(I just want to note that this is NOT an attempt to cheat someone out of the red jersey. I've been feeling inspired and wanted to write this for a long time.  If anybody is upset with me posting it now that I have some free time, I'm not against the idea of my word count being ignored.  Much like the narrator of this story, sometimes I need to write as a way to relieve frustrations.  I will probably continue to work on this story over the next couple of weeks (this is not the whole thing I have in mind), but I will pace myself so that I'm hopefully not frustrating anyone. It's been awhile since I attempted a story, so I can only hope that you all trust me in my assurances.  I wanted to at least get the foundation of the story down, but I'll try and limit myself to one post here a week.... I likely won't have the time for more anyways.  lol

Love you all, Singelli.)

-Her-

I can't deny that I was disappointed.  As my fingers hovered over the hot keys of my flickering laptop, I tried once more to take in all that I had read.  The fact that he was mad at me.... that he even thought about blaming me for his mistake?  It wasn't something I had expected or found myself swallowing down with ease.  I sat back and felt the pinch of my shirt and chair, slowly closing the laptop until the faint click interrupted the humming of the furnace. Whose pride was at stake, here?

I got up and moved towards the bathroom of the cheap motel room. The musty scent of aged weed threatened to clog my pores as well as taint my lungs; even the air from the furnace hung heavy about my shoulders.  I felt as though just walking through the room would make my normally shiny hair look greasy and unkempt, so I was all the more eager to leave. I gathered my bathroom supplies and left the ones that had been supplied by the self-entitled teen at the desk. I almost laughed as I recalled her disrespectful posture and the way she had continued to file her nails while half-attempting to answer my questions.

A few more moments of grabbing the few things I really cared about, and I considered myself ready to go.  I was happy to think I could head home and not worry about paying for this dump, but I also knew that a misstep could change that.  I slung the small cloth bag over my shoulder and took up the phone from the bedside table, quickly dialing the number my fingers knew so well.

Once there was a click on the other side, I hardly hesitated.  "Might I speak to Mr. Bailey, please?"

I could only assume there was a gesture in the background by listening parties, because a short scoff was followed by some scuffing noises and then the eager male voice that welcomed me.

"Ms. Taylor, what a pleasure."  I could hear the crooked grin despite the distance between us.

"Cut the crap," I retorted.  "Your package was delivered an hour ago. It should arrive within the next 24 hours.  I hope you will remember our deal and not try anything funny. You know how dangerous the consequences can be."

The man on the other end laughed shortly as though he expected me to believe he wasn't threatened.  "We made a deal, Ms. Taylor, and I am a man of my word."

The words sickened me more than I cared to admit, and I didn't waste time on a goodbye. Instead, I adjusted the cloth on my shoulder and placed the phone on the table without hanging up.  A coin or two was flicked from my pocket onto the bedside, and moments later I was breathing in fresh night air.

As I stood on that little balcony, I tried not to tremble.  The cool air was carried by a slight breeze from the north, and I felt as though every molecule of my body was being brought back to life.  I had finally done it. I could go home and leave the rest of the mess to be sorted by the task force fifty miles away.  This night had been a long one in the making.    In fact, I reasoned, there really was no hurry at all. No longer did I have to hang onto every tap of a finger, every whispered word, or every motion that caught my eye. I leaned against the railing and found a certain beauty in the dump.

Fifteen months. I thought back to when the case had first opened and my partner and I had speculated over its importance.  It seemed to us, at the time, a rather silly event that triggered the mass concern and media coverage. When Deputy Travis and I had been chosen to go undercover, we certainly never imagined the chase that had just been completed.

And now... now the package to Mr. Bailey would make it into his home, and the FBI would have his location.  It hadn't been easy.. to gain so much trust so quickly. In retrospect, I should have suspected something fishy, but my partner being a bad cop has certainly never been on my list of wildest dreams.  It naturally had made things a lot simpler, but I would have preferred a more difficult route over the one of heartache and shock such as I had experienced.

I finally came off the rail and made my way down the squeaking metal steps, into the dark parking lot, and into my car.  I revved the engine and allowed the old bug to heat up, holding my hands over the vents.  It was time to go home, as mad as he might be at me.

-------

-Him-

I paced the floor, my feet wearing into the carpet a familiar trail.  The threads were worn anyways... old... stained... they need to go.  There was much that needed to go.  The corner of the shabby coffee table was just one of those things that caught my eye, and I lunged my foot in its direction, causing it to lose its balance and topple over.  It wasn't even an item expensive enough to break... it just rolled over on its side and incited my anger even further.  Was there a reason she wasn't home yet?  Was I not good enough for her undivided attention now that the case was finished and she had received permission to forget it ever existed?  The fact that she had ever even defended that slobbering piece of junk partner was beyond my comprehension.

We had, of course known that she was close to the end several weeks ago.  I had received a short call and heard the way her voice quivered on the phone.  "Charles... I'm coming home."  Was that tepid voice one of regret?  Eagerness? Apprehension?  I tried not to play my own guessing game, instead kneeling to straighten the small side table and straighten the magazines that had been so carelessly displaced. How would she feel after all, to arrive home after months of absence... only to find the place in shambles?

