Bonus Quest

Fiction, Non-Fiction, Poetry, Play, Screen Play, whatever. No length limitations.

Compare/Contrast the role of "body" and "soul" in the act of kissing

Quest 4

Pick one of the following characters and write a story with them in it. They do not need to be the main character.

1. Character is involved in some sort of sex work.

2. Character is known as the Crazy _____ Person.

3. Character is a recovering, but failing addict.

High-Speed Hook-Ups

I am convinced that more people actually enjoy being stuck in traffic than will admit it. I mean, that’s all cruisin’ is really. Kids trying to get stuck in traffic on State Street so you can wave at hot boys, turn your music up loud, hang your head out the window, and try to exchange numbers. Little black coupes make left turns with dirty red jeeps trailing behind. They practically spill out of their cars to feel each other up in liquor store parking lots.

I watched those girls and boys with their halter tops and gold chains while driving away from work. But I wasn’t going to become one. At least not in any conventional kind of way.

We had to wear all black. It was sexy, but hot in the summer. I usually got away with wearing something low-cut (and usually stolen). A few months before they started making us dress like men I sped home from a lunch shift, taking the freeway at speeds that would have aroused the pigs from any hick town from their afternoon donut shop to track me down. But in the here in the anonymity of three million, I was relatively safe. Just three exits away from home and my inner Barry Allen was unceremoniously shoved back into a remote corner as traffic predictably slowed around 90th south. I tried to weave around the black pillars of smoke descending from the semis as much as possible before resigning to idle in the center lane of the I-15. I took the opportunity to check out my nails. Bite the skin around my cuticles. Drum a fast beat on the steering wheel. Adjust the neckline on my black blouse so that it would lounge snugly around the few slight angles I claimed as curves. It took a few minutes before anyone moved again. The douche bag in front of me didn’t get the memo apparently, and was hanging out a good 300 feet behind the next car. I scanned the lane to my right to find an opening. No opening, but there was a hot red Mitsubishi. He saw me too, and flashed a set of picket fences my direction.

Now I was the douche bag 300 feet behind. Traffic started to crawl again as the tumult of iron boxes filed down the off-ramp. I kept the hot red one in my blind spot as we began to break out of the gridlock. He pulled ahead as we resumed typical freeway speeds. He waved, I waved. He held up a cell phone. He kept his eyes on me for uncomfortable lengths of time. He was going to miss his exit at best, or maybe slam into a guard-rail. Then again, so was I. I held up my fingers in succession, steadying the wheel with my elbows. A nine, an eight, he missed it, have to start over. I flashed my digits through the windshield not thinking he’d pick each one out. I smirked as I did a quick break check and scooted behind him to make my exit.

It only took about 30 seconds for him to call me.

It took the next three months of me avoiding those calls before he finally stopped.

A Reminder

Please remember to COMMENT!!!

Quest 3

Choose one of the following four statements:

Sometimes I believe my dead grandmother is saving my life.
I believe that all stray cats have names given them by God himself.
I am convinced that more people actually enjoy being stuck in traffic than will admit it.
I believe that no matter how great your friends may seem, they are only here to hurt you.

Use the statement you chose as the first line of a short CNF piece (500-800(ish) words) in which you use experience(s) from your own life to back up your belief.

Losing Altitude

He bends to kiss the ground at airports,
but I never see him with dirt on his lips. -Jim Daniels

On my lunch break, the guys from work
ask if I'll join them tonight for
drinks at the bar.
I shake my head, tell them you're flying in this evening.
After work, I get in my blue Accord.
I head West on the 16.
I take the ticket, wait for the gate to lift.
I walk to baggage claim. I circle the carousels
looking for a brown duffle bag with bright green fabric
tied in a knot to the long tan strap. Your only
identifiable feature.

At night I fall asleep and imagine you
in sandals.
I see you walking where He walked,
on a flat escalator
in the Atarot Airport, looking for gate B23.
In the mornings, when I make love to my wife,
I see you lying where she lies.
The sun breaking through the crack in the red curtains.
A tiny sliver of light covering her bare stomach.
But I know you're in Helsinki, in a hotel room on the 8th floor.
It is the middle of the night there. The lights are turned off,
your hands gripping tightly, your lips
pressing gently against the stubble of his chin,
As he rubs his fingertips up and down
the tiny sliver of light covering your bare stomach.
On my way to work I see you stepping into a cab
in Edinburgh, heading for the airport. To catch an early flight.
To layover in London. To see the clock tower from 4,200 feet.

