Tag: terribleminds (page 28 of 31)

Flash Fiction: The Itinerary

Courtesy Michael Reslan

For the Terribleminds flash fiction challenge, Corporate Abuse.


He arrived from his personal trainer’s private facility five minutes early. She had already brewed him the first espresso of the day and had picked out a suit for him. She gave him time to change before stepping into his office. The view always impressed her. It was like the entire city was laid out at his feet.

“What’s first for me today?” His voice came out of the walk-in closet.

“You have a 9 AM conference call with Bob Sanders from the Election Committee, sir.”

“Remind me, is that the committee for the senate or presidential race?”

“Presidential, sir. The senatorial committee won’t be calling until after lunch.”

“Just as well.” He emerged checking his golden cuff-links, the tailored suit ensuring the benefits of his workouts were emphasized. “Did you send out those gift baskets I picked out?”

“Yes, sir. The committee should be getting them today or tomorrow.”

“Always good to grease the wheels a little.”

“If you say so, sir.” She gave him his espresso. He sipped, and gave her a satisfied nod. Little gestures like that indicated a good mood, which in turn had her biting her lip and reminding herself to stay focused on the job for now.

“What’s next?”

“A 10 AM review for the shareholder’s meeting this Friday.”

“It should be brief, our stocks are up. Hand me that red tie, would you?”

She reached into the closet and handed it to him. “It does go better with the suit, sir.”

“Thank you, I thought so.” He began to tie it, regarding his clean-shaven face in the mirror. “Will any of our overseas offices be attending?”

“I haven’t heard any give confirmations, sir. With tensions on the rise, they may be unwilling to travel.”

“Well, the oil refinery people, I can understand.” He frowned, not getting the length of the tie quite right. “But the plant owners from China should be able to make it. It’s not like their workers need constant supervision to churn out their products.”

She stepped in front of him, taking his tie in her hands. She didn’t dare look at his eyes as she fixed it. It might be difficult to form a sentence if she let herself get lost. “I think they’re worried about the public image, sir. Public sentiment being what it is.”

“Ah.” She could feel his smile. She didn’t need to see it. It had an effect on her anyway. “The notion that we owe them astronomical debts. People might think they own this company.”

“That’s the theory, sir.” It’s you that owns them. And me. She stepped away from the tie, smiled and retrieved her tablet. Better focus on this and leave the rest for later. “You still have an 11:30 lunch appointment with the mayor.”

“The usual pre-election shenanigans, I trust. He’s probably worried that all the protesting has put me in a foul mood.”

“Some of the banks are certainly unhappy with the protests, sir.”

He walked to the window, hands behind his back. She watched every move he made. Master of his domain.

“Let the people talk. They like their own voices. It doesn’t change what we do or the reality of the situation.” He turned back to her, and this time she didn’t look away. “As for the mayor, I’ll let him lunch me up. Let him think his re-election is assured so he can focus on the infrastructure bill for the city. Once that’s out of the way we finance his opponent into office, so he can work on the civil rights issues our current mayor’s been ignoring.”

She nodded. Tempted as she was to take down a note to that effect, she knew such things were best left undocumented. She didn’t know how much of this was known to other members of the corporation, but she wasn’t about to betray his confidence. He walked towards her and she turned her eyes back to the tablet. She could smell his cologne, and very faintly beneath it, the tang of his sweat from working out in the early morning.

“Senatorial committee is, as I said, after lunch. Then at 2 is the weekly review of domestic productivity, followed by the CFO going over next quarter’s budget with you.”

He rolled his eyes. “That old codger does love his numbers. Maybe I should shift our funds again, to keep him on his toes.”

She bit her lip. “Didn’t a bank fail the last time you did that, sir?”

“And they were gobbled up by one of the larger ones. Survival of the fittest, my dear. What cannot survive is devoured.” He paused, looking down. “Are those your new Choos?”

She glanced down at her shoes, the skinny heels and the odd but playful combination of leopard print and patent leather. His scrutiny made her blush. “Yes, sir.”

