rachelfox

[rachelfox]

Update to Writing Goals

As it turns out, my writing goals were a little lofty. After a month of writing five hundred words, five times a week, my to-do list was long. I was choosing to write instead of cook dinner at night. As it happens, after my anxiety came to a head, I stopped writing altogether for the past few weeks. With nurturing and patience, I feel like I can flush out my writing goals with a little variety. 

The plan is to be inclusive of all kinds of writing, such as: 

-If I read instead of write, take notes. List three things I love about it and three things I don’t like as much. (Thanks for the idea @christinejschmidt!)

-Start an on-going story about a character, like @ejdwrites. 

-Write poetry. 

-Work on an outline for an epic fantasy novel. 

-And, of course, my Frodo Bookends book reviews: http://frodobookends.tumblr.com/

I want to be less bound to structure in all aspects of my life. Although I believe in goals for motivation, holding myself to five hundred words a day was causing more harm than good. For now, I write because I like writing. 

[rachelfox]

The Church Commands

“Divorce is not an option.”

“But he isn’t happy.”

“You must make him happy. Do whatever he wants. I don’t care how difficult or perverse. Your marriage is of the utmost importance.”

“But I am not happy!”

“You signed up for this when you walked through that door.”

Shelly leaned forward over the desk, her eyes fixed on Natalie’s pale, heart-shaped face. Natalie shivered under the steely gaze.

“You will solve this problem and I will hear no more about it. You may leave.”

Shelly’s fingers tapped a thick file folder on her desk. As she pushed back her chair, Natalie caught sight of her name printed neatly on the tab. She dreamed about that file, scheming up ways to break into the upper offices and whisking her file to safety. But she knew there were digital copies and anyway, Shelly could ruin her reputation without any real information at all.

Shelly motioned for the door and Natalie turned her back, slipping her purse over her shoulder as she walked.

In the elevator down, an LED screen played a video of her husband regaling a crowd with an uplifting speech. The same video had played the day she auditioned to be his wife.

Three years ago, she entered the casting room. Under the pretense she was auditioning for a major motion picture, she was surprised when they asked if she had any sexual fetishes. Her last television show had been a bust, however, so she answered all their questions hesitantly. The money was good and she needed it badly.

Months later she received a callback. A woman in uniform withdrew the pretense, explained that they were looking for a model wife. Their star needed a partner and she was the perfect mate. Natalie had denied the offer immediately but the woman had insisted. Just one date, she had said, just go on one date and see how you feel.

She regretted that date with all her heart. He took her to a private mini-golf range where they drank rosé and traded flirtatious witticisms. By the end of the day, he had her leaning in for the kiss, a touch of pink in her cheeks. He had swept her off her feet immediately. At the time, she hadn’t wondered how he knew she loved mini-golf and rosé. Every word and idea had been fed to him, of course.

By date three, he asked for an NDA. Normal celebrity deal, he said, not that you need to worry. He smiled, his hair falling over his face. Melting at the twinkle in his eyes, she signed the contract without a second thought.

The elevator door dinged and opened onto a vast lobby. Large humanoid statues circled a copper globe and blue skylights enveloped the room with an eerie glow. Natalie tugged her hat low and slid her sunglasses into place. She hurried through the room, past the tv screens and the information desks. A man waved, but Natalie rushed through the front doors and into the blinding sunlight. The large blue building loomed over head and Natalie glanced up in dismay, the Scientology sign stark as always against the bright sky.

[rachelfox]

Character Study for Eliza’s Birthday

Eliza Chase is a person of refined palettes. Whether it be food, art, or decor, she probably has an opinion and probably wants you to ask her about it. She holds high standards, but rarely gives off an air of pretentiousness. On the other hand, be careful to criticize anyone or anything she loves; she is protective. She thrives among friends, but reenergizes alone with her toy dog Ashi. She loves farmer's markets, dessert, and a well-planned weekend.

Eliza’s apartment is the perfect exhibit to delve into her psyche. Take her living room, to start. Upon entering Eliza’s front door, one experiences a soothing calm brought on by the well-preened oasis. Lush, green plants hang in patterned pots, while ferns and succulents of every flavor fill the visitor’s vision with beauty. A large, inviting couch and the softest pastel rug offer every visitor a place to rest. Rubbing your hands over her soft, plump pillows invoke memories of baby bunnies...okay, maybe that metaphor went too far. I digress. Like her living room, Eliza’s natural, but elegant appearance is never wavered by any stress or sickness, friend or foe.

Once fully rested, the visitor might venture into the kitchen for a glass of water, although it is a rare day that Eliza doesn’t have a pitcher of a refreshing, handmade concoction resting on the dining room table. Her kitchen excites, with pops of color affronting the ocular sense at every turn of the eye. This is where the magic happens. Eliza’s stomach is as picky as her brain and her creative side appears with vigor when cooking. She scours the Japanese supermarket, printed pictures of ingredients in hand. Although there is no English translations, Eliza will find everything she needs. Where Eliza has a goal, she succeeds.

The third section of Eliza’s house is often shut behind a door. Within lies her bedroom and bathroom. Although less-viewed, even the hallway to these rooms is well-decorated. Curated art hangs in the hallway, keeping the walk to the bedroom alive and happy. On her dresser, each and every piece of jewelery lies out in all their naked splendor, left to revive and thrive in peace. Hundreds of pins live on a lampshade, illustrating Eliza’s many interests. Necklaces hang from a piece of art that Eliza hand-painted herself. Like her bedroom, Eliza’s internal emotions are complex and bold. Only friends are invited here, but they recognize and relish these moments.