I see you taking long strides down a steel corridor
filled with musty air.
As you wrap your arms around my waist,
I thrust my head into your chest and
listen to the slow beating of your heart.
I try to smell it on you,
the unknown place that somehow called you back to me.
You casually ask how I've been.
What can I possibly say to someone who travels
religiously like you?
The only thing I think to ask is if
you are coming or going.
Your half smile tells me it is neither.
Or is it both?

Fabrications

Fabrications

Can they watch us mimic their kisses, embrace our own backs, burrow hands beneath our bedclothes? – Bernard Cooper

We spend the stolen afternoon between

the blue sheets my parents bought me for Christmas.

Gravity pressing our shapes into the foam

of my twin-sized mattress, like the time we drove

to Snow Bunny to leave our imprints in the freshly fallen

snow. I am curled lightly into the small of his lower back,

eyes closed. I hold my breath steady and slow, like I have

done for him so many times before, so he could watch me

while I didn’t sleep. I wait for his muscles to grow

tight around his bones urging him to shift, to wrap himself

around me. As he turns he runs his fingers

above the skin on my arm, down to the place where my hands

are tangled in blankets. He gently unravels me from my quilted

encasement, pries my knees from my chest, hooks his leg

around mine, and pulls me apart. His fingers run over my spine, pressing each

finger deep into my vertebra, the way Enki and Ninmah did

that day on the river bank, shaping the wet earth into figurines

of men. My own muscles loosen
and give their consent as he rolls me

onto my back. I keep my eyes closed as he spreads

himself over me, slips one hand under my shirt, while the other

tangles fingers into my hair. Lips brush across my forehead,

kisses my nose, and rests his lips on mine, unlocking

my own. He gently sighs, and I breathe him into

my lungs.

Flatmates

“Tha’ mustn’t go walkin’ about in corridors an’ listenin’”
~Frances Hodgson Burnett

There are seven steps between your door and mine
The path is littered with my clothes and your books on the floor
Pieces of you and me intertwined

Rent checks deposited, standing empty handed and blind
Distant and alone, but not anymore
There are only seven steps between your door and mine

On the first day we shared the number 34 bottle of hair dye
Both of us too shallow, too lonely; both of us too poor
Pieces of you and me intertwined

Friday he came with ripped jeans and bottled wine
Your laugh rippled, fell and slithered underneath your door
There are a thousand steps between your door and mine

I waited, ear pressed to the paint, till light broke past the window vines
Spilled in the hall way, the aftermath of the war
Everywhere, pieces of you and him intertwined

He left with your lace crumpled in his pocket, I stood to the side,
Choked on my forced laugh, embraced you, jokingly called you a whore
Only seven steps between your door and mine
Wishing for pieces of you and me intertwined

Questions to Consider

Here are a few questions that may be used in the workshopping process. In addition to making comments about the ninja's piece, you are also welcome to ask questions. I'd like it to resemble a conversation as much as is possible through posts. So, Hooray Ninjas!!

• What is the first thing that struck me about this piece?
• What is the overall feel or tone i got from the piece?
• What was the most impressive part or strength of the piece?
• What was my immediate reaction to the piece?
• What did i feel this piece needed more of?
• What is my feeling about the characters?
• How did the form of the piece work with the content?
• How do I feel this piece worked within the constraints of the Ninja Quest?
• What did the imagery of the piece communicate to me?
• How did the voice (narrative style) work with the piece?
• Are there some phrases or passages that felt forced, or awkward?
• Are there any phrases or passages that are particularly beautiful?

There are infinite possibilities with these questions, these few are just to give you a place to start. And again, please add to the list if you have any other ideas. Here are a few questions that you may want to ask the author.

• What was your first reaction to the Quest?
• How did the quest affect your piece?
• What was your biggest challenge in writing this piece?

A Few Notes on Posting

First of all i would like to extend a hearty congratulations to everyone for completing the first Ninja Quest! Hooray to all! I just wanted to post a few notes and guidelines that will hopefully enrich the ninja experience for all.

Posting

• In general, posts will be due each Friday unless otherwise specified.
• Late posts (Saturday, 12:01 AM or later) are accepted, but there may be consequences involving the purchase of beverages. I know Trent is rather fond of Dr. Pepper.
  
• If a modification is needed to complete the ninja quest (for example, you have an amazing idea that mostly fits with the quest, but not quite...) clearance must be granted.

Commenting

• Since the goal of our little society is to continually improve our skills, workshopping is imperitive.
  
• Workshopping will take place via the comment section of the blog.
• You must post comments on the writing of your fellow ninjas before you can submit your next piece. New pieces that are submitted before comments are made will be subject to temporary deletion.
• Later this week I will post some questions to consider while workshopping a piece. Not every question will apply to every post, but it will be a good place to start. If you have questions you would like to add to the list, please feel free to do so.
  

