 Personal writing thread |
Ping Pong Over the Abyss 
Unbalanced
Registration Date: 02-21-2006
Posts: 1,110
Favorite 77s album: Too Many...!
Location: In my earbuds...!
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All right, I'll start it. Here's an excerpt from my novella "Nightstalkers":
I. Nightstockers and Nightclubs
It was your typical late autumn Iowa day—warm, blustery, and as cheerful as a boy scout jamboree. (I'm embellishing that last part—they call it “poetic license,” or something like that. Truthfully, I'm fairly new at this whole “writer” thing. Please be patient—God knows I'm a work in progress. But I digress.) Twenty-five mile-per-hour winds buffeted the four sturdy walls of our workplace, the B-Mart Glee Club. We watched the sparse number of customers enter our store clutching their hats, their purses, and their jackets tightly around them, cursing the wind and cussing the night. We even saw a couple of kids nursing a broken kite. One of them asked for the whereabouts of the toy section. I was more than happy to steer them in the right direction. Then an older couple came in, curious about where we kept the sunglasses. I pointed the way.
I could relate to the entire sunlight dilemma. In fact, all of us “nightstockers” could. We pulled the 10 pm- 6 am shift while the majority of the town's 50, 000 denizens snored safely in their beds. Canned, bottled, and jarred merchandise didn't magically appear on the grocery shelves. We took care of it.
Let me introduce myself. I go by several names at this repressive communist regime (I mean, workplace) –nimrod, screw-up, dimwit, Henry, and George. Especially George.
But that's not my real name anyway. It's Brian. Brian Carter. To my friends and family, I go by BC. I do not give an owl's hoot for my critics' thoughts. The way I figure it, if you let your adversaries dictate to you the terms of your happiness (or the lack thereof), you've already lost half the battle.
And I simply refuse to concede one iota of ground to them. Even in my bleakest moments, I will never call it quits.
Especially in the midst of bloodsucker season. And I'm not discussing politicians.
But a great many things happened before that stuff occurred. Lend me your ear, and I'll let you in on a little secret: there are things that go bump in the night. Not merely phantasms, flights-of-fancy, and figments of overactive imaginations.
“...hey, Carter—are you with us tonight?”
Ah, nothing like reality biting you in the nose. Or elsewhere.
Copyright 2012 Brian Pierson.
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"Sunshine on my shoulder makes me sweaty...!" Dr. Love 
This post has been edited 1 time(s), it was last edited by Ping Pong Over the Abyss: 01-21-2012 23:22.
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01-21-2012 23:20 |
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Ron E
Drowning with Land in Sight
Registration Date: 05-19-2005
Posts: 389
Favorite 77s album: Sticks and Stones
Location: our house, on the corner of our street
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That has a lot of really great potential, and, having just read Dracula for the first time, it holds a lot of interest for me.
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www.roneaston.blogspot.com
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01-23-2012 10:23 |
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Ping Pong Over the Abyss
Unbalanced
Registration Date: 02-21-2006
Posts: 1,110
Favorite 77s album: Too Many...!
Location: In my earbuds...!
Thread Starter 
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Once I iron out these taxes of mine and type up some more of this novel I've been working on since June, I hope to have some more snippets up and running.
__________________
"Sunshine on my shoulder makes me sweaty...!" Dr. Love
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01-23-2012 12:09 |
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Ping Pong Over the Abyss
Unbalanced
Registration Date: 02-21-2006
Posts: 1,110
Favorite 77s album: Too Many...!
Location: In my earbuds...!
Thread Starter
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“Helllllllllo—earth to Carter. Come in, space cadet Carter.” The rest of the night crew chuckled heartily at that zinger, waiting for me to fall back on my former mode of handling tongue-lashings: by turning a fiery red and crossing my arms.
I just smiled along with the boss-man and played the nimrod I was supposed to be. “Present and accounted for, Mr. Kelly!”
The Cheshire cat's grin on the boss's face disappeared as fast as it had arrived. The rest of the crew, from those atop the proverbial totem pole, to the lowest grunt, did a collective double-take. Where had this sudden intestinal fortitude come from?
I can't continue this story very well without briefly introducing the rest of this elite crew of stock-men and -ladies. John Dunne said, “No man is an island,” and, by God, he was correct.
I'll start off with Ibrahim “Ishtar” el-Kasis. A religious-political refugee from Syria, Ibrahim arrived in our beloved US of A in early October 1985. Having started out as a surgeon in his native country, he had (necessarily) been forced to temporarily put his life's ambition on hold. He and his beloved wife of 30 years, Idrisa, have four boys, ages 10 to 18. Their oldest, Muammad, plans to be a neurosurgeon. More power to him. If he's anything like his old man, he'll easily leave his imprint on the medical world someday. During the day, Ibrahim attends day classes at our local university, St. Bonaventure. Nearing fifty years of age, he still has raven-black hair and a matching mustache. To top it off, he compensates for his 5'8” stature with a well-maintained—actually, a downright svelte—physique, courtesy of Devil's Glen's own Barbour Gym (I occasionally work out there—but that's a whole other story).