Eliza’s particularities are unique and loved by her friends. Her voice can often be heard above a crowd, enlightening the group about anything from politics to the latest celebrity gossip. Other times, she is withdrawn, sitting in a corner with Ashi, quietly listening with ears at attention. She is a fierce leader and an equally good listener. Her planning skills are unbeat and her care to detail is unreal. With a friend like Eliza, one never needs to worry. She’s got your back as long as you’ve got hers.

[rachelfox]

The Courage of Ants

Sweat dripped down June’s face as she walked. She swiped her forehead absentmindedly and her eyes flitted left to right, reading the scroll for the hundredth time. Grimacing, she slapped her calf. The island’s fire ants were a vicious sort. Back home in the city of Little Hill, their ants didn’t bite. She wasn’t dressed for the heat, and the bites stung from the sweat pooling under her woolen tunic. She was overdue for a bath. The bathing options on the ship to Maril had been underwhelming, to say the least.

She rolled the note and slid it in her shoulder bag. Squinting upwards through the trees, she guessed the time by the remaining sunlight. If she kept up the quick pace, she should reach the town of Maril by sunset.

A split in the road appeared ahead. A young man sat on a treestump, tearing into a piece of bread with his teeth. At the sight of June he hopped up, excited.

“Hello there!” The man shook bread crumbs off his loose linen pants. She eyed them jealously.

“Greetings,” she nodded.

“It’s not often we get visitors,” he breathlessly exclaimed, “are you headed to town?”

She nodded again.

Gathering up his belongings, he asked, “Do you mind if I walk with you?”

June hesitated. In Little Hill, the men were less than likeable.

“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you,” he assured, “It’s just, Maril is so small. I rarely talk to someone my age.”

“It’s okay,” she said, “I’m not worried about you hurting me.”

He cocked his head and noticed her tunic.

“Where are you from?”

She paused and another fire ant took advantage.

“Damnit!” She swiped the ant from her leg.

The man smiled and his eyes crinkled, “You’ll get used to them. They only like foreign blood.”

June laughed, but the bites throbbed. She absentmindedly rubbed her boot against her calf

“I’m Emmett, by the way.” The tan stranger held out his hand.

“June.”

She shook his hand and they started down the path towards Maril. Large, orange flowers bloomed bright on either side, marking the way through the canopy of trees. The silhouettes of large, red ants marched down every branch and stem. Eyeing them anxiously, June hoped they stayed well out of town.

“So, will you be staying at the inn?” Emmett questioned.

“Well, actually…” She stopped. She wasn’t prepared. She didn’t even know if she could do this, but Emmett’s eyes bubbled with curiosity.

“There’s a house waiting for me in town,” she released in a short burst of air.

Emmett stopped and turned, a look of delight crossing his face.

“Why then, you must be the new magician!” He declared.

She nodded, blushing.

“Everybody’s been talking about you. Ever since Harper left, we’ve been up to our necks with problems. We’ll finally be able to take care of the hog problem - our mama pigs have caught wind of some curse and can no longer birth. We haven’t had pork in months! But you shouldn’t be worrying about that yet. You’ll want to get settled in first, won’t you?” He paused.

June’s grip tightened on her bag. She was straight out of academy and Maril was her first appointment. Pigs were Year 1, but everything was a blurry, sweaty mess right now and she was so nervous she didn’t respond. She slapped her leg again.

“Hey,” Emmett asked, “why don’t you just zap those ants away? Harper kept a protective spell going at all times.”

June’s eyes widened in embarrassment as he scrutinized her. Slowing her pace, she wiped her palms on her leggings. An ant made his way over her boot and she stopped, lowering her hands to face the ground. A moment of stillness and then an ominous cloud of ants rose up from their feet and jerked, falling far away.

The man’s face relaxed. I can do this, June thought. I am a magician.

[rachelfox]

How To Have Nightmares

Today was hard. Your boss snapped at you for a mistake that was barely your fault. You cried in the bathroom and texted your boyfriend, but he didn’t respond until later, when it didn’t really matter anymore. On the walk to your car, a cockroach crawled across your path and you gasped, dropping your phone, a sudden snowflake of spiderweb newly strewn across your screen. Driving home, you glanced sidelong at the buildup of coffee-stained travel mugs and crumbled receipts scattered around your car. You sighed and turned up the radio. Upon arriving home, you dropped your backpack immediately inside the front door, striding swiftly to the bedroom where you planned to spend the rest of your night asleep.

Falling into your soft tangle of blankets, you finally relax into the creases of your favorite pillow. Your eyes slide closed and you wait for sleep to take you into her warm, gentle arms, to dance with you into the sunrise. Pictures flutter across your eyelids, and you remember that horrible, stinging moment earlier today, when your boss’s wiry frame cowered above you, correcting your work, his watery eyes flashing back and forth between your face and the computer screen. A tuft of hair falls across the keyboard and you squint, but the edges of your vision have blurred. You run your hands across your face and through your hair, and tumbles of hair pull away, falling, falling all around you. Your boss strides around the desk to face you, his tiny, expressionless eyes boring into you as you push yourself up and stumble away. Trying to run, your legs seize up and you thrust  against the jelly-like wall of air in front of you. Terror fills your body as you feel your boss advancing towards you and you cower, your vision fuzzy and dark.

