WEBSITE: —
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RECORDS: 6
LATEST RECORD: over 1 year ago
JOINED: September 11, 2010
LOCATION: —
RECORDS: 6
LATEST RECORD: over 1 year ago
JOINED: September 11, 2010
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Solitude began as a short story about a college student who goes to her family's deserted vacation home on the Outer Banks of North Carolina in search of a little, well, solitude. You see, she needs to finish some school work that her busy social life kept her from completing while she was at school. The story is supposed to take off when she realizes that her peace and quiet has been interrupted by an uninvited guest. I started, then abandoned, the piece because it didn't do what it was supposed to do -- take off, that is. I thought it might be interesting to see where you guys could take it. One sentence, one paragraph, contribute, change, etc, whatever you'd like. It can only get better. Thanks! Enjoy. ============================================= Solitude It’s easy to tell where most nightmares begin. We close our eyes and thrash around for a few hours, horrified by the scenes playing out behind our lids. But usually, somewhere deep down we know that eventually we will wake -- and all will be right with the world. Sometimes, we are so sure of the unreality of what we see, that all it is “just a dream,” we can will ourselves awake. “Wake up,” we tell our sleeping selves, “I don’t like this anymore.” And then, back in reality, comforted by the glow from an alarm clock or warmed by a partner’s embrace, we shake off any lingering feelings of doom, and laugh at ourselves for being so silly. Some nightmares though, begin long before there are any tangible signs of suffering. Before any thrashing. Before any sweating. Before any screaming. The scene is set so casually, so methodically, so deep inside the realm of our everyday existence, that when the crux of the nightmare is upon us, denial is not possible. We know that we will not be able to rouse ourselves from this one. We know that we must find some other way out. Candace’s nightmare began just so – sitting in the study of her parents’ summer home in the beautiful Outer Banks of North Carolina, phone to her ear, pretending to listen to her mother’s reproachful speech about taking responsibility; ignoring emails from Greg, her now ex-boyfriend; and trying to figure out just how the hell she was going to complete three term papers in the short amount of time she had left herself. That was why she came here, by the way, to be alone; to work on her papers. That was also the subject of her mother’s speech -- “The Ills of Procrastination.” “You could have been home with the rest us if you had done this when you were supposed to.” “Yes, mom, I know, that’s why I’m here.” “It’s just that we miss you. You know that?” Candace rolls her eyes, “Uh-huh. Yup. I know.” The lights flicker. Candace looks up at the tall floor lamp illuminating the desk, taps the bulb. Nothing. “Are you still there?” her mother asks. “Yes, mommy. Look, I understand your point, but it’s useless to keep rehashing the issue-” The lights flicker again and, for the briefest of moments, the house goes black and the phone goes dead. “Mom?” She hears her mother’s voice, “I’m here, sweetie.” “Something’s happening with the electricity. I might lose you.” In her mind she thinks, “Hopefully….” “Is it storming there?” Candace looks through the big, picture window. “No, there’s no storm, and before you ask, yes, I know about the generator. Look, I should probably go anyway. I have a lot-” Outside, there is an enormous CRASH, followed immediately by complete darkness and a dead phone line. This time, however, neither the lights nor the phone come back on. Candace leans back in her chair, breaths deeply, smiles to herself, enjoying the quiet calm. She jumps, startled, when her cell phone rings. She fishes it out of her backpack, then crosses the room to look out of the double doors leading to the patio and pool area. “Hey mom.” She looks out across their little bay. Through the light fog, she sees the misty glow of her neighbors’ lights. “I tried calling back on the phone.” “The generator hasn’t kicked in yet. I’m going out to check it now, but if I can’t get it going, I may head across the bay to the Olsen’s. I really need to get started on these papers.” “Everyone is probably in the dark, honey.” “No, it’s just us. I can see the lights on down the row across the bay.” “Huh. That’s odd.” Candace heads out through the double doors, around the right side of the house. Although it is past 8pm, the temperature still hovers at around 88 degrees. The humidity is high, making the already soggy night feel stifling. Now at the back of the house, she realizes that the house lights aren’t the only ones out. The long strand of Christmas lights they keep strung along their dock, and all the lawn lamps they have placed along the length of the winding road leading up to the house, are also out. Candace heads back to the house, in search of the Torch flashlight she knows her father keeps in the entry hall closet. She digs it out from beneath scuba and snorkeling gear, bike helmets, knee pads, tennis rackets and assorted other junk that seems to pile up in the closets of houses kept solely for sport. This time, she heads out the front door and to her left, halfway to the dock where the generator is housed in its own little shed. “Candy? What are you doing now, sweetie?” her mom asks. “About to go into the shed.” As she approaches it, “I think those kids have being playing here again, the locks busted.” She shines the flashlight on the padlock and chain, both of which have been cut free of the door. Inside the shed, she runs the light along the walls, looking for the key that opens the little fuse box guarding the remote switch to the generator. “I don’t see the key, mom.” “It’s hanging on the wall to the left of the door.” Candace turns left, shines the light on the wall, sees the key. “Got it!” She walks over, unhooks the key, swings the light around to the fuse box. It is already open. She moves the light closer. “Dammit!” “Watch your mouth, Candace. What is it?” “Is there another way to turn on the generator? Those darned kids totally destroyed the switch.” “You can do it manually. Go over to the generator. I’ll talk you through.” Candace turns, takes three steps toward the generator and pitches forward, her foot caught in something soft and lumpy. “Oooph!” She hits the floor, the impact catapulting the phone, which slides beneath the generator. “DAMMIT!” She gets to her hands and knees, crawls to the generator, shines the flashlight beneath, retrieves the phone. “Mom?” “Yes. Did you fall? Are you hurt?” Annoyed, “Only my dignity...” She turns around, leans back against the generator, cradles the phone between her ear and shoulder, examines her hands and legs. “Ewe.” “What, honey?” “There’s something sticky all over the floor.” She sniffs her fingers. Her stomach flops, then flips over and she has to fight the urge to soil herself. Panic rising, she pulls herself into a standing position, takes a deep, calming breath. Now more alert, she realizes that the slightly metallic, slightly bittersweet, aroma of the substance on her fingers permeates the entire room. She shines the light on the generator. “Oh my god-“ “Candace, what is it?” A bit of panic in her mom’s voice also. “The generator, it's-” BOOM! Candace ducks, protecting her head as the little shed rattles with the force of whatever caused the sound. She looks up, shines the light around the room slowly, in search of the source. The door to the shed is closed. Did she do that? Instinct tells her to stay low, so she crawls to the little window to the right of the door, pulls herself up, looks out. On the other side of the door, a figure is stoops, peering into the other window. Candace slaps a hand over her mouth to hold in her scream, crouches down beneath the window, tries not to cry. “Mom, there’s a man here! I don’t know what to do!” Nothing from her mother. “Mom?” She looks at the phone. “MOM?!” The cell phone is dead. |
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