Life Story
Daily Prompt: Elevator – You’re stuck in an elevator with an intriguing stranger.
I yawned as the lift approached the third floor. Seven floors down and the damn thing had stopped at every floor. The third was no exception. I groaned inwardly as the doors slid open to reveal a short, grey-haired man. He tottered in, barely making it inside before the doors slid closed.
“Which floor?” I enquired as the lift began to move again, gesturing towards the buttons as he smoothed imaginary wrinkles out of his white linen suit.
He looked at me and smiled, his aged face crinkling even more (if that were possible), a glint in his surprisingly bright blue eyes.
The lift shuddered and ground to a halt.
The first flicker of fear trickled through me as I moved to the control panel. I wasn’t particularly claustrophobic, but I did harbour a secret fear of plummeting to my death. I jabbed at the buttons. Nothing. I pushed the alarm switch. Still nothing. Maybe it’s a silent alarm?
The man spoke.
“I remember when all this was trees and fields,” he said, gesturing expansively, moving his arms to encompass the entire lift.
“Right, yes,” I replied.
“Over here,” he continued, pointing towards the back wall, “was the lane I walked on my way to school.”
I looked at the wall and nodded, humouring him.
“When I went to school at all!” he cackled. “We often didn’t make it on hot summer days. You see that factory, just there?” He pointed to his left.
“Um, factory…?” I replied.
“That used to be a field, we played there on the hot summer days when we didn’t go to school,” he continued, ignoring me. “Ah, those were the days.”
I jabbed at the buttons on the control panel again. I was feeling more and more anxious. This guy seemed harmless enough, but he obviously wasn’t in complete control of his faculties.
“And over there,” he went on, “was the farm where I worked when I left school.” He was pointing to the right wall now. “As you can see, it’s an industrial estate now.”
I looked at the wall.
“An industrial estate, um, yes,” I replied.
“And there’s the park where I met my wife,” he went on, a faint smile on his face. “Fifty five years we were married.” He was staring at the wall, a wistful look in his eyes. “Fifty five years.”
Poor old guy. I wonder if he knows where he is? I wondered. There’s probably someone looking for him. He’s probably wandered off from assisted living.
“That was the church where I married my Masie.” He was looking at the wall to his right. “As you can see it’s still there. Not everything has changed.”
His tone turned sombre. “That was the church where I buried my Masie.”
He bowed his head and turned away, trying but failing to hide the tears which sprung into his eyes at the memory.
I hesitantly placed my hand on his shoulder and we just stood a moment as he relived old memories.
The lift started again with a jerk and I stood back, feeling awkward. A second later the doors slid open.
“This is me!” he exclaimed brightly and stepped out of the lift, all hint of sadness gone. I stared past him but could see only darkness. Maybe the power was out. Maybe that was why the lift was having problems. Maybe the stairs would be a better option. Besides, I couldn’t just let the poor old guy wander around all confused. I moved to follow him but the doors closed abruptly, forcing me to take a step backwards. They opened again immediately. Beyond was the familiar second floor, brightly lit. A couple of people were waiting to get on, seemingly unaware that the lift had been stuck between floors for the last five minutes.
I stepped out of the lift and looked down the corridor, first to the left and then to the right. There was no sign of the man.
“Excuse me,” I asked the couple as they moved past me into the lift. “Did you see which way that old chap in the white suit went?”
“I’m sorry, who?” asked one.
As the doors closed I saw their blank faces as they looked at each other, frowning in confusion.
Ever Changing
Daily Prompt: Goals – When you started your blog, did you set any goals? Have you achieved them? Have they changed at all?
I can’t make up my mind from one moment to the next, is my problem. Any goal I see for my blog changes from day to day. I just sort of write, really. Get my thoughts down. Be part of a worldwide community of people who also just sort of write, really.
I first started my blog back in, hang on, let me check…
… still checking…
… July 2011 with “Monkeys and typewriters“. Okay, I thought it was longer ago than that. I was pretty sure I was approaching 3 years rather than 2.
I didn’t have any particular goals. Thoughts kept popping into my head (like monkeys and typewriters), and I wanted somewhere to write them down. And so my blog was born. Hooray!
It has evolved a bit over the (apparently nearly 2) years. I’ve done a bit of shonky poetry. I’ve written a bit of mini fiction. I’ve even done some complementary (and largely talentless, but that’s their charm) sketches in the form of the ever-popular DraliDoodles!
I’d love to say I write purely for me and for the joy of writing, but that would be a big fat lie. I love it when people “like” what I write. This appeared in my “notifications” speech bubble thingy a couple of days ago. I know it’s not a lot compared to some of you guys, but I’m chuffed. Yay me!