“They look great on you.” He turned away and finished his espresso. She immediately collected the cup and saucer. “I’ll be needing you later this afternoon, perhaps into the evening. I’m sure I’ll have several letters to dictate.”

“I’ll be right here, sir.” Waiting for you.

He smiled. “Good to know. What would I do without you?”

I’d rather know what you want to do with me… She bit her lip again. “Type your own letters?”

He laughed. “Fair point. But I can’t make decent espresso to save my life. Thank you. I better go get this day started.”

“Good luck, sir.”

Nodding, he walked out the door. She cleaned up his office and sat at her desk outside. It’d be a day of taking phone calls, making appointments and sorting information. Tedious work. She didn’t care.

The most powerful man in the world, a man who for all intents and purposes owned the country, needed to have these things organized and coordinated so he could maintain his level of control. He needed his itinerary laid out like his suits. He needed her.

And she, for entirely different reasons that made her knees weak, needed him.

How to Survive Living with a Writer

Courtesy floating robes
Courtesy Floating Robes

One of the most popular posts ever over at terribleminds is this one, entitled “Beware of Writer.” He also penned a sequel that’s just as worthwhile to read. But let’s say you’ve ignored his advice. You’re going to fly in the face of common sense and good taste and actually shack up with one of us crackpot writer-types, in spite of the tiny hurricanes of impotent rage and the nigh-constant smell of booze. Here’s a couple things to keep in mind that may help you keep from running screaming into the night.

Writers are Finicky Bitches

In addition to being very easily distracted (if you didn’t know, we are), writers can get new ideas all the time, at the drop of a hat. It’s not uncommon for a writer to have a few projects at work at any given time. Let’s say our subject is working on a novel and some poetry, and all of a sudden gets an idea for a new tv series about puppet detectives. It’s not enough for us to be distracted by video games or movies or pet antics or offspring or bright flashing lights or loud noises. No no, we need to distract ourselves on top of all of that.

Writers either drift in a slight miasma of barely cognizant perceptions as they indulge in their distractions, or they’re frustrated by efforts to reassert their concentration on something they’re righting. It can make a writer seem bipolar. And if they really are bipolar, woo boy you talk about fun times!1

Surviving this as an outsider requires a metric fuckton of patience. Either you will be asked to participate in some sort of odd habit, or you will be all but ignored as something new distracts the writer. You can go along with it or rail against it, but the important thing is to remind the writer that they should, at some point, write. Yes, you may get bitten over it. That’s what the rolled-up newspaper is for. Aim for the nose.

Writers are Masters (and Mistresses) of Excuses

You’re going to catch a writer not writing. This can be like catching a teenager with their pants down and making them explain the nature of the self-examination they seem to be enjoying. You just need to keep in mind that procrastination is perfectly natural and lots of writers do it. There are even some writers who encourage other writers to procrastinate.

Before I stretch that metaphor any more uncomfortably, the important thing to note is that writers will tell you all manner of tall tales in an effort to avoid your scrutiny. Especially if said writer’s bailiwick is fiction. I mean, come on, these people lie for a living. Or at least as a primary hobby. Of course they’re going to tell you space monkeys invaded in the middle of the night and that’s why the lawn hasn’t been mowed or the dishes remain unwashed. Damn dirty space simians!2

Just as writers need and, if they’re responsible and good, want to be told when something they write doesn’t quite work, writers also need to occasionally be called on their bullshit. “Space monkeys? I don’t see any poo on the walls other than your own. It’s time to shut off the Internet and make some more of that word magic happen, pooplord.” Your exact wording may vary, but you get the idea.

Writers Do, In Fact, Want to Write

So let’s say you’re keeping a writer focused on the now. You’re getting them to help out around the house. They’re watching the kids. They’re cooking meals. They’re renovating your siding and keeping you in whatever it is you like to do when you’re not working. Guess what they’re not doing?