You realize where you are. Sleep’s clutches have dragged you into that deep, dark place you fear. You squeeze your eyes shut and think, “wake up, wake up!”

You wake in your dark bedroom and gasp in the fresh, full air. Reaching for your bedside lamp, your hand grasps at the cord and you pull. Nothing. You pull again and the light flickers on and off. That’s weird, you think. Third time - a sudden flicker and all the lights in the house turn on for one long second. You choke and cough. In the flash you saw the looming shadow of a man in your doorway. You reach for your phone and dial your boyfriend’s number. It rings and he picks up! “Help me!” You say, “Help me!” No response until slowly a low, gutteral groan emerges from the microphone. “Heeeeeeeeeelllllp meeeeeeee,” he says, “heeeeeeeeelp me.” You drop the phone and scream, the shadow at the foot of your bed presses down on you and feel a sudden warmth over your chest. You close your eyes in fear and squeeze them once again.

Silence. The pressure releases. The slow, hum of your window unit pushes cold air across your sweating face. Keeping the rest of your body firmly safe under the comforter, you reach, once again, for your lamp. This time, it turns on, a steady glow suddenly filling the room with light. You can breath again. You can move again. You’re awake and you know it’s for real this time, but your heart races. You sit up and force your eyes wide open, grinding your teeth to pull your body out of sleep. You sit and wonder what to do with the rest of your night because you know, there’s no way you’re dancing with sleep again tonight.

[rachelfox]

The First Exit

Scottie shivered over her beer. The old tavern was cold tonight. Fewer patrons than usual sat scattered around, and yet, Tati had let the fire sit too long.

Where was that girl? Scottie came to the bar most nights to see the barmaid. She’d known Tati for as long as she could remember. As children, they would play by the creek between their houses, building mud caves for the snails and catching tiny fish with a cheesecloth from her father’s kitchen. Scottie would return home, covered in dirt, her hair a smudgy brown mess and her fingernails, hopeless. Covering her mouth with her hand to hide a smile, her mother would scold her, sending her right back to the creek to wash off.

The wooden doors swung open and frosty air swirled through the tavern, smothering the remaining flames. Scottie pressed her palms to her chilled cheeks and turned to see the culprits.

Two men stood in dark leather armour with a thin grey insignia engraved over their right breastplates. Scottie leaned forward on her elbows to identify the symbol, but the larger of the men turned his head and caught her eye. She froze. One eye blue and one brown. The same as her.

She dropped her gaze and stared at her hands, hoping he didn’t notice. She chewed her cheek nervously and felt a warm spark between her shoulderblades. Drawing her shoulders back, she looked up.

The man slid into the seat across from her. His gaze unwavering, he caught her wrist on the table.

“Who are you?” He asked gruffly.

She tried to pull her hand away, but his grip held. His one brown eye bore into her, pupil blending into iris, moving as one solid mass.

“Lianne,” she lied, “Lianne Barton.”

The man squinted, “Barton?” he questioned, grip tightening.

She grimaced but held her ground. She rolled her shoulders to keep the suspicious warmth at bay.   

“I don’t believe you,” he said, “you shouldn’t exist.”

Scottie blinked. She’d heard that before. One day, many years ago, her father was taking a trip to the next town over. She’d begged him to take her, grabbing onto his ankles so he had to drag her across the house. He caved and she had helped sell his cheese in the town square, collecting coin from villagers who smiled until they saw her eyes. One man stopped, staring at her, shouting at her father that she was an abomination. She hadn’t known what that word meant, but she cried, sensing his anger. Her father packed up and they had left early. Her parents fought that night and she hadn’t left town since.

A ruckus broke out behind Scottie. The man stared over Scottie’s shoulder, his dark hair falling to cover his blue eye.

“Leave her be! Just take me,” cried a voice that Scottie knew well. Catching the man by surprise, she ripped her wrist from his grip and turned. Tati stood at the bottom of the stairwell, with a travel bag over her shoulder.

The dual-eyed man glared at Scottie and then stalked across the tavern toward Tati. Flanked by the two mysterious soldiers, Tati walked toward the exit.

Scottie jumped off the bench and followed, grabbing Tati by the arm. Tati turned and her face glistened with tears.

Pulling Tati away, both men turned toward the door and ignored Scottie. The dual-eyed man pushed hard on Tati’s back and she stumbled through the doorway, crying out in pain.

The warmth between Scottie’s shoulderblades spread across her entire back and she gasped. Her arms numbed and she felt her hands raise of their own accord. Her fingers tingled and she tried to squeeze her hands together, but they seized and she froze.

Both men dropped to the ground silently, bodies empty of breath. The dual-eyed man lay sprawled on his back, both eyes wide and glossy. Blood pooled out from the back of his head.

Scottie stepped back in shock and the feeling returned to her arms. The few stragglers left in the bar stared, one shattering a glass in surprise.

“Scottie. Scottie! We have to get out of here. We need to go. NOW!” Tati’s voice broke through the fog and Scottie shook her head, snapping back to the bar scene. Tati pulled Scottie out of the tavern and towards the forest at the edge of town.

“Where-” Scottie began, but Tati shushed her.

“We talk later. For now, we run.”

[rachelfox]

Rhythms of the Past

I miss clocks that tick. The sound of the clock in my tenth grade math class, frantically ticking away the minutes until lunch. The old oak framed clock hanging in the living room of my mother’s house, gently ticking as I read Pride and Prejudice for the fifth time on the flower-patterned couch. My favorite clock slowly turning from a sun-face to a moon-face as the day darkened. I used to sit at my friend Chloe’s house, staring at that clock, watching the sun slowly tilt away, the edge of the moon appearing tentatively.

