an exercise.

recently i've been reading stephen king's, on writing: a memoir of the craft. it is quite good, and i am nearly finished. in it, there is a section where mr. king provides a scene, and even a bit of a sampled back story, asking his readers to write a few pages. the focus is to write from the situation, to dig up the actual occurrence rather than force the story out of a tired old plot. the plot, he assures us, will come across if we've done our job well enough.

the situation he sets up is this: a man (dick) and a woman (jane) fall in love, get married and have a child (nell). through out the years, dick's jealously and anger seem to grow exponentially, until finally there is an incident and dick is locked up. the scene he asks his readers to write, is one day, years later, when jane learns that dick has successfully escaped captivity, and that he is in the area (heck, probably in the house). feeling this to be a bit too overdone, mr. king suggests at the last moment, to flip the protagonist and antagonist. make it jane who becomes violent or insane, and dick who is left to raise their daughter.

after his 2010 re-issue on on writing, mr. king encouraged his audience of aspiring writers to submit them to his website, however the sites moderator now states they are not accepting these submissions any longer. she suggests finding like minded people on the message boards and sharing with each other, but that means signing up for something else online, and truthfully, i've never much cared for message boards. but skimming over some entries, i noticed that a few fellow writers had decided to put their version the short story on their blogs... what a novel idea! and so, i submit to you, my (non)readers:

Dick and Jane (and Nell)

[First Draft]

A large, dark cloud looms in the horizon, as Dick leaves the construction site. He thinks, only a couple hours before that hits, perhaps he will make hot chocolate for Nell and him. They could curl up in a blanket and watch a movie – Disney, if Nell gets her way. Dick places his toolbox on the passenger side then jumps into his old pick-up truck, and starts the long drive home.

Tomorrow will be Nell’s birthday. Her gift is under the truck’s lone bench-seat, wrapped, but hidden to ensure she would not try to peak the contents. Nell’s favorite book, a rare edition of collected Winnie the Pooh stories, had been lost in the fire. Dick searched, placed bids on e-Bay and stopped in every bookstore he came across, until finally he obtained a copy the week previous. He thought about giving it to her tonight. Maybe he could read to her, instead of watching movies. Dick worried she would soon consider herself too old to be read to.

An annoying radio commercial cuts off a perfectly good song and Dick begins to scan different stations, all of which seem to be airing their own annoying commercials or music he has no interest for. Tuning past a distorted signal, he barely hears the words: Breaking News. He pauses to hear more. Through scratchy cracks he manages to decipher part of the following statement, multiple escapees from a women’s asylum. Were it not for his ribcage, he was sure his heart would have leaped from his chest. He fiddles with the tuning knob, gripped by fear, hoping to clear the signal.

Five patients escaped Fairview Women’s Psychiatric Hospital, a few hours ago, three had been caught and police had a fourth surrounded inside a gas station. Dick hardly had to think about it, certain that if there had been an escape – from that asylum – he not only knew the instigator, but also who the remaining fugitive was. It is her daughter’s birthday tomorrow, so it would make perfect sense. Psychotically perfect sense.

The shiny wrapping paper on Nell’s gift catches Dick’s eye, and he presses the gas-pedal to the floor. Naomi, the babysitter, would have brought Nell home from school by now. They would be watching bad television and eating ice cream, or cookie dough. Dick retrieves his cell phone from the dashboard compartment and tries to phone home; no answer. He tries Naomi’s cell phone; again, no answer. He drops the phone only for a moment, before picking it from the seat and calling any neighbor he has a number for. Finally Mrs. Harris, an elderly widow, answers.

“Hello?” She says with a soft, slow voice.

“Hello, Mrs. Harris? This is Dick, from across the street,” he says. Adding, “Nell’s father.”

“Yes, yes I know who you are,” she replies.

There’s a moment of dead-air before Dick continues, “Mrs. Harris, I need to ask a favor. Could you please go to my house, and if anyone comes to the door, ask them to call me?”

“Can’t you just call them yourself?” Mrs. Harris asks.

“I tried, but no one is answering,” Dick answers.

“Well then, I guess no one is there,” Mrs. Harris offers.

He lets out a hefty sigh, “Please, Mrs. Harris this is important. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t. I tried the other neighbors, but you’re the only one who answered.”

“Lucky me,” she says. “Alright, I’ll go check. What if no one is there?”

“Please call me back,” Dick says.

