Workers, white space, "Without Rose"

Those of you who have been reading for a while may recall this post, in which I detailed my first day of my recent bout of Dayworking. One of the many puzzling scenarios in which I found myself involved cake, and a strange cake immunity I noticed among some of the Workers.

Today I went in to pick up a check, and while I was there, the intercom once again sang its siren song of free cake to be found in the breakroom. This time, I was free to go in and get a slice.

So there's balance in some things, at least.

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I spent a lot of time today looking at a page upon which is written only the words "Chapter Fifteen." My hope is that later tonight or tomorrow morning I will fill it with something more.

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Below is my entry to the Clarity of Night "Endless Hours" contest. It's very short, but I hope it tells a story even in its brevity. People have been very nice to it so far over there, which is a bit of a relief, even though I wouldn't have expected attacks or anything. I'm still not sure how I feel about it myself.

Many of the comments I've received so far concern the "twist" at the end, which I found surprising. I guess I didn't think of it like that. It certainly isn't of the "I sold my pocket watch to buy you this comb" type.

Posting this technically violates one of my rules that I have set for my blog: I am not really permitted to edit anything that is posted here. My rule is basically that the writings here be extemporaneous, and when I post fiction it is always the first draft. I guess my story for the contest never technically went through a second draft, but since I submitted it somewhere as "final," it's still technically breaking the rules.

Rules are nice sometimes, but they certainly aren't everything.

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"Without Rose"
by maht wells

The front door let out a creak and Tim nearly bolted, letting the exhilaration of coming close be enough. This was his dare, though, and he intended to prove himself. He felt his brother’s eyes on his back as he crossed the threshold.

They’d lain in the bushes and watched the old man push through the crooked screen door and pick his way to the truck. Tim had never heard the old man speak, had only seen him moving from house to truck and back again, and once in a great while sitting out front in an ancient metal deck chair.

He shut the door behind him and stood still as his eyes adjusted to the darkness inside. As the green wash faded, he was able to make out a pile of magazines stacked next to an easy chair, and an enormous, overflowing ashtray on the coffee table.

It was when he reached the kitchen that he thought about Rose, once the old man’s wife. Even Tim could feel her absence as he stared at the piling sink, the fallen curtain, the decay. This was his first real image of death, the effects of it and what life could become to those left behind. He would carry this kitchen with him.

“Tim!” His brother’s voice, from outside, probably halfway home already. The old man had returned.

Tim stood still for another moment, weighing his options before he turned on the water, squeezing soap from the bottle onto the dishes.