The one thought sent my mind reeling into a dozen possible scenarios, and I found myself glancing around the room with a precautionary breath. Was the paint faded?  Were the portraits straight? How often had it been since I'd vacuumed?  I struggled between a sense of worry for her happiness, and anger that I had to be the one worrying.  She hadn't been put into imminent danger.  She hadn't been the one to lose her job, and she certainly hadn't been the one re-considering her life choices. She was able to, day after day, prance around after strange people and pretend to be someone she wasn't.  What freedom that must have been!

Was she happier at work?  I shook my head at the idea, angry at myself for allowing it to slip past my mental defenses.

A dinner.. I could at least make her a dinner.  I headed towards the kitchen and opened the fridge door, ignoring the rank odor that escaped one of the drawers. I'd handle that later.  Turkey?  Maybe a pasta?  How long would it take her to get here and what did I have the time to make? I knelt before the frigid air and considered my choices.

-------

January 12
-Myself-


There are times when... I just need to vent.  Writing always has been (and I suspect always will be) a form of therapy for me. If I can write something down and lock it away in words, I feel a great sense of healing.... even if nobody ever reads what I wrote.

And so.... I want to record my thoughts about this piece.

I got a little frustrated earlier.  Sometimes events in my life just cause me a lot of anger, and I'm not one to vent them in person or seek 'vengeance' on those at fault for the events.  I really wanted to let out what I was feeling through writing, and so.... this is what I started with.  Most of the time, I start with a vague idea, and I have a clear intention for the beginning and end. It's filling in everything between that becomes difficult.  The minority of the time... I just write. I utterly write whatever comes to mind.... with no plans for the future of the story.  I find this a very interesting way to write because I honestly don't know what the aim is, who the characters are, or what foundations create the background of the story.  In essence, it's almost like reading a book AS it's being written.

It's rare that I get in a mood like that, but I guess I've been wanting to write for so long now, that it just seemed natural.  "Write or bust", right?  (Or maybe not.... for me, this holds true, though.)

I got about 1500 words in however, and felt stuck.  I wanted to keep writing, but I wasn't even certain WHO my characters were or what plight they were about to get into.  I decided to step back and re-read what I had written.  It sounded... cliché. Overdone.  Predictable?  Predictability never makes a good story.  I like intrigue, drive, and shock value.  I might not be very good at it, but I want to keep readers on the edges of their seats.  I asked myself "Am I keeping -myself- on the edge of my seat?"  Sadly, I think the answer to that question was no.

How can I change that?  How can I find the identities of these characters and sympathize with them enough to move forward through my novel?

Maybe.. maybe I should introduce a new character.

-------

-Them-

Nayomi and Joedi clasped their hands together, each with their own gleeful expression on their pasty faces.  To any outside observer, the gesture would simply be a show of affection or admiration, but to the younger women, it was a matter of life and death.  As the prison warden passed by and gave Nayomi a warning tap with his nightstick, the women parted ways without so much as a glance back.  One of them, however, held her fist clenched tightly, her fingers trembling in excitement over her palm.

-------

January 21
-Myself-

No, no no... this just won't do, will it?  The prisoner with a forbidden item?  The fatigued police task woman? The disgruntled husband?  What could I possibly be thinking?  Even I got frustrated with my own self as I spouted such drivel last week.  I can fuel my need to write, but was it beneficial?  Nutritious?  Did it bring me back to life and tackled my frustrations?

As always, I couldn't leave those souls alone.  I brought life to them, and to abandon them may as well be murder.    How could I in my right mind commit such a horrible act?  To end a life I had created?  To bring hope and meaning to my characters, only to dash them away without a chance to play out?

These questions and more plagued me that night I threw down my pen.  I even tried a visit to the pub as a method to alleviate my frustration. I remember downing drink after drink and listening to the rain pound upon the windowsill.  Such wiley, wiley thing... the rain.  Always knocking and knocking, as though it wants to be let in.  It almost taunted me as though it had a secret to a better story... as though its ideas were limitless.  "Think of all the ideas I've fostered over the passage of time!  Think of all the souls I've touched, the life I've created, and the deaths I'm to blame for."

I became angrier and angrier at the boasting needles of rain, and dear reader... oh dear reader, you'd think me mad!  If you can imagine an older man rocking back and forth in his chair, rubbing his hands and smiling underneath disheveled gray hair, then do so!  Are you picturing it, dear reader?  If so, add a little maniacal laugh.... the squeak of my chair's legs upon the hardwood floor.... the rush of spilled liquid across my desk!

Dear reader, I found a motivation.  I dare not tell it all.  Not yet.  I can't give it away yet.  If I did, why would you continue to read?  No.. no... a good story follows a thickening plot.  Keep reading... keep reading!

Singelli : This is great, I'm still reading it, but I already feel that I must applaud you for this. Makes me feel as if my own writing needs improvement. I'm so ready to read even more of this.

Wow long post. I am enjoyed this. My writing isn't that bad but it is way behind this.

Um... thank you both, I guess. It's not really my best writing (I feel).  But I wanted to get the idea down.  I won't be adding onto it for at least a week though. I don't want people to feel cheated out of the red jersey because of a story.

Thanks for the story! I liked it. :3 I find the easiest way to let out your feelings is always to write, even if your readers don't all understand, at least it's out there.