Work
The force that drives the engine of the world
Another one-line poem. But don't be angry. The shortest poem is something like 3 words. Anyway, last week I provided a link to Scribophobia. This week I give you an example of just what that project is about.
This is the prompt from week 1:
"Write a first-person story in which you use the first-person pronoun (I or me or my) only two times - but keep the I somehow important to the narrative you're constructing. The point of this exercise is to imagine a narrator who is less interested in himself than in what he is observing. You can make your narrator someone who sees an interesting event in which he is not necessarily a participant. Or you can make him self-effacing, yet a major participant in the events related. It is very important in this exercise to make sure your reader is not surprised, forty or fifty words into the piece, to realize that this is a first-person narration. Show us quickly who is observing the scene. 600 words"
And this is my submission from week 1:
A chill wind blasted into the house as Frank opened the door, letting himself in. My glasses fogged up in the cold air. Frank stamped his feet to get the snow off his boots. Turning around, he smiled widely and dropped his bag. "You are the love of my life," he said warmly and any remaining chill instantly vanished.
As he sat down at the kitchen table, eyeing his dinner hungrily, a loud pounding came from the back door. It led to the back yard, a wild place full of overgrown weeds. Frank hadn't gotten around to taming it yet. Well, normally is was covered in weeds, but since it was winter it was a swath of white. The pounding came again, louder and more insistent. "Go hide!" Frank ordered. "Go hide right now! Don't come out, not matter what you hear!"
Confused, I scrambled out of the kitchen, slipping and sliding in an effort to get away. What the hell was happening? What did Frank know? Why the edict? So many questions left unanswered. So many questions that would remain unanswered until whatever it was settled down. A door came up on the right and it provided as good an escape as any.
The darkness was startling, but not nearly as much as the voices coming from the kitchen. Loud voices, one of them Frank's, could easily be heard. "You were supposed to get it already!" came a stranger's shrill shout.
"Just a few more months, Jackson. This is as close as we can get right now."
"As close as you can get?! Gregor would have just killed her and been done with it!"
"Gregor is a bully and a damned psychopath. You can't rely on him for anything. Especiallynot to get caught. At least this way, nobody is going to notice except those involved. And even then, who is going to tell or believe anything? It's far too silly a story to be taken seriously. Jackson, just calm down and give me a few more months."
Feet came toward the dark cubby. Suddenly, knowing Frank and the Jackson person were coming closer, it felt like the temperature dropped 50 degrees. Still, it was impossible to resist the urge to crack open the door and try to see what was happening. Jackson was an old man, scarred and hard looking. His gray eyes, set deep in his face, were unnerving. His hands, big and pockmarked, flexed and he looked about ready to kill Frank.
"C'mon Jackson. Another month is all you need to wait. Then you'll have everything you want. All the wealth, all the money, all the power. And the respect of making the biggest heist of the century. Nay, the millennium! And you won't have to worry about poor ol' Frank anymore."
"Well... Did that door just open? I could have sworn it was closed a moment ago." He stepped toward the door, but Frank put a hand on his arm, stopping him.
"What's more important? A door? Or your heist?"
"What's more important, Frank? Reputation! That's what's important. Things must be done in a timely manner. If you can't follow the itinerary, then you're obsolete. Sorry, Frank, it was good while it lasted, but you don't have any more time."
Quicker than the eye could follow, Jackson pulled out a wicked looking knife and rammed it into Frank's gut. Eyes wide open, Frank collapsed, his hands closing reflexively around the knife handle. Jackson jammed his hands in his pockets, whistled as he sauntered from the house. Frank looked at the door, apology in his eyes as they clouded over in death.
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