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Dr. Bob is Robert Hsiung, MD,
bob@dr-bob.orgShown: posts 1 to 10 of 10. This is the beginning of the thread.
Posted by lissa on July 18, 2001, at 23:32:40
I thought it might be fun for some of us to write a story. If anyone feels like contributing a sentence or paragraph to the story below, please do. No writing expertise required (I certainly haven't got any) -- write whatever comes to mind (oh, and Des Moines is a city in Iowa, USA, for the non-US folks).
Dolores looked down and noticed the muddy spurs of Julio's boots snagging on her dining-room tablecloth. Her politeness and desire to scold him fought a swift battle in her mind. Politeness was the victor. Julio glanced at her face and assumed the sudden narrowing of her eyes and compression of her lips were a sign she was having second thoughts about the plan. Words would surely set her off, he thought; better to proceed without them. He raised his eyebrows, smiled weakly, and waved his arm to the side, displaying the palm of his hand. Dolores nodded, went into the basement, and emerged with a screwdriver. Julio could see her proceed into the kitchen, where the telephone hung. She unscrewed it and detached a small envelope from the wall behind it. Dolores looked down at those spurs again and felt utterly disgusted as she traversed the distance between the kitchen and the dining room. She handed him the envelope and headed back towards the kitchen. Julio tipped his hat in a gesture of thanks, slammed the door behind him, and mounted his pinto horse, leaving despair, Dolores, and Des Moines behind him to pursue his next deal.
Posted by Wendy B. on July 19, 2001, at 1:04:41
In reply to wanna write a story?, posted by lissa on July 18, 2001, at 23:32:40
> I thought it might be fun for some of us to write a story. If anyone feels like contributing a sentence or paragraph to the story below, please do. No writing expertise required (I certainly haven't got any) -- write whatever comes to mind (oh, and Des Moines is a city in Iowa, USA, for the non-US folks).
> Dolores looked down and noticed the muddy spurs of Julio's boots snagging on her dining-room tablecloth. Her politeness and desire to scold him fought a swift battle in her mind. Politeness was the victor. Julio glanced at her face and assumed the sudden narrowing of her eyes and compression of her lips were a sign she was having second thoughts about the plan. Words would surely set her off, he thought; better to proceed without them. He raised his eyebrows, smiled weakly, and waved his arm to the side, displaying the palm of his hand. Dolores nodded, went into the basement, and emerged with a screwdriver. Julio could see her proceed into the kitchen, where the telephone hung. She unscrewed it and detached a small envelope from the wall behind it. Dolores looked down at those spurs again and felt utterly disgusted as she traversed the distance between the kitchen and the dining room. She handed him the envelope and headed back towards the kitchen. Julio tipped his hat in a gesture of thanks, slammed the door behind him, and mounted his pinto horse, leaving despair, Dolores, and Des Moines behind him to pursue his next deal.*****
Hey, Lissa, I love it so far. It's almost 2 in the morning and what am I doing up? I'm in the middle of writing a story of my own... Seriously, I've been writing fiction lately, have so much in my head, so many images and so many words.
I hate to be a social misfit and not want to play the game, but maybe you should think of this as your story already, and just keep going with it, and post the rest of it as you write it, because it's great so far and we'd like to read it. Sounds as though you know what you're doing in the narrative, and have already thought of a way for it to continue. (Don't let us f__k it up!)
Wendy
Posted by lissa on July 19, 2001, at 3:14:28
In reply to Re: wanna write a story? » lissa, posted by Wendy B. on July 19, 2001, at 1:04:41
> > I thought it might be fun for some of us to write a story. If anyone feels like contributing a sentence or paragraph to the story below, please do. No writing expertise required (I certainly haven't got any) -- write whatever comes to mind (oh, and Des Moines is a city in Iowa, USA, for the non-US folks).
