Returns...

"It's about time you came back," a gravelly voice whispers from the shadows. "We always knew you would come back to us, didn't we?"

There is a cacaphony rise of voices. I turn in circles, but cand see nothing outside of the small shaft of light I am standing in. I recognize some of the voices - whispers that I heard years ago, brushed aside in the name of "progress" - which is actually just another word for "lazy". Other voices scream for attention, like wind howling against a building trying to get inside.

Slowly, the spot of light, my sanctuary, flutters. It shrinks momentarily, thrusting the darkness to just outside my body. Only a faint, focused light is around me - but only enough for me to stand in. If I move, even the slightest twitch of a finger, I will be exposed in the darkness. Even as I breathe, as my chest expands with every intake of air, I am dangerously close to the darkness.

Suddenly, I am plunged into darkness as the light flickers, dancing on and off like the flash of a strobe. When the flashing finally subsides back to a constant glow of life, I am surrounded by faces. Not all of the faces are defined, some are blank canvasas like a store manaquin, featuring only a simple opening to speak through. Others, the voices from my past, stare at me fully formed, their eyes piercing me with their looks of anger, frustration and hurt.

"We trusted you," they begin to say. "You are the only one that can tell our story... that can help us live. We knew you would come back to us, but we did not think it would be this long." They pause, collectively, as if they have been preparing these words, like a nervous boy rehearses how to ask a girl out. Unlike the nervous boy, there is strength and resolve in the voices of the crowd.

"Hear our voices. Let them haunt you, let them terrify you, let them seduce you. We chose you to speak for us, and you have ignored us for too long. Now it is our turn. Now, it is our time. You call yourself a writer, but you barely put pen to paper - and we are the proof! All of these nameless, faceless forms have been waiting for their chance to be born - to be molded and shaped into something for the ages.

"Quit pissing on yourself, and listen to us. We all have stories to tell, you just need to learn to stop and listen, and write what we tell you. Without you, we have no voice. Without us, your life will be difficult. Your time is over. If you want to be a writer, you belong to us... and it's time you do as you are told."

The crowd grows quiet, then slowly backs away. From their midst, a child whom I have never seen before, steps forward. Her formless face slowly morphs as I envision someone very much like Cindy Lou Who. A child's nose develops, and sockets form, filling up with pools of blue for her eyes. Blonde hair sprouts from her scalp, and in moments a full, shoulder length head of hair with a slight curl at the end is circling her face. There are some gasps from the crowd as they see the transformation, but the child does not yet seem to know what has happened to her yet. "Please, tell me a story," she asks.

I look at her face, then look to those around me. I look back to her, thinking, straining my ears and my mind to hear something, anything, that I might be able to say to this newly faced Cindy. There's a whisper coming from my left. I glance, but see no one. Trust it, I remind myself. I stretch my mind, focusing on that whisper, which is now slowly growing louder. I listen for a moment, drinking in the words.

"Once upon a time," I begin. I know it's cliche, but it gives me time to digest what I am hearing, as the words begin pouring in. Figures begin to sit, attentive, wanting to listen. Others move away, waiting, as if they already know the story, to see how well I can deliver. Somewhere behind me on the left, still in the shadows, faces began to take form.

7-27-07

"You need special permission to view this material," the young librarian stated, looking at the list of books on the counter.

"I'm sorry?" Joseph asked, looking up at the librarian.

She removed her pink glasses and let them dangle in front of her chest. She was wearing a long-sleeved white shirt with a sleeveless, red v-neck sweater. Her shirt collar was partially open, and the pearl studded eye-glass chain stood out dramatically against the sweater. She leaned over looking into Joseph's blue eyes, and repeated the words, "You need special permission to view this material," accenting the words with exagerrated pauses between each word.

Joseph returned the Librarian's gaze and leaned forward slightly. "What kind of special permission?" he whispered, winking, exagerrating the spaces between his words to match hers.

The librarian stood up straight, moving quickly enough to cause her breasts to bounce slightly when she stopped, which jostled her glasses to one side. Her cheeks developed a slight, rosy tint. She looked around to make sure that no one else would hear their conversation. She raised a hand to place her glasses back on her face and lightly stroked her red hair. She looked back at Joseph and whispered, "How old are you?"

"Old enough," he whispered back, stepping closer the the counter, touching the librarian's hand. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-three," she whispered, her breasts rising as her breathing increased. She interlaced her hand with his, while lightly, nervously licking her lips and swallowing.

Joseph could feel her pulse quickening, and he was growing excited. He looked into her clear green eyes and smiled softly. "Miss," he whispered, "what kind of special permission do I need to view these items?"