The silence echoes with long lost ticks. Where have you gone, the silence asks. The tick tick tick kept me balanced, I realize in retrospect. There is something soothing, something so lovely and even and smooth that lies in the steady heartbeat of a clock. Even now, I feel my heartbeat aching for a rhythm. She is off, I can hear an extra heartbeat after every bu-bum. Bubum - bubum - buBUMbum, my heart beats. They’re called preventricular contractions, caused by anxiety or alcohol or exercise or who knows. My doctor tells me it’s normal, that over 3 million people in the US alone share this condition. It’s barely a condition, she offers, there are rarely symptoms.

But she’s wrong. I feel off. I feel that third offbeat. I feel uneven, like there’s nothing to guide me anymore. I long for a tick tick tick to tell me what to do. To finish that math homework, to turn the next page of my book, even just to hang out with Chloe. But no, I’m an adult. There is no more homework and reading feels like a chore and Chloe is halfway across the country. The rhythm is off. My couch is brown. I miss the flower pattern.

I pull my laptop off the living room table and onto my lap. I search Amazon for “clock,” but when the page loads my first option is a digital projection clock. Not only is it silent, but the light will keep me up at night. My second option is an “alarm clock with bluetooth speaker, dual usb charger, FM radio, handsfree, 4 level dimmable.” I’m overwhelmed, so I scroll on. My third option looks promising; it’s a normal looking analog faced clock and I click on it. Damn. The description says, “silent quartz.” What’s the point of an analog clock without the tick? I shut my computer in frustration.

Bubum - bubum - buBUMbum. I hold my hands over my heart. She mirrors, murmurs, sighs. Movement out the window catches my attention. A small bird is building a nest in a crook of my lemon tree. She wedges a twisted piece of red plastic between two twigs. I cringe and hope that’s not my litter. She doesn’t care, though. I wish I didn’t care. I wish I could build a nest without doubt, without fear. She turns and looks over at me for a second, her dark eyes steady on my face, and then she’s gone, out into the blue sky and over the tangle of telephone lines.

[rachelfox]

The New Girl

"No fucking way nope.” “No nope no no no.” “No no no no no no fucking way.” “Nope. No. Who is she - what is she doing here - she doesn’t belong,” Chad tittered at Kevin. “I don’t know. Maybe Kyle knows. Either way, I don’t like it,” Kevin tsked and rolled over onto his back on the warm concrete, his excess belly fat falling like landslides on either side of his furry, grey body. His reddish stomach launched upwards as Kevin took a scratchy gasp inward. “Kyle doesn’t know. Nobody knows. She showed up yesterday without warning. They could at least warn us. We sit here every day and they don’t even have the courtesy to include us in their plans. Tsk. Nope. Who is she?” Chad chattered and relaxed into his sprawl, face down on the concrete, hairy limbs spread in every direction. Still upside-down, Kevin leaned his bloated head way back and squinted to see through the house’s big front windows. A tall, thin blonde woman stared out at the relaxed squirrels, hands on her hips, head tilted to one side. Kevin laughed, “she’s watching us again, let’s give her something to look at.” He pushed his massive belly up with both hands and awkwardly rolled himself over and over until he bumped into Chad. “What the fuck are you doing, Kevin.” “Roll with me, Chad.” “Fucking Kevin.” “Do it.” “Ok fine.” Chad rolled with Kevin until they hit the grass border at the edge of the driveway. Kevin heaved with huge garbled laughter while Chad grunted through the effort. “What the fuck was that, Kevin.” “LOOK at her, Chad.” They both stared up at the pale outline in the window. Hands over her mouth, the peeping woman turned and sprinted away. “Hahaha,” Kevin guffawed. The front door swung open and Chad and Kevin slowly pushed to their feet, ears at attention. “MOM, YOU HAVE TO SEE THIS,” the blonde woman shrieked, eyes locked on the massive squirrels. Her shrill voice tore through Chad’s body and he shuddered. “I fucking hate her,” he muttered to Kevin. “Yeah duh, Chad. Let’s go chase the girls in the backyard, it’s fucking mating season, bro.” “Duh to you, Kevin. But whatever, yeah, I’m down. Peace, bitch.” Chad growled and tried to scamper, but his chubby little legs turned his run into something closer to a saunter. “MOM,” the blonde woman shrieked again, “they're leaving, finally!” Another blonde joined at the door, this one an older replica of the first. “Tally, they never leave. They’re squirrels. They’re here all year, terrorizing the dog. There are fleas everywhere and Jack has tapeworm and I bet you can guess who’s to blame.” Tally’s mother shook her head in defeat. “That’s so gross, Mom!” Tally wrinkled her nose. “You don’t even know the half of it. You have to see what they do in the backyard.” The two traipsed to the sliding glass doors that faced the grassy oasis out back. Tally’s jaw dropped and she stood entranced, watching the squirrel orgy on her favorite, comfy lounge chair.

[rachelfox]

Linda

“I’m headed to lunch!” Laura’s production assistant chirped, “wanna join?”

“Uhh. No. That’s all right - I still have a little work left to do,” Laura lied.

“Oh well, no worries! See you later.”

Owl-like, Laura’s head slowly swiveled to watch her exit. The minute the door clicked shut, Laura slumped in her chair and slid her slender frame under the desk with a suspicious grace that suggested common practice.

