Ironic Departures

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Category: Creative Writing

Written by Jean Christensen

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Ironic Departures Featured Piece

 

“That does it! I’m outta here,” shouted Randolph, nodding his head emphatically. “I can’t take it anymore: I feel like a total stranger in my own house!”
Wanda just stood there, not knowing what to say or do. Finally she mustered up her courage. “But this isn’t your house. What are you doing here, mister?”
“See what I mean?” argued Randolph. “Even Spot ignores me,” he added, indicating the ginger cat sleeping on the arm chair near the radiator.
“Her name is Biffy,” corrected the woman. “And if you don’t...”
She stopped, cut short by the arrival of her husband, Kent, who had been waxing his surfboard in the garage. Kent shot a quick glance at the stranger and turned to his wife: “What’s up?”
“This man claims this house is his. And now he says he’s leaving!”
“That’s right, mister. And I’m not coming back. Ever!” announced Randolph.
“Oh no you don’t, there, buddy,” ordered Kent, picking up his cell phone and barring the front door. “I’m callin’ the cops. So don’t move.”
Randolph stood still, intimidated by Kent’s powerful orange frame from which dangled an epoxy shark’s tooth. And the osprey tattooed on Kent’s sinewy shoulder indicated a man to be reckoned with. A young boy entered, curious to see what was happening. He looked to be about ten but was actually eight.
“Billy! What are you doing here?” asked Randolph.
“His name’s Keyth, mister. And stay away from him!” yelled Kent, grabbing Keith by the arm. “You know this guy?” he asked his son.
“Nope. Who is he?”
“This man says that this is his house,” explained his mother, “and he says that he’s leaving and never coming back. The nerve of ‘em.” The door bell rang. In fact, it was a chime but, due to the circumstances, it sounded like a ring. It was the cops; Kent opened the door.
The senior officer briefly examined the entrance before asking: “What seems to be the problem here?”
Kent spoke up: “This man says that this is his house and he’s leaving – for good.”
The senior officer turned to Randolph: “Is that right, sir?”
“Yes, that’s right, officer. “And this man here won’t let me leave.”
“OK, then. Let’s see some ID,” he ordered, hand on taser. Slowly he examined Randolph’s credentials. “Hmm,” he muttered, “the address checks out.” He then considered the orange-chested, barefoot man in beachcombers standing before him. “So, you’re a surfer, then? We don’t get to see that many surfers in Nebraska. How about showing us some ID, buddy?”
After a rapid examination, he called over his partner, a rookie named Windsor. “Call home and have them do a 39-821 on a certain Kent Waters.”
Nine minutes later, the results came back and an extra squad car pulled up, packed with sixteen special agents wearing bulletproof vests, followed by a portly, important-looking lieutenant with a bad tie.
“OK, Waters,” he announced. “Looks like you and your family are in the wrong house: you should be in Oxnard, California. I’m afraid you’ll all have to leave, sir.”
“But he’s the one who wants to leave – not us,” tried Wanda.
“She’s got a point there,” observed Windsor. Two of the special agents came through the back door. “We just bashed in the garage door, Lieutenant. No firearms or drugs, but there was a freshly-waxed surf board and a few Jan and Dean records in a cardboard box.”
The important-looking lietenant turned to Kent with a dubious eye. “Well, Waters – what do you have to say to that? You’re gonna have to come with us.”
Kent, Wanda and Keyth stared blankly at each other, wondring where they had gone wrong. Biffy just continued to half-sleep, purring with folded paws, dreaming of California.

 

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This piece was created from our "Honing the Skill - Writing Challenges" prompt on "Ironic Departures." To participate of new challenges, please check our Facebook page.

On these Units of Capacity. (bookends and odds)

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Category: Creative Writing

Written by Karneeleus Bobbeaux

Hits: 158

On certain objections against Leviathan (more often quoted than carefully and thoroughly read.)


my living by the labor (No one runs to revel)


Fear had helped imagination and said nothing (He has been dead for centuries.)


Leaves the matter doubtful. (DEEP SYMPATHY)


I couldn't change a flight of stairs into a creek.(Feb 3-1952)


No one will ever love you the way I do. (Let me introduce myself.)


A wide smile and perfect hair (complete control of the rising tides.)


For All Inquiries Call Toll Free (don't write a letter.)


Science Wonder Stories (Tell me how much you like me."


CAGEFIGHT (suntwinkling and chocolate.)


Soda Rots Teeth

Hands

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Category: Poetry

Written by Bruce Humphrey

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Remarkable hands, storied hands.
Hands, hands can build.
Hands can mold, shape, and speak.
Hands can grasp for the heavens, touch it and believe in the make believers.

Through the fingers thoughts explode as pen touches paper.
Tones and melodies erupt from inner emotions becoming reality.
Heart and soul become one as fingers scrawl quickly, feverishly.
Pounding blood surges through the fingers forcing the pen onward, causing tears to fall from an eye.

Truth flows from the mind; the hand transports it into being.
Embracers of the brush, digits move carefully following intricate lines drawn on canvas.
Colors blend together, vibrant, beautiful, soaring to mosaics of sky and water.
The calming sense of touch slows the scene until order graces the fabric.

Forgotten til’ their lost.
Forgotten until they are crippled, hands are taken for granted for their life giving talent.
Bent and crooked they are silenced from the song they once sang.
Memories now distant are relegated to the wall or museums.
Dusty shelves house the books of the once pulsating, vital, movements that the hand generated.

Hands have saved lives and taken them just as easily.
They create the saviors of life as well as the purveyors of death.
Creating and destroying with a single move a finger can move mountains or search the unknown heavens.

Hands live to caress and love.
Hands live to fight and die.
Forever living hands, forever exploring are hands.

 

 

Ir Shalem

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Category: Poetry

Written by WAN Team

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Of the house, only the foundation is left
-the one upon which once we built history,
from bricks of promises and smiles.

Miguel takes my hand
and caresses sweetly my curls,
and the density of the air becomes
my grueling downfall.

The walls were taken by the explosion;
grey colored chips are all that remains
of those childhood arch played melodies.

It smells of mold and gunpowder,
of lauders and powders of blush in front of the mirror
in which she taught me to be a sophisticated woman.

Miguel kisses my forehead
and takes me tenderly in his arms;
never stains nor ghosts upon
my unforgiving downfall.

These are the ruins of my house:
someone put them for sale, and tourists
are carrying them away  ten cents a piece.



© Valerie Jones - 2007