As the boss-man's faithful right-hand man, Ibrahim's supposed to keep me “under control” (whatever that means; you'll have to check with the boss sometime on that one). Honestly, he lets me get away with a lot of things. Mind you, I'm not into breaking the rules or trying to get my way. Sometimes, though especially when I'm working (and unofficially) lending a hand to the Devil's Glen Police Department, I often arrive late to work and Ibrahim's covered for me. He's also defended me on those (too often) occasions when other members of the crew try to make my life a living heck.
Thank God for Ibrahim.
If there's a a heavenly connection to this job, then according to Murphy's Law of the Workplace (established in 2005 by yours truly), there must be a hellish one as well. That's where Fay “Fu Manchu” Park steps into the picture. Tall, lean, and mean, this 35-year-old, still-living-at-home-with-his-parents, African-American considers himself the spiritual (if not physical) heir-apparent to the throne of the late undisputed kung fu master, Bruce Lee. He's never afraid to issue a quick put-down for absolutely no reason—and God help the poor fool who dares question his innate sagacity . He never fails to make sexist comments when young, shapely (and apparently unattached) women enter the premises. Enough on good ol' Fu.
Then there's the king of cool himself—Jack “Elvis” Summer. A recent high school graduate, Elvis is definitely going places. Possessing a work ethic well beyond his years, and armed with a calm, cool demeanor, there's no mistaking him for the living clone of the late Elvis Aaron Presley. It also helps that, like Ibrahim, he is short, wiry, and blessed with the most ripkicking pompadour on this side of the 21st century. Like Fu, he also knows martial arts, but he doesn't shove his knowledge in your face. In times' past, I've asked for pointers of the art of the “dance of the Lotus,” and, by George, he is most beneficent with his wisdom. If you're ever in a jam you can't get out of, give the King of Rock and Roll a holler. He'll be there, uh-huh, thank you very much.
Every crew anymore must have at least one (if not two) members of the “fairer sex,” in order to avoid even the appearance of sexism in the workplace. In our work environment, we have Kristy Hallifax and Carol Cummings.
Whoever said that men are pigs and women are as pure as the wind-driven snow doesn't know Jack, squat, or a combination of them. What Fu is to guys (I cringe just thinking about this), the women (I can't tarnish the term “ladies”) are to their gender. Most every shift, they constantly hit on me, making cute little remarks to each other, speaking extra quietly, “What do you think? Boxers or briefs?” I handle such harassment by chuckling beneath my breath, doing the two-step slide-shuffle, and dart out of the aisle as fast as my size 12 feet will allow. Part of me is flattered that women find me attractive, but the rest of me (the more sensible part) knows that giving even the slightest hint of mental assent toward such behavior is the same as winking at sin. (Not going there, no sir.) Not even if they're both single, blond, and shapely.
I can't forget Mark Crewson. He's this long-haired Metallica worshiper who considers speed-metal the pinnacle of the music experience. Apparently all previous forms of auricular expression never existed, or are of such minor importance to barely warrant an appearance in the encyclopedia. While musical taste is highly subjective, he also hangs out with a bunch of druggies and other high-school dropouts. This is sad, because, despite Mark's musical elitism, he's a pretty bright guy. During his clean-cut high school years, he and his high school debate team placed first in state both years he belonged to this exclusive club of Mensa applicants. Apathy obviously marched hand-in-hand with his discovery of Lars Ulrich, Cliff Burton (RIP), Kirk Hammett, Robert Trujillo, and James Hatfield.
Ah...but the great equalizer of sorts strikes again. To balance out Mark, God has blessed us with dudes such as Colvin Grappert. Despite Colvin's aquiline features, slight frame, and taste for strange and exotic energy drinks, a certain energy practically resonates from this guy. He's the bass player/keyboardist for the local rock band, Herald. (I once told him, “Geddy Lee's got nothing on you.” “Except for a few million dollars, reams of gold and platinum records, and Alex Lifeson and Neil Peart as bandmates, yeah, you're right.” We both got a kick out of that one.) Much like me, he mainly keeps to himself, but he can tear it up with the karaoke machine during our semi-annual B-Mart company parties. We even belted out a convincing rendition of Kansas's “Carry On Wayward Son.” (Relax, Steve Walsh and company—we aren't going to steal your jobs any time soon.)
Copyright 2012 Brian Pierson
__________________
"Sunshine on my shoulder makes me sweaty...!" Dr. Love
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01-23-2012 13:03 |
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How long is the story and are you finished or is it a work in progress?
It's semi-autobiographical, involving many members of my former "nightstocker" (get it?) crew, back during my Iowa third-shift grocery-working nights.