following me, Jacob.”

My fist grips my phone so hard I’m scared I’m going to shatter the glass.

“Where. Are. You?”

“Just down on West Haven…can you come? Please?” Her voice is a whisper. A whisper that shoots straight through me.

“Keep walking, head towards the closest store you can. I’ll be there soon.” With that, I hang up.

I pick up my pace until I’m sprinting through the dense underbrush, bursting out into the night when I reach my car and throw myself in. Not even buckling my seat belt, I peel the car out and head straight to my Angel. Whoever is following her is going to be the second victim to feel the fury of my blades tonight.

How I love blood. How I will relish in the feeling of this stalkers as it sprays my face.
-Turner

Twitter: @turnercollins_

A new Turner Collins piece

author, book, book quote, character, characters, creative, excerpt, excerpt of the day, Uncategorized

So, as previously mentioned Collins and I have started a new piece of writing and we are pretty excited about it. After much thought and debate we’ve decided and finally figured out where our niche is, what genre works best for us. Now, this story is in the very early stages, but we’ve begun writing the first workings of it so I have decided to share a little piece with you today. Now, I’m not going to give any of the plot away, because this one is a doozy and I can’t wait for it to finally come to life.

Enjoy!

I grew weak in my grief, my forehead hitting the same window that gave me the last glimpse of her. My eyes, heavy and closing of their own accord. I hadn’t cried in years, I had toughened myself to this life. But nothing could hold the single tear that fell down my stubbled cheek back. It fell, long and wet down my face. I would have wiped it away, had I had the use of my hands. I had to stay strong, not just to get through this trial, through jail, but to get back to my Penny. My sweet little girl who didn’t deserve this. The guilt started to eat me, more than it ever had before. I had always justified my decisions.
It was what was best for my family, to provide for them.
I would never let them be involved.
I was strong and could handle myself.
I wasn’t qualified to do anything else.
I was invinsible.
The guys would help me, protect me.
In the end, none of those reasons worked. I wasn’t indestructible. I wasn’t a good father. I wasn’t a good person.
And Penelope had paid the ultimate cost.

-Turner

 

A piece from a different piece

book, characters, love, shortstory, story

I decided to share a piece of something I’m working on separately from Collins. I know, the horror! This story is set in the UK, because, as you can tell from our musical choices, the UK is pretty darn awesome. It starts with two best friends, Imogen and Killian. Friends who have grown to love each other, but can’t find the words. It has humor, romance and all the cool stuff that comes with owning a hip record shop in London. Here is a little taste of what I’ve started!

“I hate you, Killian Brody.”
“And I love you, Imogen Harris!”
My heart stutters. For so long I have longed to hear those words. If only they were spoken in a different tone, with a different meaning. I know he only means as his friend, and that’s the part that breaks my heart every time. I swallow back the bitter pill of unrequited love…

– Turner