“Likes” for me! Yay!
I love it when people start following my blog. Then I panic a bit. Did they follow me based on one piece of fiction? I don’t do much fiction! I can never think of any ideas! It’s too hard! That’s when I have to take a step back. Primarily I’m writing for myself, in the hopes that other people will like it. So chill out, draliman.
I’d like to post more, but after spending 10 hours at work (on a computer) all I generally want to do is watch TV and then go to sleep (that’s a good excuse for my lack of ideas). Since I discovered the daily prompts earlier this year I’ve managed to post a bit more.
I started out with no clear goals, and I still don’t have any. I’ll just let it take me where it will!
Thanks to all of you for reading and being my online buddies :-).
Missed Call
The joy of the junk phone call. Recorded messages. Amazing offers. An annoying and intrusive fact of daily life. Since I’m out at work I miss most of this joy, apart from the occasional recorded message on the answer machine – just hit “delete”.
But what about that occasional message on the answer machine that’s a legitimate call, but to the wrong number? I’m wondering on the etiquette of this.
A couple of days ago, I had such a call. A pleasant-sounding woman was informing me that they had come round to help me with “the problem with my back door – where was I?”. I don’t have a back door. I don’t even have a “back” in which to place a “back door” (I live in a flat so I suppose the back is technically where the only door is and the front is a window). I don’t really miss having a back door. I guess I would if there was a massive fire next to the “only” door, but fingers crossed on that one.
A few years ago I received a text message. Some chap told me he was waiting outside his house for me to pick him up. Where was I? It was cold and I should hurry up.
For all I know he’s still there, waiting for me. My mind conjures up pictures of his skeletal remains, propped up against a wall, long dead from exposure or starvation, the remains of a cigarette still clenched between the remains of his fingers.
Or possibly he gave up waiting and called a taxi.
What is the etiquette in these situations? Should I call/text back and tell them they got the wrong number? That seems the polite thing to do. Nine times out of ten it won’t cost me anything. Or should I just hit “delete” and let them work it out for themselves?
Raaaaaar!
Daily Prompt: The Interview – Interview your favorite fictional character.
draliman: And welcome to “dralichat in the afternoon” here on Radio Drali!
(“Tune on in to dralichat, dralichat, DRALICHAT!“)
draliman: And this afternoon we have a very special guest, Mr The Incredible Hulk! Welcome to the show Mr Hulk, or can I call you Incredible?
Mr Hulk: Raaaaaaaar!
draliman: So, Mr Hulk it is. So, Mr Hulk, what made you want to get into the rampaging business?
Mr Hulk: Raaaaaaaar!
draliman: Okaaay, could you describe your typical day?
Mr Hulk: Raaaaaaaar!
draliman: Riiiight, and what do you see in your future? Another remake of a remake?
Mr Hulk: Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaar!
draliman: Uh, no, don’t eat the furniture. Ha ha, sorry about this listeners! Please Mr Hulk, put the chair down!
Mr Hulk: Raaaar (munch munch munch) raaaaaaar!
draliman: No, please, my arm, oh God he’s got my arm, please tell me they can sew it back on, hey come back with my arm, uh (passes out)
Producer: Cut to commercials, cut to commercials!
“Mayhem in the Studio” by DraliDoodles(TM).
An Award for Me!
Yay! Lovely fellow blogger Nanuschka has included little old me in her award nominations!
(Pause for claps and cheers and whatnot.)
It actually appears to be a 3 for the price of 1 deal. How about that? It’s like buses. You wait for years and then three come along at once.
Make way for the logos:
Smashing. I hope it’s OK to stick them all together in one image like that. I don’t know how to make images sit next to one another.
So without further ado, I’d like to thank my parents, my family, my best friend’s cousin’s dog… actually, I’d like to thank all the people on WordPress who have been kind enough to read my humble postings and especially those who comment and click the “like” button. It’s a bit sad I know, but I’ve taken to keeping my email open at work so I can see if anyone “likes” me!
Here are the rules as posted for this multiple award:
- Display the Award Certificate on your website. Done.
- Announce your win with a post and link to whoever presented you with the award. Done.
- Present 15 awards to deserving bloggers. Well, this is 3 in 1 and it says “15 awards”, not “awards to 15 bloggers”, so…
- Drop them a comment to tip them off after you have linked them in the post. Will do.
- Post 7 interesting things about yourself. Uh-oh.
So, 7 interesting things about me. Seven. Seven whole interesting things. Blimey.
- I’ve lived and worked in Germany and Ireland (and the UK as well obviously).
