Here it comes: Your first installment of post scripted tales. We take the last sentence of a novel, famous speech, document, news report, song, poem, play, opera, or cereal box legal print and use it as the start of our story.
Just like our other projects, we will hold the story to 300 words, not including the starting line. Our efforts will be published once a week for you, our readers, to judge.
This week's assignment:
"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."
So, without further ado:
Geraniums
So we beat on, boats against the
current, borne back ceaselessly into the past. The engines hummed. My head began
throbbing. Rena gave me a smile as she buckled in.
The flashing began: red to blue, back to red and blinding
white. My eyes felt pushed against the back of my head. The ship shuddered
under the weight of time bending speed. The clock began counting backward from
our present to our next past. Black.
Rena pinched my wrist to pull me back to. She handed me my pack and
gave me a hand out of my jump chair. “How’s the head?”
“Better on this side”.
“It says 2013.6.14. Print out says: 3rd Planter
at 1430 Pennsylvania 3 inches left. 2.13PM”
“It’s what the plan says, Rena. It would be nice to have a little more
action than a planter.” I smiled as I threw the pack on my back and stepped
through the vacuum door into the daylight.
Streets were empty. Sky was clear. Humidity had to be 90%. I
found the location and the planter. Geraniums. I hadn’t seen those in years,
figuratively of course. 3 inches left. Check.
Slipped back across the street before the entourage of sunglasses, imposing men
began to clear the sidewalk.
I stepped through the vacuum door to find Rena sitting in
front of the monitor watching this evening’s video news. “You saved a big one this time, Tem”.
I sat down next to her. “What do we have?”
“Look closely to the left of the screen”. She zoomed way in
and pointed. A beetle scurried left to right, looking for a way to avoid the
approaching crowd. I tensed as he darted toward the planter I had just moved.
Right before a certain stomping, he made it under the planter. “That’s
Professor Dennit. Remember? Light Speed?”
“Right. That’s a good save”
My head began to throb.
A Cock-Eyed Optimist
So we beat on, boats against the
current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
At least, that’s what it felt like.
It might sound a little pretentious. Who uses the word
“borne,” anyway? Perhaps I should describe it simply as pushing a rather heavy
boulder up a very steep hill. Over and over again. Like that Greek guy. You
know who I’m talking about, right?
Well, anyway, it was a royal pain
in the ass. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the ache in my shoulders, in
my calves, in my neck. But we just kept going. We had to.
I can laugh about it now. How
could I find myself in such a position? I went to Convent of the Sacred Heart
and Columbia. I was head of M&A at Goldman Sachs. I never even touched
doors. They were always held open for me.
I guess that was the problem.
Life just got boring.
So I walked away. Headed to JFK
and hopped on the first international flight I could find. It eventually took
me to where I am today. Somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. After
some awkward sunburns, I settled in. I couldn’t relax of course. I started
organizing some of the locals. Helping them get a better return on their
fishing. It was fun. It was meaningless. I didn’t miss Manhattan.
But then the tsunami hit. And
we’ve been cleaning up ever since. The debris is incredible. The devastation is
awesome. And we’re grinding it out every day. Pushing giant pieces of buildings
off the shore. Cleaning up the beaches so the fisherman can get back out to sea
with their nets.
And I’m learning more about
myself then I ever learned in 10 years of therapy. And I still don’t miss
Manhattan.
What do you think?
Feel free to let us know--we're always looking for feedback.
And be sure to tune in next week. Our ending sentence:
"From here on in I rag nobody."
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