General Awesomeness

• You are all my favorite things ever.
• I appreciate the hard work you each put into your writing, and i'm terribly excited for this opportunity!

Ninja Quest Week 2

For this weeks ninja quest:
1. Go to your book shelf
2. Pull the fifth book on the second shelf from its place
3. Turn to page 87
4. Choose a line or passage to inspire a poem
This ninja assignment is due on Friday. Happy ninja-ing.

Parking Space

Thwack thwack.
Thwack thwack.
It was snowing— hard. Peter didn’t mind the snow; in fact Peter usually thought it was peaceful—just not today.
Thwack thwack.
Thwack thwack.
The windshield wipers kept a steady rhythm; blithely ignorant of the trails of ice they were leaving blocking Peter’s view. All Peter wanted was a parking space, well, and to pee, but Peter would gladly forfeit any right to urinate for a parking space—he had been circling the parking lot for more than an hour now. The frozen trails on the window had cost Peter two spots already, one to a herd of mothers in a minivan, and the other to a blue-haired troop of seniors in a towncar.
Thwack thwack.
Peter had no idea why he was even out today of all days, Black Friday. Okay, yes he did. After four years he had finally gone with Kristen to her family’s Thanksgiving dinner. Peter hated crowds. Kristen’s family of nine brothers and sisters was terrifying. Peter broke Granmama’s gravy boat before dinner even started…an “heirloom gravy boat”—who ever heard of such a thing? As reparation he offered to drive Kristen and her three sisters to Target’s spectacular sale.
So here he was, endlessly circling the strip mall parking lot, lost in another crowd in a snowstorm in a car with bad windshield wipers and no heat. Well, yes, there was heat, but there was some type of problem with the fan that sounded like a tornado swirling through a herd of cattle. It’s not that the car was old, it was new enough, but Peter didn’t have much interest in his car. He preferred the bus…or his bike…or better yet just being home in his partially restored cottage.
Thwack thwack.
Thwack thwack.
A parking space! Peter stomped on the gas, the tires spun futilely in the slush. “Come on! GO!” he shouted. The tires grabbed and Peter “wooted” in excitement. His breath was coming quickly now—he was nearly there.
Fifteen yards.
Thwack thwack.
Ten yards—tires spinning a bit, but the car was still moving.
Thwack thwack.
“VICTORY!” Peter yelled as his breath gathered on the windshield, “Victory is mi—!” A horn blasted as an SUV muscled its way into the spot. Peter hit the brakes and slide to a slushy stop. He sat and watched through the misty windshield as three people emerged from the vehicle, high-fived one another and, laughing, hurried toward the store. Peter boiled for a moment and then mashed his hand at the dash fumbling for the defrost controls. As the tornado of sound whirled to life Peter blurted a prayer, “God? This is Peter. If you’re listening I could really use a parking space.”
Thwack thwack.
“Yes Peter, I’m listening.”
Thwack thwack.
Thwack thwack.
Peter turned off the defroster. “What?”
“I said I was listening, Peter. You’re looking for a parking space. Sounds like you’ve got a loose fan blade in your defroster as well. 2001 Subaru’s are known for that.”
Thwack thwack.
Thwack thwack.
“You know what kind of car I’m driving?” Peter asked as his foot wandered absentmindedly to the gas.
“Of course I do. I wouldn’t be much help if I didn’t have that type of information, would I?”
Dazed, Peter resumed his circling of the parking lot, no longer interested in finding a parking space. “Can you see me?”
“Well, see isn’t exactly the way I would describe it, but I know where you are and that you’re looking for a parking space—try by the Pottery Barn, it’s West of where you are now.”
Peter turned down the aisle and headed toward the Pottery Barn. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Absolutely Peter, I can stay with you until you find a parking space. What’s on your mind?”
“What’s it like where you are?” Peter asked as a bevy of woman carting their wares passed in front of him.
“Oh, it’s a little slice of heaven; not like where you are at the moment. By the way, the temperature is going to drop even more and you’ll have continued snow showers as the day goes on—is that all you want to know?”
Thwack thwack.
Thwack thwack.
Peter thought for a moment. A rush of thoughts and then, “What should I do about Kristen—I mean, it has been four years, you’d think we’d be married by now, but I’m just…well, I’m…I’m just Peter.”
“Ah marriage. Look Peter, it’s Winter. It’s a difficult time to be thinking about these types of things. The days are shorter and short days and afternoons spent pottering around in a dark house with the windows painted shut isn’t good for anyone. As wonderful a time of year this is there are too many emotions that can be falsely heightened by all of the extraneous activity. You were obviously frustrated when you contacted me—it’s just a parking space, don’t sweat it. Finding a parking space becomes a big deal when it really shouldn’t. Enjoy the season for being what it is. Ignore the things that ultimately don’t matter. As far as Kristen is concerned—enjoy the holidays with her. Get the fan fixed in your car and don’t worry about marriage, it’ll happen when it is supposed to.”
Thwack thwack.
Thwack thwack.
Peter thought about it, and it made sense. He smiled and almost missed the fact that there was a parking space opening up to his right—and right in front of the Pottery Barn. “A parking space! HA HA! How can I ever thank you?”
“No thanks necessary Peter, just think about what I said and enjoy your holidays. This is Todd, thank you for calling OnStar.”