Reaching her hand back up, she snatched her purse off the back of the chair and pulled it under. Knees tucked in close, she pulled a neatly folded tinfoil packet from the depths of her purse and smiled devilishly. She began to unwrap.

“Tacos….again?!”

Laura started and hit her head hard on the top of the desk.

“OW - what the fuck?!” Laura cried out, “who is that?” She rubbed her head.

“Oh sorry. Thought you might want some company,” the low voice continued, too close for comfort. Laura crawled out from under the desk, tinfoiled tacos in hand. Her eyes scanned from one end of the office to the other, but the space remained unoccupied.

“Down here,” the mellow voice offered and Laura jumped again. Eyes narrowed, she looked down at her desk but everything looked normal; her laptop, her turquoise water bottle, and her dinosaur in the Central Perk mug remained perfectly laid out - except, wait - was the dinosaur waving? She leaned in.

“Joey?!” She questioned and a hand flew to her mouth in surprise. He WAS waving.

“Oh, er, my name’s not Joey. I mean I appreciate being named after such an, erm, capricious character, but my mother named me Linda.” Linda stretched her taut, plastic face into a huge grin. Her bony frill and horns stretched upwards.

Laura looked over her shoulder and around the office.

“Um. Huh!” Laura stuttered and stepped backwards.

“No, please stay! I’d love some company while I eat,” Linda gasped and pulled a small folded paper bag out from inside the mug.

Laura stopped in her tracks.

“Wait, you eat?”

“Of course I eat! How do you suppose I stay healthy and nourished!” Linda laughed and tugged on one of her horns.

“But, how come I never see you eat?” Laura asked.

“You’re always under your desk, silly,” Linda answered and pulled a teeny tiny banana out from her lunch bag.

Laura pulled her desk chair towards her and slowly lowered herself, toying with the edges of the tinfoil packet.

“Go ahead and eat, honey!” Linda gestured and pulled a ziploc’d sandwich out of the bag.

Laura tentatively unwrapped her tacos and glanced up at Linda, her chocolate eyes swirling with questions.

“So,” Laura bit her lip then continued, “why have you never talked to me before?”

Linda put her sandwich down and sighed, “Well -”

The office door slammed open against the wall and a tall, bearded man came blustering in, his cap flying off in the rush. Taco frozen halfway between her lap and her mouth, Laura’s eyes widened.

“Hi, Kris!” She squeaked.

“Hey Laura, I gotta rush to make this conference call,” he waved and speed-walked to his office.

Laura breathed a sigh of relief and glanced down at her desk.

“Linda?” She whispered hopefully.

Eyes glazed over, Linda stood frozen in her usual pose. Laura slowly reached out her forefinger and tenderly touched Linda on the head. Nothing.

She slumped back down in her chair, chewing her taco thoughtfully. Thank goodness for that, she thought, and relished her alone time once again.

[rachelfox]

Late Night Secrets

She felt the soft ease of sleep pressing down on her eyelids. Fuzzy little electric shapes swirled around the edges of her vision. They reminded her of the pattern on the seats of the public bus. She giggled and abruptly shushed herself. Cam was asleep and he didn’t know about her late-night activity. She hiccuped.

An empty bottle of rosé sat on the table in front of Sari. The edges of her sweaty palms conformed to the PS4 controller. Her thumb tapped X and then rigorously pounded on the triangle until - wait  - oh yeah, she killed that bandit good. She pumped the air with her fist and hiccuped again.  

She frowned and paused the game, reaching for her phone to check the time. The screen spilled light across her chin and cheekbones from below and the dog barked at her skeletal form.

“Shush, Ellie,” she gestured frantically and glanced toward the bedroom door. A creak echoed through the apartment and Sari’s eyes widened, red lightning bolts of anxiety sprawled across the white of her eyes. She grabbed for the remote and powered down the television, throwing the remote to the opposite end of the couch and dropping her head to the pillow.

The bedroom door creaked open and Cam stood in his boxers. He shook his head, squeezing his eyes open and shut in confusion.

“Sari?” He asked.

“Huh, what?” Sari raised her head from the pillow slowly and pretended to wipe the sleep from her eyes.

Cam’s eyes strolled across the living room, resting on the bright white light pulsing from the PS4 console. His eyes narrowed.

“Why - what are you doing, Sari?” He growled and marched across the living room toward the television.

“Wait, it’s nothing!” Sari squealed and ran for the television, as if to block his view.

His hand reached out and pressed the “on” button.

The screen glowed to life and the photorealistic character of Geralt crossing his arms appeared. He shifted his weight from one foot to another. The alleyway behind him lay littered with bodies.

“SARI!” Cam exploded, “YOU CAN NOT PLAY MY GAME OF WITCHER 3! I thought we were over this?!”

“Listen, Cam, I can explain,” Sari exclaimed, “If you don’t complete that quest before you get to -”

“I KNOW, SARI. So-and-so will die or I won’t get the ideal ending or whatever! It’s my game - if I don’t want to play the side quests, leave me be! You've already played!”

“But-”

“Go to bed, Sari.”

Sari pouted her bottom lip at Cam. Cam ignored her as he entered the save menu, choosing a save from earlier in the day. Sari’s eyebrows crumbled together and she stared at the tv in disbelief.

“All that work...” she mumbled. She stood her ground and Cam turned his head toward her, PS4 controller clutched in his hands.