If you guessed “writing”, you just won a bigass shiny No-Prize! Congrats!3

Take a look at any writer pontificating on the need to write, and you’ll see something emerge. There’s definitely a deep-seated compulsion there. On top of any other madness or psychosis, a writer needs to write. Yes, the writer may procrastinate, putter around, put off writing because writing can suck a big fat one from time to time, but at the end of the day, writing is at the core of who that person is, otherwise – Anyone? Anyone? Beuller? – they wouldn’t be a writer.

So do them and yourself a favor. Take the kids for an hour. Put the video game down yourself. Mow the lawn or wash a few dishes. Just give them space, and a little bit of time. If it’s been a while since they’ve written, you bet your ass words will happen while you’re tending to chores.

Or you could not, and they’ll resent you in a deeply personal way. Your call.

I think this may be the biggest key to surviving life with a writer. Giving a little measure of time to write, moreso than calling them on excuses or distractions, relieves the pressure in their minds and helps them get closer to their goals. And the writer will love you for it.


1 I can’t say anybody acted all that surprised when I was diagnosed as bipolar. There was plenty of relief that legitimate psychosis wasn’t involved, though. Not that the doctors could detect, at least. Suckers.

2 They’re rude as hell, too. Coming in the middle of the evening and keeping me from finishing a blog post with their howling and poop-slinging and I was researching League of Legends champion builds and got distracted from finishing this last night I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry please don’t bap me with the newspaper again.

3 Actual contents of No-Prize may vary, from “absolutely nothing” to “sweet fuck-all.”

Worldbuilding Challenge: The Gods of Blackbloom

Courtesy
Courtesy the excellent xeedee

Once a month, instead of flash fiction Chuck calls upon his readers to contribute in a worldbuilding exercise he’s doing. One of the few things we know is:

The gods walk among men but are forgotten and unrecognized. Nobody believes in them anymore.

Some say the gods are dead; others simply do not remember them. I took this notion and ran with it along with my affinity for trickster spirits, and came up with the following for his latest challenge.

Men may have forgotten his name, but once they called him Brightflower, Smirk or simply the Jackal. He can assume any form of any size he wishes, but prefers to walk as a man among them, since they’re so amusing to him. He toys with their perceptions, slipping secrets between his half-truths, but he never lies.

Despite his cheerful, playful and jocular demeanor, he’s still got a temper. The other gods tried to curtail his shenanigans by helping men call him a lord of lies.

In response, he helped the people of Blackbloom forget the gods – including himself – ever existed.

I guess we’ll find out soon, as Chuck is taking the challenge to a biweekly schedule. This will get interesting!

Flash Fiction: The Bill

Bard by BlueInkAlchemist, on Flickr

For the the Terribleminds flash fiction challenge, “Bullies and the Bullied“.


He’d sought election to do what was best for his home. Supporting this bill meant more rights for the people he represented.

On his desk were two envelopes. One, from the lobbyists, was full of cash. The other, from the opposing party’s news network, had photos of him. Shameful photos. Photos of the lifestyle he’d never shared with his parents or close friends.

To stay safe, to earn that bonus, all he had to do was deny his people the rights they needed to live as equals, instead of outcasts.

He took a deep breath, and picked up his pen.

Flash Fiction: David and Victoria

For the Terribleminds flash fiction challenge, Five Words Plus One Vampire.


Courtesy Travelpod.com

The cockroach scuttled across the insulating layer of dust on the floor. David frowned as he swept his flashlight across the gatehouse interior. The castle had apparently been abandoned for the better part of a century, according to the locals. Nobody seemed to want to say much, though, and the taxi driver had been quite eager to leave once he’d drop the pair off.

“Can you imagine?” Victoria’s voice echoed slightly in the murder holes above them. “Plenty of ski resorts in Romania are near castles, but none of them have one as its centerpiece!”

David kept walking towards the interior side of the gatehouse. His wife had been just as skeptical as he was, but being a venture capitalist meant taking the occasional risk. Two successful start-up companies back in the States gave him plenty to work with, and Victoria’s nose for real estate opportunity had put his businesses in fantastic locations.