>
>
> > Dolores looked down and noticed the muddy spurs of Julio's boots snagging on her dining-room tablecloth. Her politeness and desire to scold him fought a swift battle in her mind. Politeness was the victor. Julio glanced at her face and assumed the sudden narrowing of her eyes and compression of her lips were a sign she was having second thoughts about the plan. Words would surely set her off, he thought; better to proceed without them. He raised his eyebrows, smiled weakly, and waved his arm to the side, displaying the palm of his hand. Dolores nodded, went into the basement, and emerged with a screwdriver. Julio could see her proceed into the kitchen, where the telephone hung. She unscrewed it and detached a small envelope from the wall behind it. Dolores looked down at those spurs again and felt utterly disgusted as she traversed the distance between the kitchen and the dining room. She handed him the envelope and headed back towards the kitchen. Julio tipped his hat in a gesture of thanks, slammed the door behind him, and mounted his pinto horse, leaving despair, Dolores, and Des Moines behind him to pursue his next deal.
>
> *****
>
> Hey, Lissa, I love it so far. It's almost 2 in the morning and what am I doing up? I'm in the middle of writing a story of my own... Seriously, I've been writing fiction lately, have so much in my head, so many images and so many words.
>
> I hate to be a social misfit and not want to play the game, but maybe you should think of this as your story already, and just keep going with it, and post the rest of it as you write it, because it's great so far and we'd like to read it. Sounds as though you know what you're doing in the narrative, and have already thought of a way for it to continue. (Don't let us f__k it up!)
>
> Wendy
****Oh no, I don't think anyone will f__k it up! For the rest, I leave many questions open in my intro and I hope someone will come by and fill things in by writing another sentence or two. I have no idea where the story might go: who is the Julio character (cowboy? a Canadian mounty who has lost his way? drug-dealer with old-fashioned means of transportation?) and what is he doing in Des Moines and what's in the envelope? ... It is just for fun. Something to do in my insomnia. I don't want to continue it all by myself. If anyone wants to write, please do. If not, I won't take it personally :)
Posted by Roo on July 19, 2001, at 8:21:42
In reply to Re: wanna write a story? » Wendy B., posted by lissa on July 19, 2001, at 3:14:28
> > > I thought it might be fun for some of us to write a story. If anyone feels like contributing a sentence or paragraph to the story below, please do. No writing expertise required (I certainly haven't got any) -- write whatever comes to mind (oh, and Des Moines is a city in Iowa, USA, for the non-US folks).
> >
> >
> > > Dolores looked down and noticed the muddy spurs of Julio's boots snagging on her dining-room tablecloth. Her politeness and desire to scold him fought a swift battle in her mind. Politeness was the victor. Julio glanced at her face and assumed the sudden narrowing of her eyes and compression of her lips were a sign she was having second thoughts about the plan. Words would surely set her off, he thought; better to proceed without them. He raised his eyebrows, smiled weakly, and waved his arm to the side, displaying the palm of his hand. Dolores nodded, went into the basement, and emerged with a screwdriver. Julio could see her proceed into the kitchen, where the telephone hung. She unscrewed it and detached a small envelope from the wall behind it. Dolores looked down at those spurs again and felt utterly disgusted as she traversed the distance between the kitchen and the dining room. She handed him the envelope and headed back towards the kitchen. Julio tipped his hat in a gesture of thanks, slammed the door behind him, and mounted his pinto horse, leaving despair, Dolores, and Des Moines behind him to pursue his next deal.
> >
Heaving a sigh, Delores went to the refridgerator, pulled out an
"Eckerd-up" (Eckerd's store brand of 7-up), and plopped down on the
couch. She pulled out a camel light from her pack on the coffee table
and lit it with the pack of matches she always kept in her pocket.
Smoking was something she only did when Julio wasn't around. He'd throw
a fit. Smoking wasn't for ladies in his mind. Although he and
his cronies would stay up until the wee hours filling her
clean house with smelly cigar smoke. Oh well, what'cha gonna do?
