Category Archives: Names
Derrick Handleman, black hair formed perfectly into a wavy fohawk, stood in-front of the mirror adjusting his white bow tie situated comfortably upon his neck, settled on a white tailored dress shirt. The purposeful stubble shaped his angular jaw more so, than the cuts originally made by the god’s. Lite hazel eyes met his stare, as a reflection of his own when he
finally became comfortable with the look he so diligently prepared. He stepped back. The shine of the black belt had to be slightly less than the shine on his shoes, which it was. The shirt had to snugly hold his body, embracing it’s v-shape, it did. His dress pants, silky and flowing, had to bulge slightly in the front, and caress his butt, flaunting its tightness, they certainly did. The right corner of his mouth raised slightly as he smiled confidently into the mirror, adjusting his cuffs.
The sound of a glass hitting the marble bar top caught his attention. Joelynn must have been done with her last-minute prepping. Derrick leaned back slightly to look out the door, sure enough through the colorful display of orchid’s he could see her sneakily reaching for the vodka on the top shelf which was center of an accent light. The bottle was deserving of it’s display light as the bottle cost around $150.
Joelynn brought the glass with her onto the step-ladder. Setting it upon a shelf slightly below her breasts, she then reached for the bottle, and slowly took off the crystal decanter style top. She whispered something to herself. Convinced he could easily scare her if he yelled, or snuck up to her, his smile only broadened. He’d wait till the bottle was safely back in its display, and then he’d make the call. She poured the silver liquid into the glass, replaced the cap and set the bottle back, then moved it slightly to the right. She then turned the bottle slightly, twisted the cap, moved it left again, “shit!” She said.
“Yep, you’ll never get it,” Derrick called from his room.
“Shit!” She said now bending over in laughter on the step stool. Her laugh was loud, bubbly, and contagious, “o, no!” She laughed again.
“I saw ya,” Derrick smiled leaving the room and walking over the threads of the pristine carpeting.
“You caught me!” She smiled, then, “you wanna shot? Since I’m up here.”
“No, you know I’m a scotch guy,” he said walking into the bar area of his high-rise suite. The marble bar top rounded the lounge area, which then extended outside to a large patio with fire pit. Three orchids, accentuated by recessed lights adorned the left flank of the bar offering splashes of color against the black and stainless steel kitchen. Glenfiddich would do as it should before the party. The subtle smokiness would zing his lips and pucker his desire for more golden nectar of the ancient bards.
“What are you doing?” He laughed at Joelynn. The first shot must not have been enough as she now tipped the bottle into her shot glass once more.
“Sorry,” she said laughing as she put the bottle back, this time with less effort to situate it perfectly. “Cheers!”
“I hate that you treat it like a shot, rather than enjoying its subtleties.”
“It’s vodka,” she said clinking her glass against his and throwing it back. Her hair, which was currently nicely up and in a bun, was curly and voluminous, and it loved bouncing around at its every opportunity.
Derrick looked out his floor to ceiling windows across to san diego bay. A few lights blipped upon the water of small boats surely full of college kids embarking upon a night of boozing and sex. Drinking and sex, not exactly the worst idea of a night out, rather quite exciting.
“Don’t worry,” Joelynn said now coming up next to him, looking out over the bay as well, “we’ll find you a man.”
“Not quite what I was thinking,” he began. Then he saw the drink she had prepared. “Joelynn! When did you make that drink?”
“Just now,” she laughed, placing the straw into her lips and gulping it down.
“Lord, fish outta water.” Derrick laughed with her. Tonight would be a good night, not just anyone got a personal invite to a Details magazine party. Other celebrities would be there, and fashion icons, and article writers that reveled in the celebrities life. Yet, chances were better that the man Derrick searched for wouldn’t be there this night or any other night, he didn’t know what he was looking for, but it wouldn’t be there.
Shandre Wintrell was a genius. He’d been informed of this by his therapist shortly after his I.Q. test. He always knew though, especially with his thought patterns. There was never a true straight line of thought, but often scattered and web forming; catching ideas and hypotheses only he could understand because he already drew the lines.
With the best intentions he wanted to use his genius to the betterment of the world. A savage war had begun in the middle east which had struck a chord with Mr. Wintrell. I will join the military, He thought in a particular genius moment of thinking. He came to this conclusion of thought after initiating it with a theory on war and the weapons we use in such. From this the lines went to our technology, then the training one receives in the service; the tactics the enemy employs for their training, and how we go about strategically implementing our resources from our men to the technology used in smart bombs. It was a rather simple solution; him joining the cause would only benefit the best nation in the world.