{to be continued....}

Tony walked into the coffee shop. It was a local place, a hole in the wall kind with a furniture assortment of random chairs and different style tables for patrons to sit in. There was a small stage at one end of the room, in a back corner, presumably where poetry readings or live music could be staged, if anyone cared about those things anymore. Nobody's really cared about those things recently except for the college kids, and they were more worried about getting either drunk, laid, or stoned than poetry or music - unless they were using the poetry or music to get something else.

He glanced around the almost empty shop. Two in the afternoon was apparantly not a big time for coffee sales during July. Go figure. Sitting in the back corner opposite the stage was Catherine. She was watching him walk across the place, navigating through the array of chairs and tables like a sailor negotiating a rocky coastline. She smiled at him as he approached, and he gingerly returned the smile, still picking his way through the last of the tables.

"I trust you had no problems finding the place," she purred. He could barely see the red in her hair. Technically, she had told him once, I'm a brunette. Her hair was natural, just a darker, subtle shade of red. She was dressed in a pair of tennis shoes, jeans and a lavendar women's polo shirt. Her small-framed glasses, in better light would have also shown a hint of lavendar, seemed a little out of place on her otherwise perfect face.

"No, actually. I used to hang out here years ago when I was in college. The place was in better condition, then. It had more traffic, too."

"I can imagine," she replied, pulling an envelope onto the table. It was a manilla envelope, a standard letter mailer - the kind you would expect to get a letter in from a bill collector.

A small figure, a slender young woman in her early twenties had appeared next to their table. Tony had never heard her approach, so when she spoke, it initially startled him, his eyes opening in shock at the sound of her voice over his shoulder. "Sir, would you care for anything to drink?" She stood to his left, just behind his shoulder.

He turned towards her, "Just a water for now, please."

"Ma'am," she said, looking at Catherine. "Did you need a refill?"

"Not now, doll," Catherine rolled out. "Check back with us in a bit, though, we may need something a bit stronger than water." Catherine winked at the waitress.

As the waitress went to get the water, Catherine returned to business. She folder her fingers together, keeping her hands resting on the envelope. Catherine waited for the waitress to deliver the water and return to the kitchen again before continuing.

Catherine drew a slow, deep breath and focused on Tony. "If we have this conversation," she started, "it's going to end badly for you. Consider that a fair warning." She paused, waiting for Tony's response before continuing. When he nodded that he wanted to continue, Catherine unlocked her hands and turned the envelope over. She stared at the text, the flowing hand-written script on the envelope for a moment before sliding the envelope across to Tony.

Random Prompt

Brian thought back to their first date. He was attracted to her, and he always remembered her smile and the way her eyes seemed to dance in the candlelight, but it was something that she had said late in the conversation that stuck him. Now, two years later, he realized she had warned him, but he was to smitten to care.

"I'm going to disappoint you," Jamie had said. "But you knew that already." She said it so matter-of-factly, like the recounting a box score - Celts beat the Lakers, Cubs over the A's, Barbaro by a nose, and I'm going to disappoint you.

Brian remembered starting at her for a moment after that, caught in the awkward moment that the statement commanded. She smiled back, tilting her head slightly to her right. Her soft blonde hair shifted more onto her shoulder, a tuft of locks falling around her face. Brian couldn't help but tell her how beautiful she looked, the comment momentarily forgotten.

Photo Plot 1

Stephen leapt from the side of the tower. There were too many people that had seen his cast his spells that he knew he would be marked. Even if he could get away from the tower and into the crowds undetected, it would be almost impossible for him to make it out of the gates without being identified.

It was a deperate plan, he realized, but the only way he could find to escape. If it backfired, well, all he could do was hope for success.

* * * * *

It was near dusk the previous night when he had been captured. Stephen had been dining in a pub, the place boisterous and the alcohol flowing, when the place suddenly became silent. Stephen was still laughing loudly when he realized what was happening.

"Stephen, Minstrel of York, you are here-by under arrest for the crimes of conspiracy to commit treason, destruction of the king's property, and witchcraft," the deep voice sounded from the door. Stephen had been staring at the individual while she announced the charges. She was a beautiful blonde, with green eyes that Stephen could see from across the room. He knows the eyes well.

"Madam Catherine," he said, standing quickly as several armed guards began moving around the tables towards him. "We really should quit meeting like this."

"Watch his hands, " she yelled at the men. "Secure them well once you have him."

Stephen firmly grabbed the sides of the table and lifted, lurching the table forward as best he could before throwing his hands wildly about. Small flashes of light shot towards each of the armed men, stunning them where they stood. Stephen began moving towards a window and patrons, laughing with him a few moments earlier, were now shrieking and drawing away from him as he approached. Stephen grabbed a chair and threw it towards the large glass window. The chair hit the window with a thud before it scuttled to the floor.