“I think there’d be a lot of up-front work to do.” It was the most tactful way he could disagree with her.

“Naturally. But it’s removed from major tourist centers, the drive up was lovely and getting electricity up here wouldn’t be that hard.” She smiled at him encouragingly. “Come on, there’s more to see.”

They emerged from the gatehouse into the courtyard. Towers loomed over the pair of Americans as they crossed the cobblestones. The fountain in the center had been dry for years. David caught sight of a rat scurrying along one of the walls to his left. The great hall dominated the section of wall across from the gatehouse. Victoria was at its massive double doors before David could say a word.

Within, portraits of people long dead watched them investigate the quiet stasis of the castle. Despite the windows, the interior was much darker than he had expected. The flying buttresses high above showed no rot, at least. But David could not shake the feeling that it was wrong for them to be here.

“I love old castles. They were built to last.” Victoria was still smiling. “This place must have been beautiful in its prime.”

“Oh, it was.”

Both of them turned to aim their flashlights at the interior door of the great hall. Standing there, holding a candle, was an elderly man in a dark robe. David narrowed his eyes. The robe seemed to be consuming him, a bit of the red lining visible under the black velvet. His voice was as withered as his form, but strong.

“Forgive me for startling you. You are tourists, yes?”

Victoria found her voice first. “Sort of, yes. I’m sorry, we didn’t know someone still lived here. The locals…”

The old man waved his hand dismissively. “Pah. They fear what they do not understand. My obligation to my family, this castle, is one I will not abandon. They do not understand it.”

David’s frown returned. “You live here alone?”

“Yes. Hence why it is not as lovely as it once was. I am only one old man, you see.” He cackled softly and David looked at Victoria. She was rolling her eyes when the rain started.

“We better go. Sorry again for disturbing you.”

“Go? In this downpour? You are brave indeed, my boy.”

He looked out the window. The rain was coming down in sheets. All he could see was water flowing down the glass. How had it hit them so quickly?

“Come, I have food to offer. You vill be my guests for zee evening.”

They followed him through a dark corridor leading down the anterior wall to one of the towers. Within was a small reception room and a staircase on the wall leading both up and down. Sure enough, a small roasted game bird was waiting for them, with some fruit and vegetables. The old man, introducing himself as Nicu, told of how the castle once defended the valley and its villagers from raiders and Cossacks. Victoria listened with interest while David examined the bottle of wine. Despite the decay in the rest of the castle, things here seemed fine. Maybe the old man really had just let the maintenance get away from him.

The rain did not abate, and Nicu invited them to stay the night. Above the small dining area were a pair of solars, a room for each of them. David tried to call home but got no signal. With the rain outside and a long day of travel behind him, he settled into bed.

He awoke when he felt her on top of him.

“You look so peaceful when you sleep, David.”

He blinked. Victoria straddled him on the wide bed, smiling down at him. She was wearing Nicu’s robe, and nothing else. It hung open, pale flesh and curves luminous in the moonlight. Her hands slid the blankets away from his chest.

“Vicki, what…?”

“Hush.” Her lips pulled back from her teeth as her smile widened. They were as red as the lining of the robe. “Nicu has shown me his true self, and we have much to do, you and I.”

“I don’t understand.”

“And that is your protection.” Her fingers slid over his neck, felt his pulse. She inhaled, and David couldn’t deny it was an enticing sight. “Your heart… it’s beating so fast.”

“I’m married…”

“She is unimportant. The castle will live again, thanks to us.”

“What do you mean?”

“You will see. But first, let me show you what Nicu showed me.”

She licked her lips and gasped as she slid against him, feeling the response he could not hide. Fangs descended into the darkness of her mouth.

“I am his queen, and you our servant. When I finish with you, your will shall be ours. Don’t fight it, David. I know you want this.”

He admitted he’d had his fantasies, and wondered if this was a new one. It was when he felt the fangs in his neck that he started screaming; in pain at first, then for other reasons entirely.

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