“I’m not leaving this couch until I can hear you snoring,” he said, staring her down.

She slowly turned and slinked turned the bedroom, with one final glare over her shoulder. The bedroom door slammed behind her.

Cam stared at the bedroom door for a moment and then back at the tv. The save menu was still open. He blinked. Glancing down at the controller, his finger toggled back to Sari’s most recent save. His thumb hovered over the X button.

“Shit fuck god-dammit FINE,” he swore quietly to himself and pressed X. Sari’s save reopened to Geralt’s unwavering face. Cam’s thumb pushed forward on the control stick and Geralt moved stealthily through the alley of dead bodies.

A loud, fake snore erupted from behind the bedroom door and Cam laughed, and then shushed himself. She could never know.

[rachelfox]

The Forever Children

Death loomed over Rose’s shoulder, teeth bared in offering. She stared into his dusky eyes, hands gripping the neckline of her shirt. She knew she was sure, but she reminded herself one last time:

Children screamed. Pudgy, pale hands grabbed for the plastic bags of blood, pulling this way and that. One wiry girl slammed her palms against the window, hissing at the warm glow of the passerby in the dark alleyway below. A small boy sat alone in a corner with a pile of legos, throwing them at the other children, but keeping the red ones for himself. The room swarmed with the little monsters and they never, ever slept.

Watching through the one-sided mirror, Rose knew that the world would never accept these children. Some of them over a thousand years old, but yes, still children. And they needed a mother.

For thousands of years, the Arachnid society watched over the poor children, all turned vampire too young to comprehend, abandoned by their creators. One by one, the Society tracked down the children by following messy trails of blood and death. They found them lost and alone, behind dumpsters and in abandoned basements, driven crazy by time and memories. They brought them back to their warehouse, to watch and keep them safe until the end of time.

Founded by the vampire Gerard, the Arachnid Society had always been run by vampires. However, as time passed, human population exploded and Gerard found it harder and harder to find help. Most vampires went deep into hiding, emerging only to stockpile blood. Most had no sympathy for humans anymore. He was the last caretaker of the warehouse and he too must leave.

Rose had come to Gerard on her own. She was the head detective on the vampire murders for years and followed an anonymous tip to the warehouse one evening. Gerard greeted her at the door and showed her the children.

They weren’t cold-hearted killers. Rose watched Gerard calm their tears many times over. He read to them, played with them and listened patiently to their stories, fears and thoughts. Not quite dead, not quite alive, they never aged, never matured and never fully understood their situation. Often during story time, Gerard would recount each child’s history and they grasped on to the memories of their parents and their past.

There was no going back, she knew. But without a caretaker those children would be loose on the world. They would kill, not out of malevolence, but of a sheer, inhuman need for blood. Some would be caught, brought in for science experiments. Others murdered on the spot. Thousands of years proved that vampires and humans could never live in harmony.

Hands shaking, she softly nodded and revealed her shoulder. Gerard leaned in and Rose felt the sharp prick in the soft curve of her neck, signaling the beginning of the rest of her very, very long life.

[rachelfox]

Best Friends

Parting the weeds, I slipped through the overgrown lot with ease, following the path I followed every day as the sun began to set. I smelled my scent lingering on the whispering grasses, breathing memories all around me. The late afternoon sun sifted between the gritty brick buildings next door and struck a hard line of light across my path. I walked into the sun graciously, happy to be warmed.

A small beetle brushed against my cheek and I watched it fly away, back into the shade where it disappeared into the shifting shadows. I’d follow the beetle another time. Right now, I had a goal.

I leapt over the rusty chain link fence, landing firmly in the ugliest backyard I’d ever seen. Roughly hewn, unpainted wood formed a small dog house in the corner of the weedy garden. Smashed Bud Light cans lay forgotten under the back steps and a single lonely sneaker lay chewed in front of the back door. Unfortunately, this was Tina’s home.

I’d known Tina since I was born. She was there when I arrived into the light, excitedly circling the crowded room, stopping to clean the goo from my face. The ends of her lips turned up at the edges, creating a facade of forever happiness. Tina lived up to that facade, always optimistic and full of energy, and I loved her for it.

I nimbly climbed the steps and peered through the glass door. The kitchen was dark, but I could see every detail clearly. Without warning, a large bumble of golden fur burst through the dog door and straight into me, knocking me straight off my paws.

“I GOT you this time!” Tina exclaimed, her ears flapping, “I knew cats could be surprised.”

I grumbled. “Smelly dog, I knew you were there the whole time,” I said.

“You did not!” Tina guffawed, and she was right, but I’d never admit it. I suppose I’m rather stubborn.

Tina licked my chin, a slight trail of slobber hanging from the corner of her mouth. She always drooled when she smelled something she liked. I closed my eyes and a slow rumble built up in the lower depths of my stomach. I could never help but purr when Tina cleaned my fur, even though I knew I’d have to redo the job later.

When Tina left the shelter last year, I thought I’d never see her again. Who would have thought I’d catch her scent as I rolled around in my human’s flower garden one day? I looked up and there she was, in the back of a pickup truck, smelling the air in ecstasy as her human exited the liquor store next door. I shouted at her and she shouted back, as her human drove away. “Find me where it smells of lavender and beer,” she shouted.

It took me months, traversing the streets, jumping at the slightest scent of lavender, chasing after every drunk in the neighborhood. I finally found both scents at the empty lot, and I knew Tina was close. I smiled at the memory.

I smiled too, at Tina’s tongue.