I’d get in much better shape too, He thought. Often the only dialogue Mr. Wintrell participated in was within his mind. It was a shame he didn’t clearly outline his plans to his therapist; he was a genius though, and knew that she would attempt to foil his plan with statements of insanity or manic depression.
I would be able to investigate the training, show my intelligence, specialize in weapons, and eventually develop the best course of offense and the ultimate peace keeping weapon. He smiled thinking his thoughts. A parade followed where instead of him being seated high and celebrated; his device was, as he marched along side his fellow men. It will be a great day.
Shandre Wintrell was a genius. He went to the recruiting office and spent particular time paying attention to which service he would join to better maximize his benefit to the world. The Navy had ships, My device isn’t a ship, he thought. The Marines were more specialized, My device is broad, he thought sending this to the side. He rested on the Air Force believing airplanes may be necessary to deploy his device. There were shadow projects of high intelligence the Air Force often initiated as well, which would be his ticket to getting the idea recognized.
The psychological exam was easy enough to pass. He signed the papers and went to his Therapist appointment. She was worriedly waiting for him. In the past five years she had gotten to know him he had never been late for a session.
“Sorry for being late,” he said walking confidently as the newest member to the Air Force.
“Do you mind me asking why?” She asked, comfortable now that he sat in front of her.
“I took a path not even I had thought I’d ever go down.” He said sitting, but with a more rigid stance than usual.
“Why would you never go down this path?” She asked with file in hand ready to make any additional notes. Today they were to be re-evaluating his treatment plan for his release from the program.
“Because it leads off the way. It takes me to a place I don’t recognize. While going from A to B, it isn’t normal to go to point F first. A point that is off the plain of where we need to be. Today I did that, I went from A to F and was fascinated with the perception change. It was a moment of clarity everyone deserves from time to time.” Mr. Wintrell divulged.
“Very good.” She smiled.
“The best part is, it got me here. I made it to my goal, though slightly behind schedule but with a gained sense of reality.” Shandre was certainly proud to have cleverly told her exactly what he was doing. It was better that she agreed. The rest of the session went as usual, while he still thought on the bus ride to base. He’d get off of the bus and run into the barracks go through intake, place a pornographic magazine in his bags just to seem normal; a minor infraction. Then he would be in his sleeping quarters purposefully clumsily getting his things together while the Drill Sergeant screamed at the other recruits. They would be called to formation when he would show as the best dressed with each seam aligning perfectly, shirt blousing as picturesque, while being berated for being too perfect.
His therapist finished with him. “See you next week.” She couldn’t actually say good luck, though he knew he told her exactly what was the next step. He played along with her actions.
“See you then,” he laughed at her cleverness.
Shandre boarded the bus as Recruit. Fascinating already, he began making notes. His pornographic magazine smartly settled into the bottom of his bag to make it appear as if he were trying to sneak it in. He left his hair go knowing the hair dresser, there, would gain a sense of worthiness from cutting his hair upon intake. The bus departed as he happily began way to fulfill his destiny. It was aggravating though, that the others on the bus were talking. He didn’t care why anyone else had joined, or where they were from. Everyone was supposed to be wearing meek expressions of fear on their face as they journeyed to a place unknown. Shandre perfected this face and wore it proudly, though the irritating leather seat plucked at his simple nerves.
A man boarded the bus and began shouting orders, adding substance to his ideas and fulfilling what was meant to happen. Rushing out of the bus with hidden porn in hand along with a few other personal belongings; this was going perfectly. He received the haircut he knew he would and smiled knowing he had fulfilled the dreams of his hair dresser. Getting to barracks he purposefully stumbled around his bag of items to make his bed and dress in uniform. Playing his game, he hadn’t noticed everyone was already lined up and at attention. The Drill Sergeant approached.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing recruit? I say fall in, you fall in.” He pushed Shandre backward.
“I apologize sir,” Recruit Shandre responded.
“You apologize! You apologize!” Two other Drill Sergeants that had been busy screaming at the recruits in formation ran toward Recruit, screaming as if they were in pain. This was not quite the way it was meant to go, so he gave into defeat and attempted to fall in.