After dictating his number several times, Dick ends their call and places his phone on the seat. He had never been a religious man, but for just the second time, Dick finds himself praying for his daughter’s well-being. He curses his truck for being old and slow, and then he curses himself for not buying a new one. He could afford it, and now his guilt and frugality may cost him everything.

Dick is fifteen minutes from home when he begins sweating. It has been nearly twenty minutes since his conversation with Mrs. Harris. He continues to alternate calls, between home, Naomi and Mrs. Harris; no one is answering. Though not breaking any records, Dick is clearly speeding and hoping he might draw the attention of a police car. Never around when you actually need one, he thinks. Failing officer assistance, Dick decides to prepare by arming himself, retrieving his club hammer and a chisel from his toolbox, placing them next to his phone, as he turns left on to his street. Almost there, he thinks.

The house is dark as Dick’s truck comes to a halt in front of it. He leaps out, tools in-hand. Approaching the entrance, he can feel all the hairs on his body stand on end. The door is closed, but unlocked. He pushes it open, letting it swing in. He begins to call out names, “Nell? Naomi? Mrs. Harris?” But hears no reply, not a sound at all. He enters the house clenching his makeshift weapons, his eyes darting from left to right. “Goddamn it, is anyone here?” Just then, he notices a small trickle of blood, streaking halfway down the door at the end of the hall – his bedroom door.

Dick finds himself overwhelmed by a memory. It is the last time Nell’s mother, Jane, had been under the same roof as them – the night of the fire. He recalls lying in bed and waking from the smell of gasoline, before recognizing the roar of flames at his back and the heat they produced.  A blazing line, stretching end to end, engulfed the far side of the bed – Jane’s side. His wife was missing, however. Dick remembers the other line of gas, a narrow puddle on the hardwood, peeking from under the door and leading to the hallway. Seconds later it too is in flames, and Dick hears Nell screaming. The line of fire in the hallway runs from their room to Nell’s, stopping in front of her closed door. Dick kicks it in.

Creeping closer to his blood-streaked door, Dick is thankful the smell of gasoline is not present, but terrified by the silence. Placing his left hand to the doorknob, he glances at the long scar near his thumb. She had nearly cut if off last time. When he opens the door, Dick is thrust into sheer panic. While there are no flames – and it’s his room, not Nell’s – the scene before him is uncannily similar to the gruesome and devastating sight, five years previous.

Dick’s mind triggers unfocused flashbacks, which intersperse with his shaky vision of reality. He sees Mrs. Harris’s lifeless body, a pool of blood soaking into the carpet near her neck and chest, but he also sees his mother, lying in a similar state, out of her bed in front of Nell’s crib. Then he turns to see Jane. She has a large kitchen knife and a hostage, just as before, but this time the knife is held to Naomi. He sees them standing on the far side of his bed, and he sees Jane holding Nell behind her crib. He struggles to focus.

“Jesus,” Dick says. “Not again.”

“Hello, Richard,” Jane says. “Surprised to see me?”

“Jesus Christ, Jane! You’re goddamn psychotic!” He screams.

“No shit, Dick,” she replies. “Now, I know this little bitch can’t be the whore you ran off with, so where is she? Or did you trade up again? Get a younger, newer model? Huh? Is this little cunt even legal, Dick?”

“Where is Nell, Jane?” Dick asks.

Jane sways like a drunk, taking Naomi with her every movement. The knife blade lay flat across Naomi’s chest.

“I don’t know, Dick! Where is she? I was going to ask you that very question, Dick, where is she? Where is your goddamn little princess? Get her in here! Bring her to mommy.”

Dick looks at the trembling babysitter and her eyes tell him that Nell is safe. “I’m not going to do that, Jane,” he says. “Why don’t you let Naomi go?”

“Naomi, is it? That’s the name of your little whore? That’s a terrible name! You have a terrible name. It’s I moan, backwards.”

“Alright Jane, that’s enough! Naomi is the babysitter, she’s not a whore and I’m not with her. I was never with anyone, besides you. You were the goddamn love of my life, Jane! You were so beautiful, and so intelligent. So very talented,” Dick says, tears starting to form. “But you went bat-shit crazy, and you clearly will never get better.”

Jane tosses Naomi aside, slicing her arm at the shoulder, then she charges Dick, knife extended above her head and screaming. With flawless timing, Dick steps from the doorway and trips Jane, who goes sprawling into the hallway. He drops on to her spine with a knee, and then brings the club hammer down on the back of her head. Jane goes limp as the blood quickly begins to pool. Dick vomits a little.

It’s over, he thinks. It is over.