“Stop stop stop,” I said, but I secretly longed for more, “tell me about your day.”

“Wellllll,” Tina began, and collapsed into a pile of dog bones, “it all began when my human left for work, like he always does.”

I turned around, and around, and around and landed neatly in a little circle between Tina’s paws. I never wanted the evening to end.

[rachelfox]

Love Spins

Frankie spun around in the pilot’s chair. She dug her fingers into the fleshy temperature-sensitive seat and held on tight. Closing her eyes, she thought of Aurora wearing her favorite red dress, spinning around in her kitchen back home. Both of them spinning, spinning, Frankie’s chair moaning in protest and Aurora’s dress flaring up, revealing quick glimpses of her bare bottom.

Frankie giggled and then frowned, her chair slowing to a stop. She wasn’t supposed think about Aurora, something Martin, the ship’s psychologist, reminded her at every mandatory appointment. “Dwelling on memories back on earth,” Martin would say, his whispery eyebrows raising, “is like dwelling on things that never happened. Out here in space, you start anew.”

She sighed. The damn memories didn’t feel very fake.

“Frankie?” A woman with clear eyes and  long brown braids entered the control room, “Frankie, what are you doing in here?” The woman frowned.

“Sorry, Mom,” Frankie apologized, “I was just practicing for when I take over.”

Her mom smiled, “Well, hopefully we get to the Stardew Cluster before then. Now, come on, I’m gonna get in trouble for giving you access one of these days.”

Frankie hopped down from her mother’s chair. She also hoped she never had to take over; her mother’s job seemed stressful. Frankie preferred her job in the cafeteria, helping the chef whip up new recipes daily, keeping the crew’s hefty appetites at bay. Preservation methods in the last hundred years had reached new heights, and their fruit and vegetables remained fresh for the last two years of travel. Their apple supply dwindled, but Frankie took an extra one home every day, storing the red, juicy fruits in her locker for when they ran out.

Frankie checked her Com-Watch as the control room doors whooshed open. Not quite time for work, but she headed to the cafeteria anyway. She often read, tucked away in one of the corner booths. As she walked, she ran her finger along the single red line that breached the silvery walls of the hallway. The trail of lights overhead left her head spinning and the line kept her balanced.

She turned a corner and the cafeteria doors opened to let her pass. As she beelined for her booth, she kept her eyes on the ground. Red and white tiles slid in and out of place before her fluttering eyes, until she blinked and remembered that the ground was a smooth grey.

“Stop dwelling,” she muttered to herself and slid into her booth. She pulled her book out from the dark slot where the bench met the floor and flipped open to her bookmark. Eyes flitting from one line to the next, she kept her head down, but eventually, as they inevitably always did, her eyes rose above the page and peered across the cafeteria into the opposite corner.

Aurora sat at her usual table, surrounded by the other teenagers on the ship. Black curls framed her pale face, and her pale face framed the most perfect pair of red lips Frankie had ever seen. Aurora glanced up and Frankie gasped, grabbing her book so hard her sweaty hands stained the pages. Aurora continued talking, her eyes shifting back to her friends without a break in composure.

Frankie groaned and stared down at the same page she’d been reading for weeks. Maybe Martin was right. Maybe she needed to get over the breakup. She glanced back up at Aurora and couldn’t help but smile. Nope, Martin was wrong.

[rachelfox]

Don’t “Focus” on the Negative

This isn't La La Land. This is barely Hollywood. This is a less than magical world full of sexism, racism, egoism, hazardous locations and excess waste. This is a film set.

Rachel works as a 1st AC, also known as a focus puller. Nobody outside of the film industry really knows what that means. Her grandpa still thinks she “‘makes movies”, but she really only works on commercials, music videos and web content. When somebody asks what she does, she says “I’m a camera operator” but she's definitely not a camera operator. When somebody shows genuine interest, she says “you know when you turn the focus ring on a dslr camera? That's what I do, but with moving videos.” But that's still a lie.

A camera team is like the movement of a thousand little gears with a million little teeth chattering away until the off button is pushed at the end of a long twelve hour day. Some days they work flawlessly, ever turning, never speaking, but communicating perfectly. Other days they squeak and grind and at some point, one gear even turns the wrong way. But anybody could say that about their job, right? The thing about pulling focus is that the gears are a literal metaphor. There is a little motor on the lens with a gear that turns the focus ring. If that gear slips or turns at the wrong speed or is set to the wrong torque, Rachel is fucked.

Not to mention, the thousand other little gears and screws and brackets and rods and clamps and noga arms could break or slip or loosen at any moment, and often they do and often Rachel fixes them before anyone notices because her job is also to be invisible. However, that is just the hardware. Rachel barely worries about the hardware because first and foremost she is making sure that the camera is set to the right resolution and frame rate and shutter speed and f-stop and ISO and codec and time code and audio level. On top of that, she’s eavesdropping on the DP’s conversation so that she knows what lens he wants mounted before he asks. She also sets a user button for the waveform to double check the exposure and offers up an ND filter if needed. Through all this, she keeps an eye on battery and media percentage, and changes them when they get low, with the help of a 2nd AC. But if the 2nd AC ever fucks up, Rachel will take the blame, so her eye constantly darts back to those percentages, ever worrying, ever stressing.

Once the camera is mounted, Rachel remembers (well, she never forgot in the first place) that she also oversees the setup of director, client and focus monitors, wireless video to all of the above, a battery charging station, and even sometimes the downloading of media. She heads over to double check that all video signals are stable.