“Where do you think you’re going! We’re talking to you!” The others screamed in his ear making it hard to hear exactly what was happening. They’ll apologize, Shandre thought, once they know why I’m really here.
The yelling continued. Their bodies were pushed up against Recruits knocking him back and forth while the first Sergeant demanded answers.
“You think you don’t have to follow orders?” He asked bug eyed, spit lapsing his lips.
“No sir, not my intentions.” One of the other Sergeants now stood on the bunks rattling the metal. He grabbed Recruits bag and threw it on the floor scattering the contents, kicking the notebook and shredding the clothes.
This happened to everyone. It was part of the game. Why was he there? He was a genius, but why did he join the ranks as a recruit? How was his plan not working? There was a silence within him. A hollow voice filled him, the one from years past. The one that got him to Therapy in the first place. She was the genius. She was the one that got him to this place. She was the one that wanted to take control now she was in position to. He didn’t want to fight her but thought better with the recommendations of his Therapist. A jolt of pain to his body released him from the reigns and allowed her to take over.
When he woke his face was unrecognizable; blue and swollen. His hands bloody with broken fingers and ripped fingernails. He was alive, behind bars, and back in control. The hollow voice of the women laughed, happy to have played a trick on him. He sat in pain. I’m a genius.
You’re about as smart as a man named Shandre Wintrell; the stupid fool.
Exercise: Write a story about a character whose imagination is taken over with an obsession– and obsession with an idea, a tale, a vision — that determines the way in which your character lives his or her life, and acts out the forward movement of your story.
The leaves shined with their usual early morning slick reflecting the light from a nearby cluster of dying stars. This oily layer would simply roll off and land on the ground to be raked up by his mother in the morning as solid globules of clear jelly like substance. A perfect and wonderful accompaniment to breakfast. The smells from his mothers cooking quickly and rigorously penetrated through the air and attacked Dante’s senses. Stirring a yearning within himself he had to stifle the urge to attack the food being prepared.
He remained on the small cement stair leading into a crippling old barn. A bad infestation of snorquiels rocked the entire building forcing it to have a twisted appearance from the road. Not entirely vile creatures these little guys flew headlong into objects before taking a large bite. They ate anything. They also couldn’t see, so when one got into the barn it couldn’t figure out how to get out. It just continued to fly in circles eating. The constant thud eventually drew more believing there was a feeding frenzy. Eventually ten snorquiels took a toll on the barn. Now Dante sat in front of it on a small cement step. Small green entities grew beside the step and whispered their airy songs to each other in the morning’s light.
Two of Dante’s friends sat beside him contemplating their plans for the evening. Marsha and Egna were excited to be there. Dante was quite the odd man. He was one of very few who never made the trek into the Norchanelin Forrest. It wouldn’t seem like a big thing to anyone from another planet, but this forest granted wisdom to the seeker, yet fear to those who feared. Lime green tonda, much like that of water to us here, to those who sought, or poison to the disbeliever. The forest called to you when it was your time, yet the forest never called Dante. This was a phenomena that was not witnessed often. It was a thrill to be with Dante as he was a one not called.
The three sat there, on the cement slab, outside of the crooked barn, snorquiels long gone, when fireworks began over the roof. It was only morning, yet the sky seemed to be darkened. Brilliant flashes of green and red illuminated what was now a dark sky. Deafening cracks of the fireworks echoed between the buildings. Though fireworks were often something of celebration, there was a certain oddity to these. They stared into the sky in amazement.
Within a moment the fireworks ceased but only as an old fashioned earthly helicopter flew into the scene. It’s spotlight shined on many objects, following this one there was another. The second helicopter had a light as well, but it was directed at the other helicopter. Directly behind that there were others, in fact many. Each had a light affixed to the bottom that was shining directly at another. It was as if there were an airshow today. They flew by quickly, some hovered, others coming within a few feet of the three sitting on the cement slab. The second helicopter soon turned off its light, which the first faded with it. Each helicopter was projecting the next helicopter. They were all holographs. Projections in the sky that held their own intelligence and physical capabilities. It was a scene much unlike any had seen before. It seemed so real.