- I can speak semi-reasonable German but I can’t speak any Irish.
- I can’t speak any Cornish either despite being Cornish myself.
- The most frightening and proudest day of my life was the day of my PhD viva (I “passed subject to minor corrections” :-)).
- I’m not married and I don’t have kids. Otherwise I’m sure number 4 would be different :-(.
- The name “draliman” is made up of my title, the short form of my first name and “man”. Because I am one.
- I spent many years of my life attempting to drink myself to death. I haven’t touched alcohol since February 2003. Yay me!
And now for the moment you’ve been waiting for – my nominations! As previously noted, this is 3 in 1 and I need to present 15 awards, so that’s 5 people, right? Ooh, I’m such a little cheater.
I know some of you guys aren’t ones for awards, so this is more of a thank-you list of people who have particularly shaped and aided my blogging, and whose blogs I really enjoy and have followed for some time.
I shall now repair to a mirror to bask in my own award-filled glory ;-).
Ripples
Daily Prompt: Fill In the Blank – Three people walk into a bar…
… although to even the most casual of observers it is obvious that their arrival together is mere coincidence. The barman watches as they approach. He recognises each one, knowing what they will order, where they will sit.
The Businessman
He looks out of place in his Savile Row suit, silk tie and expensive wrist watch. He takes his order – a double whisky on the rocks – to a seat in the corner and sips slowly. He is in the business of buying struggling companies for next to nothing, stripping them and selling them off piecemeal for huge profit. Now highly successful, he never forgets his roots. His Dad brought him to this bar when he was small – he’d practically grown up here. On completion of every successful deal he comes in, sits in the corner and sips his whisky while his driver waits patiently in the Bentley. You wouldn’t leave such a car unattended in this neighbourhood.
The Mechanic
Looking older than his years, he orders a glass of iced water and sits next to a window where he can watch the world go by. He splits his time between bars, shopping centres and, when weather permits, the park. He lost his job three months ago and hasn’t found the courage to tell his wife. He hides the letters from her – letters threatening repossession of his house. Where will he live? What about the kids? He burns through their savings in secret while he hopes fate will provide him a new job. He remembers the day he found out his job was gone. A nameless, faceless company had bought the chain of car servicing specialists he had devoted his life to and split it apart. Ninety percent redundancies. Stunned, he had walked away from the car he’d been servicing, neither knowing nor caring that the brake system replacement was left half-finished.
The Drunk
A sad shell of a man, he walks on unsteady legs to the bar. Unkempt and unshaven, he orders the cheapest cider. Although barely midday, he already reeks of booze. His hand shakes as he downs his drink and the memories of that day three months ago come unbidden to his mind. Walking with his beloved wife across the pedestrian crossing. The car which threw him sideways, breaking his leg. His wife, thrown across the bonnet into the windscreen, killed instantly. The police had told him that it was “mechanical failure”. A failed service had left the car with only drops of brake fluid in the cylinder. It was impossible to find the person who had serviced the car, they’d said. The company had recently been bought out and split apart. The paperwork had been lost.
Ripples
Every act, every decision causes ripples which spread outwards to touch, change, save, destroy lives.
The ruthless businessman. The negligent mechanic. The grieving drunk.
Three people walk into a bar.
Out of Time
Weekly Writing Challenge: Through the Door – The door to your house/flat/apartment/abode has come unstuck in time. The next time you walk through it, you find yourself in the same place, but a different time entirely. Where are you, and what happens next?
I trudged on leaden feet up to the door to my flat. Helluva day. Hell of a day. I fumbled the key into the lock, turned it and opened the door. I was looking forward to relaxing on the sofa.
Falling into the dark as the air was pulled explosively from my lungs was not on the evening’s to-do list.
It happened so suddenly I didn’t have time to feel fear. I just sat there for a moment, not breathing, and just as fear finally made an appearance something hard shot out of the dark, grabbed my arm and pulled me sideways. Just as blackness overtook me I heard a swishing sound and bright light flooded in.
Aaargh! Who’s pounding on my head? I cautiously opened my eyes. Staring down at me were two people. No, two trees – am I in a forest? No, two tree people. Holy smokes! Tree people! I blinked and looked again. Still tree people. Skin rough like bark, a dark cherry red. Kind of pretty, actually. Wide staring eyes and, oh boy, what a lot of teeth. Teeth, big, sharp teeth, teeth like razors, teeth made for ripping, tearing…
“Strewth, mate, are you OK?” asked the taller of the two. “What’re you doing in the hold? There’s no air in there, mate!”
A tree with an Australian accent! I had met a red tree with an Australian accent! My life was now complete. I closed my eyes again and waited for the Reaper.