Stephen ran towards the bar, and the door for the backroom, where the owner was standing in his way.

"Not in my establishment," the owner growled, holding a cleaver in his right hand.

Stephen focused on the metal and it began to glow. The owner yelped in pain as he dropped it, grabbing his hand as it became singed from the metal in the handle. Stephen pushed past him and into the kitchen, scrambling for the back door. He ran out, into the night, and into the arms of another group of guards.

"Last time I saw Joe, he was sitting at the table in the corner, over there," he said, pointing to the small, wooden table with two chairs on one side, and a bench seat against the wall. "He ordered his usual - a Newcastle Pale from the tap - and he sat over there most of the night nursing it. I hear he lost his best friend the other day, is that right? Poor guy... that would explain why he spent most of the night in the corner, though. He's usually a pretty upbeat guy, and sits up by the bar. I didn't get a chance to try and talk with him, though... as soon as I got done with my shift I had to beat it - I had a gig to get to across town. As it was, I got there about 10 minutes before we were supposed to start playing...
"Good luck looking for Joe... He was a great guy, once he got to know people."

Exercise 2a

What? Don't just stand there, move to the desk. Wait there. Don't move.

What are you doing? No smoking! Think! No, don't put it in the trash. Put it in your pocket. Get up. Be at O'Flannary's Pub in one hour. Get out - and bring the pictures!

You're late, now sit. Talk to me. Quit lying! Look at her - look closely. Tell the truth, or she's gone.

Exercise 1 - First invention

The alarm went of at five o’clock this morning. It was another early start to a long day. The coffee pot was already bubbling forth the morning’s first nectar from heaven by the time the shower was over and I had gotten dressed. After the second cup, with a two-day old bagel chaser, it was time to head for the job site after pouring a third cup.

It has been three months since the building fell, but while at the site, it still seems like only yesterday. Everyone was glued to the televisions around town, then later, around the country. By the end of the day, the world was embroiled in shock at the turn of events. Who would have thought that a quiet place like this could be struck down so nonchalantly?

June used to work on the fifth floor. She was so happy when she got the promotion that took her from the third. It was a joy to help her move her things into the corner office that overlooked part of downtown – not that there’s ever been much to look at. The tallest buildings were between five and ten stories, anyway, but the office faced east, so she always had a great view.

June has always been a beautiful woman – her light red hair always looked great, and she kept it trimmed to shoulder length. It was generally straight, but there was a hint of natural curl to it that made most women jealous – her hair always seemed perfect. Her soft blue eyes were easy to get lost in, as had happened on many occasions. June could have been a double for Nicole Kidman, someone had told her, and she smiled at that.

People initially said it was a structural problem that contributed to the accident. Like hell it was a structural problem! The building had been standing for almost ten years, and we were a good crew that built it. There have been dozens of earthquakes around here and even a tornado that did some minor cosmetic damage, but the building was sound.

When the phone rang that morning, the voice on the other end was shaky. They said there was a delivery truck that had been parked right next to the building. When it blew, it had to have been packed full of something, it took out most of the substructures and framing on the east side of the building. June was one of the lucky ones - if you can call it luck… she never knew what hit her.

What is This Place?

Welcome to the "new" home.... a pseudo-temporarily-permanent location for writing projects, doodles and "stuff". When I started "Echoes Americana" - in concept, then in reality, years ago... part of the plan was for it to be a place where I could throw out some "literary doodles", as a means to track my growth and refinement as a writer. The original "Echoes" is, has been, and will continue to be a "daily posting" of sorts... a writer's diary and general "updates" on things life in general (an online journal, of sorts).

Here, however, will be where I experiment. First and foremost, unless I specifically state something to the contrary, anything that is stated in a post should be taken with a grain of salt... Just because something may say "I" did something, it could be in context of character. When in doubt, check how the post is labeled... "Fiction" should be in most of the ones that will pop up... or, when in doubt, ask.

The other major disclaimer: I cannot and will not guarantee a "PC" or child friendly site... In the context of writing, or maintining character, language may be used or scenes may eventually develop that may not be "happy" reads or clean reads... (I'm not saying that there WILL be a lot of those styles of scenes, either, but well.... this IS the disclaimer!! :o)

Periodically, I may also open up the floor for ideas to be submitted (a sort of "Whose Line..." style) to create something else... we shall see...

For now, however, welcome to my tangents, twists and tumultuously timed tinkerings... (blessed be the alliteration :o) Just make sure you turn the lights out and lock up when you're done.