Inhaling the
smoke deeply, then exhaling it, she realized something with a stab
of anger. Here she was playing the victim again. The poor little wifey who
sits home while he's out having all the fun. Well, not anymore, she thought.
She'd had it with all the late nights, chain smoking on the couch, waiting for
him to return. She stabbed out the cigerette and stood up. She went to her
bedroom to change out of her dowdy housedress to a pair of faded levi's and a
flannel shirt. She opened the door and could feel the crisp night
air on her face. "I'll be back by midnight tomorrow", she told Des Moines, her
black and white cat. Despair, the sulky eyed blood hound stared at
her reproachfully. "Yeah, I love you too", she said, giving him a slap on the
rump, "But I gotta go...I'll be back soon".
Posted by kid_A on July 19, 2001, at 10:06:56
In reply to Re: wanna write a story?, posted by Roo on July 19, 2001, at 8:21:42
I'll be back by midnight tomorrow", she told Des Moines, her black and white cat. Despair, the sulky eyed blood hound stared at her reproachfully. "Yeah, I love youtoo", she said, giving him a slap on the rump, "But I gotta go...I'll be back soon".
...
Delores stood by the door, not for hesitation's sake, not for unwillingness, a vast well of feeling that surfaced suddenly, where to go, what to do, what little planning had been made prior to this sudden sensation of movement, like the movement of the kitsch jumping beans that could be had at the store proclaiming 'everything for a a dollar'... A wan smile stretched across her face as she opened the door, the landscape stretched out beyond her like it was painted there, muddy hues of red and orange clay, smeared greys and tinted hues of blue that pressed down on the terra, an oppressive atmosphre of heat and air and raw electricty, waves of heat that distorted the distance like a funhouse mirror. She heard a truck roll by in the distance, an eighteen wheeler for sure, carying a cargo of frozen mangos or cattle feed or imigrant workers to some unknown locale, or still, returned from some remote and imagined faraway fairytale land, Ice Station Vostock with a sample of soil cores for unknown sientists harbored somewhere in the local Los Alamos area... Los Alamos with its nuclear wind and toxic rivers, Los Alamos, home of the dead and the deceased, the nearly dying and the newly born, the crippled and maimed, the rugged and strong, old and young, black and white, brown tan tope the mishmash of distorted America that you read about in propaganda literature, the tired poor huddled masses of an America disjointed, emptiness and loss, hope and dream, sex and survival, speed, heroin, valium, coca cola and moon pies, it was all here in Los Alamos, just waiting to be taken. Delores took her first step, the step always the hardest, one that drags the heel like mud and traction, tentitive and at first unsure, and then a reafirmed conviction, Delores steped out of the door, oak and painted red, long ago peeling from lack of care, stepped out and locked the door behind her.
Posted by Willow on July 19, 2001, at 22:34:06
In reply to Re: wanna write a story?, posted by kid_A on July 19, 2001, at 10:06:56
Dolores looked down and noticed the muddy spurs of Julio's boots snagging on her dining-room
tablecloth. Her politeness and desire to scold him fought a swift battle in her mind. Politeness was
the victor. Julio glanced at her face and assumed the sudden narrowing of her eyes and
compression of her lips were a sign she was having second thoughts about the plan. Words would
surely set her off, he thought; better to proceed without them. He raised his eyebrows, smiled
weakly, and waved his arm to the side, displaying the palm of his hand. Dolores nodded, went into
the basement, and emerged with a screwdriver. Julio could see her proceed into the kitchen,
where the telephone hung. She unscrewed it and detached a small envelope from the wall behind
it. Dolores looked down at those spurs again and felt utterly disgusted as she traversed the
distance between the kitchen and the dining room. She handed him the envelope and headed back
towards the kitchen. Julio tipped his hat in a gesture of thanks, slammed the door behind him, and
mounted his pinto horse, leaving despair, Dolores, and Des Moines behind him to pursue his next
deal.