“I think he’s passed out again, mate,” said the other.
Hmm, strange dream. I opened my eyes and took another look. They were still there.
“Um, where am I?” I asked, rather hesitantly. “This isn’t my flat.”
“You, mate, are on our ship. Our interplanetary transport.”
“What? Why is there a spaceship where my flat should be?”
“There’s a spaceship where your planet should be, mate,” the shorter one said.
I was feeling a little out of my depth at this point.
“So,” I said, thinking it best to humour them, “what happened to my planet?”
“Gone,” said the taller tree-person-thing. “Someone thought it a good idea to harness the boundless energy of the Earth’s core. As soon as they broke through, the immense pressure caused a fountain of magma to shoot out of the crust. A bit like a rocket engine. Propelled your planet into the sun.”
“BANG!” added the shorter one helpfully, miming a huge explosion with his gnarled red hands.
“You’ve fallen though an inter-temporal spacial flux. You’ve shot two thousand years into your future! You’re in the same place, geographically speaking, or cosmologically speaking if you prefer, but no longer in the same time!” concluded the taller one. He sounded entirely too happy about the whole situation.
“OK,” I said. “let’s see if I’ve got this right. I’m lost in the future, on a space ship run by talking trees, my home is long destroyed and I’ll never see it again?” This was so surreal it was beginning to sound a bit funny. I feared I was going into shock.
“You’re not lost in the future, you’re lost in the present.” explained the taller one patiently.
“OK, my future, Mr Pedantic!” I yelled, my voice starting to sound a little shrill.
“And we can get you home!” he finished triumphantly.
“Really?”
“Probably.”
“Then let’s do it!” I exclaimed. “If nothing else, I need to get back and warn everyone about the impending doom!”
“Sorry mate, you won’t remember any of this,” said the shorter one. He sounded a little sad.
“Oh, I think I will.”
“This is your future, mate,” he explained. “You can’t remember something that won’t, um, will not yet, um be about to happen in the future, um.”
I stared at him. “Whatever. Just get me home.”
“Nothing simpler. Stand there. Good. Ready?”
The shorter one gave me the thumbs up and flashed me a grin, which I’m sure was supposed to be reassuring and probably would have been if it hadn’t been accompanied by more teeth than anyone should be allowed to possess.
The taller tree pressed some buttons. There was a clunk, a flash of light, a feeling of disorientation and…
…I fumbled my key in the lock, trudged into my flat and collapsed on the couch, switching on the TV as I did so. Great. The news. Some scientists reckon they can solve all the world’s problems by tapping the energy of the Earth’s core. Sounds kind of dangerous.
Still, I guess they know what they’re doing.
A Last Goodbye
Maxwell turned up the collar of his winter coat as he made his way down the damp street. Raindrops shimmered in the glare of the street lamps as they fell to the pavement. A tall man in his late twenties, Maxwell always took care of his appearance while stopping short of vanity. He turned down a side street, a short cut to his parents’ house. He had an hour, the man in the sharp suit had said. An hour to say goodbye.
This route took him past his office building. He could see it on the other side of the street, an investment banking firm. He was working there in Accounts when he had first noticed the discrepancy. A small error (or so he thought) which had led him to one of the biggest embezzlement scams in recent history.
He couldn’t keep quiet, could he? He had to call the authorities. He’d have to go into protective custody, they said. He wouldn’t be able to tell anyone where he was. Chances were he’d never again have any contact with his friends, his family. These were nasty people, he’d been told. People with “connections”.
The doors opened and he felt a pang of regret as he saw his office mates come out. A flash of gold caught his eye. Maria. Maria with the golden hair, the big blue eyes, the heart of an angel. He’d spent the last eight months plucking up the courage to ask her out. Ever since she’d stumbled over to him at the Christmas party and kissed him under the mistletoe. He watched as Simon put his arm around her. Simon the snake! They were laughing. Too late now. He walked on towards his home.
He could see his parents through the kitchen window. They were preparing dinner. His Dad had his arm around his Mum. Twenty-eight years of marriage and still so close. He watched as his Mum chopped vegetables while his Dad walked to the table and began setting out plates and cutlery. Three places – Mum, Dad, and… him. But he couldn’t even go in to say goodbye. A tear in his eye, he turned and walked back the way he had come.
Forty minutes had passed by the time he returned to the alley, nestled between Sonny’s Bar and Mario’s Pizza. “The best pizza in town!” Mario proclaimed to anyone who would listen. Maybe not the best, in Maxwell’s opinion, but admittedly, pretty good.