“Focus focus focus focus focus!!” She hears the 26-year old director shouting into his monitor and turns on her heel, sprinting back to her focus station. The goddamn DP started to frame up the moment Rachel walked away. She grabs her remote follow focus and glances at the actor. He is about 8’6” from the camera - no time to measure now. She sets her follow focus to 8’6” and speed walks to her focus monitor to double check that the actor is sharp. Fuck, he leaned three inches forward while she was walking. He is still soft and the director looks grumpy. She adjusts her follow focus and glances back and forth between the camera, actor and her monitor, ever adjusting the little knob on her follow focus to keep the actor in focus. The camera pushes forward on the dolly. Fuck! Now she has to measure the distance the camera is moving PLUS the distance the actor is moving and all without a measuring tape because the DP has pressed “roll” without warning and all of a sudden this isn't a rehearsal anymore.

The assistant director calls cut and the DP shouts, “need another one for focus!” and avoids eye contact. The 2nd AC looks over apologetically. The actor sighs and mumbles, “need a bathroom break.” As he walks by Rachel he makes eye contact and says, “hey honey.” Rachel blushes but not because she likes it. She's sick and tired of being called honey and sweetie on set, but she keeps her mouth shut because she wants to be hired again.

Rachel quickly hops up to grab measurements and marks while they pause. She weaves her way around the male DP, the male director, the male sound guys, and the male grips and electrics. They all take up so much fucking room and nobody moves out of her way. She wonders if she was only hired because the DP thinks she’s pretty.

She pulls out her four hundred dollar Hilti laser distance measure, one of the many expensive tools she is expected to own of her own accord. The male producer once again denied her a kit fee, so she’s renting it for free.

As she works, she feels a light tap on her shoulder. She glances to the opposite side, expecting a grip to be playing a trick on her. To her surprise, it's the only other woman on set.

“Hey! I'm Jenny, the script supervisor. Nice job earlier today!”

Rachel frowns and responds, “thanks, but that last shot sucked.”

“Yeah, but that asshole director didn't even give you a rehearsal. And I'm serious! I didn't have to mark down “bad focus” for anything in that dog scene earlier. That was amazing!”

“Thanks Jenny,” Rachel replies. As Jenny walks back to her giant note-taking binder, Rachel remembers that she actually likes her job. She just has to stop viewing it through the male gaze. She smiles and relaxes for a moment.

She’s also starving and has to use the bathroom, but what else is new. God knows the male 1st AD has never had to change a tampon.

[rachelfox]

The Glass House

Jessie ran, cheeks flushed, hands clutching at her phone as she tried to dial without slowing her pace. The tired, brittle landscape raced by, ignoring Jessie’s silent plea for help. Bits of dead leaves shifted and swirled in the wind of her footsteps down the dark, barren road. Her fingers fumbled over the keys and she swore quietly, clumsily raising the phone to her ear.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” She whispered, glancing over her shoulder at the horizon. The clouds continued their cool pace across the blanched sky, but a small speck on the horizon blemished the empty landscape. Jessie’s eyes narrowed and she stumbled over a discarded branch.

“Shit!” She swore and angrily stuffed her phone back into her pocket, unanswered. The small speck grew closer, like a semi racing down the highway. However, anyone with a car was long gone for months and Jessie shuddered, knowing that speck could only be one thing.

The glass house appeared over the bare hill. Once an ostentatious vacation home in the middle of nowhere, the see-through commodity now stood empty in the wake of the takeover. Jessie’s sneakers slammed against the pavement, and her breath whipped in and out in jagged terror. With a final burst of concentration, she pounded up the hill toward the house. The wind picked up as she gained elevation, and her hair burst up and about in furious tangles.

A deep forbidding moan tore across the land and Jessie’s entire body tensed. Her eyes narrowed and her eyelashes fluttered open and closed, open and closed. With a few steps to go, she yanked a key out of her pocket, reaching for the nearly invisible keyhole. She fumbled, but the key slid in despite her shaking hands. As the door swung open, she noticed the lighting-like cracks across the house’s glass exterior. She hoped whatever made them was long gone.

Jessie burst into the house into the open living area. As she bent down toward the large, unassuming jute rug, she saw movement out of the corner of her eye.

The speck was no longer a speck. Billowing in the wind, what looked like a large black curtain rose ominously in front of the house. Two small red glints of light shone out from below the cape and an unearthly red mist seeped out from the hood. Jessie gasped for air and grabbed an edge of the rug, furling it up with as much speed as she could muster. A sheet of copper appeared in the hardwood floor, shining in the white light of the winter sky. Ignoring the overwhelming wail that now filled the house, Jessie reached for a small indentation in the copper and flung open the trap door. As she dropped into the hidden basement, Jessie caught one last glimpse of the wailer’s shrunken face pressed up against the glass wall.

Still unsteady on her feet, she pulled the copper door shut behind her, and rapidly locked all ten copper locks around the exterior. The wailers hated copper and she wasn’t taking any chances.

Hardly calmed, she looked around the small basement at the quilted bed, the chair and the supply of canned food and water. Her mother had stocked the place to last for a year at the beginning of it all. Jessie stifled a sob and wondered where her mother was now. Hunkering down into a crouching position, she sighed. The wailing, slightly muffled, continued overhead. Jessie stared up at the copper door and waited, not knowing how long she’d have to wait.

[rachelfox]

The Goal

To write five hundred words five times every week. No other rules.