Dress Rehersal

I didn’t know that this game we were playing even had a set of rules – Issac Brock (from Black Cadilacs by Modest Mouse)

The air fills with the buzzing of the alarm clock on the nightstand, a hand reaches between lepored print sheets and hits the small back button on top, the buzzing stops and the room is still. Somewhere in another part of the old house the floor lets out a squeak, the squeak travels down the hall, glides under the crack of the oak bedroom door, and slips between the sheets, fumbling its way into the ears and bouncing across the eardrumb inside. A long slow sleepy sigh echoes its reply as the dovet cover begins to move, two feet tumble out and fall onto the carpeted floor below. Two hands brush across wrinkled skin and smile lines to tossle the gray wire hair on the top of the head, before moving to the legs where two arthritic knees are bent over the side, throbbing with the morning. The room adjusts as the body stands, the feet find their ways into a set of black slippers and the hands push through the silk fabric of a black robe, they tie a hasty knot around a solid middle.

The body is guided out the oak door, through the narrow hallway filled with mismatched picture frames holding pictures of grandchildren with peanut-butter faces and sundy best, and into the kitchen. The refridgerater hums a greeting as the two hands grope for the familiar round glass caraffe, they craddel it as the slippered feet shuffle across the yellow tile and wait patiently while the hands fill the glass with water before shuffeling back to the old coffee maker. The feet turn and walk back down the hall, through the oak door, and to the chair in front of the vanity. The body sits, while the feet are tucked carefully under the little chair. The two hands reach for a bright green head band and pull it over the hair. The hands then work with the hastened memory that comes from habit as it applies thick liquid foundation, to hide the wrinkles and age spots. Next comes the powder and blush, the thick gold eyeshaddow is smeered across the eyelid, followed in rappid succession with chunky blue eyeliner. The hands slow down as two sets of long eyelashes are attached to each eye and covered with layers of deep black mascarra. The eyes blink with approval, the hands push the body from the chair, and the feet slip across the carpet to the walk in closet. 

Hands grasp at the flesh colored support hose and body shapers; they are carefully put into place before the hands reach for the thickly padded bra, slipping the straps over shoulders and doing the small mettle hooks on the first row. The hands reach for the hanger that holds the fabric filled with blue sequens and pulls it over the head. The feet slip out of the black slippers and into black flats, while the hands tie a blue scarf over the wisps of hair. The body turns, goes out of the closet and to the bedside, it bends and purses the lips to softly kiss the head of the sleeping woman it finds there. The woman stirs and squeezes one of the hands, she whispers to remind her husband him of the dinner reservations, and to remember the highth of the slit in his new dress as he climbs onto the stool to introduce his parading queens. 