Heaving a sigh, Delores went to the refridgerator, pulled out an
"Eckerd-up" (Eckerd's store brand of 7-up), and plopped down on the
couch. She pulled out a camel light from her pack on the coffee table
and lit it with the pack of matches she always kept in her pocket.
Smoking was something she only did when Julio wasn't around. He'd throw
a fit. Smoking wasn't for ladies in his mind. Although he and
his cronies would stay up until the wee hours filling her
clean house with smelly cigar smoke. Oh well, what'cha gonna do?
Inhaling the
smoke deeply, then exhaling it, she realized something with a stab
of anger. Here she was playing the victim again. The poor little wifey who
sits home while he's out having all the fun. Well, not anymore, she thought.
She'd had it with all the late nights, chain smoking on the couch, waiting for
him to return. She stabbed out the cigerette and stood up. She went to her
bedroom to change out of her dowdy housedress to a pair of faded levi's and a
flannel shirt. She opened the door and could feel the crisp night
air on her face. "I'll be back by midnight tomorrow", she told Des Moines, her
black and white cat. Despair, the sulky eyed blood hound stared at
her reproachfully. "Yeah, I love you too", she said, giving him a slap on the
rump, "But I gotta go...I'll be back soon".
Delores stood by the door, not for hesitation's sake, not for unwillingness, a vast well of feeling
that surfaced suddenly, where to go, what to do, what little planning had been made prior to this
sudden sensation of movement, like the movement of the kitsch jumping beans that could be had
at the store proclaiming 'everything for a a dollar'... A wan smile stretched across her face as she
opened the door, the landscape stretched out beyond her like it was painted there, muddy hues of
red and orange clay, smeared greys and tinted hues of blue that pressed down on the terra, an
oppressive atmosphre of heat and air and raw electricty, waves of heat that distorted the distance
like a funhouse mirror. She heard a truck roll by in the distance, an eighteen wheeler for sure,
carying a cargo of frozen mangos or cattle feed or imigrant workers to some unknown locale, or
still, returned from some remote and imagined faraway fairytale land, Ice Station Vostock with a
sample of soil cores for unknown sientists harbored somewhere in the local Los Alamos area...
Los Alamos with its nuclear wind and toxic rivers, Los Alamos, home of the dead and the
deceased, the nearly dying and the newly born, the crippled and maimed, the rugged and strong,
old and young, black and white, brown tan tope the mishmash of distorted America that you read
about in propaganda literature, the tired poor huddled masses of an America disjointed, emptiness
and loss, hope and dream, sex and survival, speed, heroin, valium, coca cola and moon pies, it
was all here in Los Alamos, just waiting to be taken. Delores took her first step, the step always
the hardest, one that drags the heel like mud and traction, tentitive and at first unsure, and then a
reafirmed conviction, Delores steped out of the door, oak and painted red, long ago peeling from
lack of care, stepped out and locked the door behind her.Little did she know how that first rash step would change the rest of her life. She was never to return to her self-made prison which she called home. The next few hours were to have such a dire effect that before the sun rose she wouldn’t even remember her name. If she had any sight of the doom which waited for her she wouldn’t have left the safety of her house.
PS I like Koontz
Posted by lissa on July 19, 2001, at 23:00:32
In reply to Re: wanna write a story?, posted by Willow on July 19, 2001, at 22:34:06
The next few hours were to have such a dire effect that before the sun rose she wouldn’t even remember her name. If she had any sight of the doom which waited for her she wouldn’t have left the safety of her house ...