The sky as a whole soon switched to a fake sky but there was a tall tower, and a large crane with a claw. The picture moved with the claw as it picked up a small box. Red, this box. With a poor lady within, dressed in white, while her brown hair hung low to cover her eyes and shield them from what she may see. A projected and extremely loud female voice soon resonated through their minds as if an internal speaker had begun.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, announcing Code shift twenty one OC.” The claw carries the lady in the red box to the top of the tower. Placing her there, small clasps from the tower secure her position. Still without seeing her eyes the picture zooms on her. “We have your best interests covered.” The voice boomed happily. With that the sky went back to normal. Dante’s mother was looking skyward, amazed. Dante, Marsha, and Egna made eye contact. Eyes wide they couldn’t believe what they saw, but they knew it wasn’t good. An unsettled feeling quickly gripped them.
“Get in the HOUSE!” Dante’s mother screamed. She was shrieking with terror as she ran towards them, flailing her hands.
Screams could be heard. Hoards of screams. A thousand banshee’s were making their way across the land. The three stood and ran toward his mother.
“Get in NOW!” She screamed at them, and grabbed the closest thing that might work as a weapon. “It’s begun!” She shivered in her own words. Fear had gripped the land.
“Where were you last night?” She asked him. He had walked in with muddy boots in hand. Scratches and dried blood covered his face where the wrinkles of his sun beaten flesh would have laid. The nights were cold if there wasn’t a man around to harvest dead wood from the forest. The cottage in which they lived was near the river they had been tricked into buying three quarters mile of.
“Gold, is in this river,” the man lied to them. A small Pennsylvania river would be plentiful of quartz and coal, but nothing rating as high in value as gold. The man supplied two ounces of his own genuine gold which he had traded the year prior on the trails halfway to California. “I’ve made my wealth,” the man continued sensing the obvious question Gerald was about to ask. “Hell, I’ll even give it to ya’ for a shillings less.”
Gerald Baker was a kind man. One of pure innocence and hard work. Brought up on his family’s farm he learned that you work for every dime you earn and yearn for every dime you don’t. He had worked hard to manage the sum of $100. The land, once said and done would cost him a heft $140 with the $10 the kind man had knocked off. Gerald struggled to do the math but knew he would end up well off.
Greeted by her question he quickly put his muddy boots back outside of the door and walked in with his bare feet showing more blood drying among his toes.
“Good lord. What’s happened to you?” She asked now seeing the site of her pitiful husband walking through the door.
“I made gold.”
She looked at him. She took him in as if he were mad. He had to be mad. You can’t make gold. “What do you mean you made gold?” She asked.
“I captured the man that did this to us, and made him pay. I made him pay. I made him pay.” He repeated to her while he held the cloth over her mouth and nostrils. She continued to struggle, but the blame he had placed on her for the sourness of the deal urged him to continue the smothering. She finally fell still, but he continued his hold, and continued to tell her how the man had paid.
In a small bathroom fit with only a small tub where she had to bend her knees to fit entirely, a commode, and a sink did she sing. Her voice grew raspy over the years since she had modeled, never her true passion but it worked well for her. She was one of the models talked about in the past that didn’t worry about hair in her arm pits. She shaved them now as she sang with a cigarette dangling from her lips. The sound of song vibrated through the rose infused room with her strong vibrato’s.
She thought about the blue dress that she wore once. It was memorable by the color alone. She then remembered it merely as the blue dress. It flowed and shined. It embraced and slimmed. It contracted her diaphragm so she couldn’t sing, even if she had wanted to.
She sang now. She sang a song that had no meaning to anyone listening. The noise that beckoned through started from the thumping of her heart. Her heart that would soon fail her. She was only sixty five, yet she sang. She sang the song of her heart. The heart that would fail her. The heart that would fail her dreams of singing. The heart that caused her pain when her husband went away. The heart that was ripped out when her son declared his hatred of her.
Now she sang. But there were tears that accompanied the vocal strings which played. The steam rising from the tub relaxed her. She didn’t worry much on these things, as much as she loved that she had a husband. She loved that she had a son. She loved the two men in her life very much. They were no longer there. They didn’t know of this heart that would soon fail.
Sang she now did, as the heart couldn’t supply the vibrations. Sang she now did from the soul that kept her entire being. Her soul would never fail her. Her soul would remain happy. Her soul will carry on from this world of misery. Her soul won’t care if she didn’t shave her pits.
The singing stopped now as her voice cracked. The singing stopped now as she stared at the wall. The singing…
Ms. Dura Alivoix was a marvelous woman. Ms. Dura Alivoix was a Singer!