I Bet It Stung

It was 7:16. She sat silently on the suede sofa, staring at the ceiling. She startled as she heard his footsteps creak in the hall, his struggle with keys at the door. As he entered the apartment he noticed the smell of spaghetti. He dropped his keys into the wicker basket on the table. He hung his fleece sweater on the wooden hook in the entryway. “Smells good, honey.”
She sighed as she simultaneously mouthed his words. Emphasis on smells. She knew that he couldn’t stand her cooking. So taste would be a different story. As he came into the living room, he noticed her perched there on the couch, looking up. He glanced quickly to the ceiling as well and saw a dull bulb where a light fixture should be. “Oh, that’s what I forgot.” She knew that he hadn’t actually forgotten the fixture, but conveniently taken the 405 home as to not pass the hardware store. When she smiled and looked at him, he said he would pick it up tomorrow. She smiled, seemingly pacified, at least for the time being. “How was your day?” he asked.
“You’re twenty minutes late,” she replied. “The spaghetti is probably getting cold.” She nodded in the direction of the dining room, and stood up. Her bare feet slid smoothly across the hardwood floor as she led him to the table. He sat down and she served him, then scooped some noodles out for herself. She gave him very little sauce. He wouldn’t like it anyway.
She set his plate on the table and went to turn on some music. She pulled out her ancient copy of Up You Alley and pushed it into the CD player. She sat down beside him and started on her spaghetti.
“I love the rock and roll,” he said.
“That’s not on this album, babe.”
“I know; I just meant in general. Ya know?” She could hear a stiffness in his voice. “Sorry, I never really listen to this kind of stuff.”
“Don’t get so uptight,” she said. “It’s just Joan Jett.”
Not wanting to bring it up again, she waited a few minutes before she finally had the nerve to tell him. “I picked up the light fixture this afternoon.”
“You did? That’s great.” He swallowed. “I’ll hang it after dinner.”
He stood on the couch as he took the glass fixture from its cardboard box. She watched expectantly. He touched the bulb and quickly pulled away.
“You’ll have to take it out to install the fixture.” She handed him a rag, so he wouldn’t burn his hands. As he thanked her, she looked into his dark brown eyes. She knew he was thinking about it, so now was the perfect time to ask. But she knew he could tell what she was thinking to, and before she had a chance to ask, he told her the one thing she hadn’t predicted, “I know you plan out everything that you want to say.”
She stared at him shocked, in disbelief. He went to screw in the fixture, and she thought for a second that she should stop him. But instead she looked at the floor, and mumbled the only words of the evening she hadn’t rehearsed. “I wish that we didn’t have to go about things this way.”
As he fell, the lights flickered, and she glanced quickly at the dimming red numbers of the digital clock hanging on the wall.
It was 7:17. She sat silently on the suede sofa, staring at the ceiling. She startled as she heard his footsteps creak in the hall, his struggle with keys at the door.

The Mixed Tape

You're playing that cassette tape
That you took from me to take to Iowa
And that was near three years ago
Now I'm back up in that moment
Playing that yardsale Casio
From 24C – The Matches


It was only April, but Kevin had his windows down. His stereo blasted Jack’s Mannequin loud enough to be heard three cars away.
In between tracks he heard a snatch of a familiar song from the car next to him. Surprised he wasn’t the only one who felt this April afternoon deserved its own soundtrack; he mashed the volume down so he could catch the chorus of “What it is to Burn” by Finch. He looked over at the car stopped at the light next to him and perhaps to give the guy a congratulatory honk and wave for being awesome. His fingers froze on the vinyl skin of the horn. It was Jenny. She was yelling something to someone, her neck arched toward the back seat like a thin white coat hanger. A not so friendly honk from behind him reminded him that the light had turned green.
In his embarrassment he stomped on the gas more forceful than was necessary and jerked his car forward. He stole a glace at Jenny in her dirty white Honda as she caught up to him. The huge dent she’d received the night of the Weezer concert was still there and looked worse than ever. She had passed out in the front row that night. He remembered how her hair smelled like sweat and weed as they arrived stumbling to the parking lot only to find the car dented, and the antenna ball from the local radio station missing.
Kevin missed the turn off on to his street. He switched lanes to stay behind the white car instead. He could just see the outline of a child’s car seat sticking out over the threadbare gray upholstery. So that’s who she was yelling at. He remembered how she used to turn up the first 30 seconds of that song and close her eyes as the cello faltered into an all consuming scream. She would always cross her legs when she listened to it. It was from the cassette tape she’d taken from him to take to Iowa three years ago. As he tailed her through the streets, questions and scenarios played in his mind like disjointed film clips. Most importantly, how old was the kid in the back seat?
Jenny had turned down a residential street lined with poplars and white fences. She stopped in front of an intimidating building, but did not pull in to the driveway.
Kevin parked a few houses down. He couldn’t help but watch her. The sound of that yard sale Casio lingered as he tapped the beat out with his fingers. He watched her lean into the car to unbuckle the child. It was a little girl with blond pigtails tied with blue ribbons. She was hardly a baby. Kevin’s palms grew warm as they gripped the steering wheel of the idling car. Jenny held the girl’s hand as she retrieved a large white pail filled with cleaning supplies from the car. The girl bounced impatiently, while swinging what looked like his old He-man toy in her other hand.
He was late for work, but he sat there in view of the house for two hours. Waiting. Thinking of how to ask the questions that had plagued him the last 3 years.
Jenny and the girl finally emerged. Kevin’s hands gripped the steering wheel tighter. With little success he tried convincing his hands to move to the car door.
Watching the tail lights of Jenny’s car vanish around the corner gave him an odd sense of déjà vu. He looked at the clock. He sighed. Two and a half hours late for work. He pulled his car out of the driveway, and drove back home.