The alley was awash with activity. He could see the man in the sharp suit, waiting for him. He picked his way past the police and the crime scene techs and lingered a moment to look down at the body. It was strange, surreal, to see himself lying on the street, the small hole just above the bridge of his nose, his eyes staring sightless at the stormy sky, congealed blood forming a halo about his head.
The man in the sharp suit took his hand and he looked around, bidding a last goodbye as they slowly faded away to nothing.
A Different Person
Daily Prompt: It’s a Text, Text, Text, Text World – How do you communicate differently online than in person, if at all? How do you communicate emotion and intent in a purely written medium?
First off, let’s rephrase the first question.
“Do you communicate at all in person?”
No. No I don’t.
Well, OK, obviously that’s not strictly true. I couldn’t function in today’s rough-and-tumble world without saying a word. I communicate fine at work, but I’ve known many of those people for years. I’ve worked there for nine and a half years and I’ve never had a day off sick – that’s entirely irrelevant, but I’m very proud of the fact :-).
Put me in a social situation and… nothing. If I know the people, I generally try to ignore them, close my body language and let other people talk. Then I get upset when they ignore me back. Go figure. I’m my own worst enemy.
I sneak unseen into a room of “new” people.
If it’s a group of “new” people, I ninja my way in at the back of the room and “people watch” – I won’t say anything, other than answer questions, until I’ve “sized them up” a bit.
And small talk – what’s up with that?
“Goodness, it’s raining again.” Yes, I can see that.
“How about the game last night! Eh?” What? What game? Are they talking about football? I just don’t know.
“How are you today?” You don’t really want to know, do you? Maybe I’ll take you by surprise and bang on about all my troubles.
Text-wise, I write texts in complete sentences (usually) with proper punctuation intact. “Text-speak”? Have you ever tried actually texting “c u l8r” on a phone with auto-correct and suggestion lists? Can’t be done.
Online (e.g. in a blog) I find it easier to “speak”. I can express myself more readily. I can think before typing. I have time to find the words. I can proof-read to ensure I haven’t said anything nasty. I don’t have to actually interact with people in real-time. (Don’t get me started on using the phone :-(.)
As for communicating emotion, there’s probably more emotion in my posts than there is in real life. And that’s not a lot. Hey, I’m a bloke. I’m emotionally crippled by design. I’ll just hold it all in, thanks.
Photo credit – Katsushika Hokusai, derivative work: AMorozov, Wikimedia Commons licence
A Fluffy House
Daily Prompt: Mad Libs – Turn to your co-workers, kids, Facebook friends, family — anyone who’s accessible — and ask them to suggest an article, an adjective, and a noun. There’s your post title! Now write.
I wasn’t at work yesterday so I sent my friend three separate texts and he sent back “fluffy”, “a” and “house”. Hmm.
The Parable of A Fluffy House
Samuel took one last look in the mirror. Hair – check. Tie – correctly fastened. Shirt – immaculately pressed. Everything in order.
Samuel was a vain man. Arrogant and conceited, he was always perfectly dressed, spending upwards of an hour checking his appearance before leaving the house. A man of indeterminate age, opinions ranged from mid-thirties to early fifties.
An architect by trade, he had created a house designed to set him apart from the rest. Boasting twelve bedrooms, three bathrooms and a kitchen a chef would be proud of, it nestled against a hillside two miles outside of town.
All of this was nothing compared to the house’s crowning glory. Samuel smiled as he stroked the outside of the house. Soft, fluffy.
He had looked at other houses. The houses belonging to lesser people – people who were not him. They looked so bland. Concrete, brick, wood. This would not do. Samuel had covered the outside of his house, his masterpiece, with the softest and most luxuriant of fabrics.
People came from miles around to see his house. His house! They would take pictures (for a reasonable price, of course). They would spend time touching the fabric, running their fingers through the soft, deep fibres covering the walls (discounts available for parties over five persons).
Samuel was the envy of all. He basked in the adoration of the admiring crowds. He had reached his pinnacle!
Then the rains came. At first only a few solitary drops, then a heavy deluge. It rained day after day. The fabric covering Samuel’s house grew wetter and wetter, heavier and heavier.
The walls creaked. The timbers shook.
Three days after the rains began, Samuel’s house, his creation, the ultimate extension of his towering ego, slowly, almost gently, collapsed in upon itself under its own weight, until it was nothing more than a mound of wood and extremely expensive, extremely wet fabric.
People still came from miles around, not to admire but to laugh at Samuel’s house. At his foolishness.
And the moral of this story?
“Practicality before pride”
or
“The carpets go on the inside, dumb ass!”
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