>
She crossed the stretch of desert between the house and the barn. Night fell fast as she tacked up her horse and cantered, gallopped, across the mesa. It was not uncommon to use horses as one's primary way of getting around in these parts. Besides, if they owned a car, Julio would probably have been caught by now on one of his missions between Los Alamos and Tucson. Julio had taken pains to build a strong trust among his collegues at the laboratory. Were he caught, his career, without question, would be ruined. Dolores felt at once regal and queenly as she thought of the enormous power she had over her husband's life. She imagined the ridiculous silhouette of the man flying off into the desert wind at hellspeed on that horse of his, tablecloth flying behind him like a cape off of the spurs of his boots. Julio didn't know what was coming to him.
Posted by Roo on July 20, 2001, at 16:30:06
In reply to Re: wanna write a story?, posted by lissa on July 19, 2001, at 23:00:32
She was getting tired. Hannah, her horse, was
too. It was time to set up camp. She'd never
camped alone before. Never travelled alone before,
for that matter. But oddly enough, she didn't feel
frightened. She hadn't felt this adventurous since
she was 10, when her and her best friend Lisa snuck
out of the house after her folks went to bed and went
runnning through the woods in back of the house. They'd
run until they were breathless and then collapse by
the stream, puffs of steam coming out of their mouths
in the light of the full moon.
As she unrolled her sleeping bag, she felt a brief, but
sharp stab of longing for Julio. As bad as things got
between them, that one thing was always good. "Damn
Latin Lover", she thought as she lit her last cigerette
of the day.
Posted by Glenn Fagelson on July 20, 2001, at 20:46:39
In reply to Re: wanna write a story?, posted by Roo on July 20, 2001, at 16:30:06
> She was getting tired. Hannah, her horse, was
> too. It was time to set up camp. She'd never
> camped alone before. Never travelled alone before,
> for that matter. But oddly enough, she didn't feel
> frightened. She hadn't felt this adventurous since
> she was 10, when her and her best friend Lisa snuck
> out of the house after her folks went to bed and went
> runnning through the woods in back of the house. They'd
> run until they were breathless and then collapse by
> the stream, puffs of steam coming out of their mouths
> in the light of the full moon.
> As she unrolled her sleeping bag, she felt a brief, but
> sharp stab of longing for Julio. As bad as things got
> between them, that one thing was always good. "Damn
> Latin Lover", she thought as she lit her last cigerette
> of the day.Strong fatigue set in, as Julio drove back
home; it was 5 o'clock in the morning and
he had once again lost all his money in an
all-night poker game.
Posted by lissa on July 20, 2001, at 22:44:50
In reply to Re: wanna write a story?, posted by Glenn Fagelson on July 20, 2001, at 20:46:39
>
> Strong fatigue set in, as Julio drove back
> home; it was 5 o'clock in the morning and
> he had once again lost all his money in an
> all-night poker game.Julio, Latin lover, cowboy, nuclear physicist, and alchemist of all things pleasurable and despairing, sped along the flat desert highway in the '88 eldorado he'd hotwired behind the casino in Tucsan. The contents of the elusive envelope had been passed on like chips in a high-profile poker game (along with Trickster, his pinto horse). As entered the outskirts of Los Alamos and saw the nauseating flashing red lights of the hall which had sanctified their marriage, his thoughts turned to those moments before Dolores had handed over the envelope. As they were finishing up dinner, Dolores' interest in his stories about his research endeavors had waned. She looked absently at the palms outside the window, blowing wildly in the strong wind.
"You did get the …,"
"Yes."
"Any trouble with security?"
"Johannas escorted me," she replied.
She continued eating, or at least pretending to do so. From across the long table, he could see there was nothing left on her plate. She appeared disgusted by the entire matter; disgusted by Julio himself as well -- his carelessness, his obstinance, his bravado, and his seeming assumption that his success at work made him an unquestionably savory character. He glanced at her dark coutenance and she looked up to his dull gray eyes with a brief, colorless expression suggesting he might well be gone for her. Julio felt the bows of remorse and heartache screeching slowly, resonating, pulling violently on his inner strings -- those strings binding modesty with arrogance, love with betrayal, and honesty with espionage -- those strings which were starting to give out.
This is the end of the thread.
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