hey for all two of you that are reading this, I finally stopped being a slacker and wrote more. I actually wrote and posted this last night, but it didn't post and of course i forgot to save it. So I rewrote it this morning... and of course it was cooler last night, but whatever.
I realize it is too late in the game to win this contest with the amount of words I have written ( which is nowhere close to enough) but I am happy that I am still writing and I hope that some of you will read it and tell me what you think.
The beginning of this chapter was posted before but I changed it a bit and added the end of the chapter. I don't know if I like it. There is a dream sequence and I don't know how I feel about it. Perhaps I have just been programed by my last writing teacher to think that dreams are bad, but I don't know. I feel like I need the "dream" though because it's pertinent to the story, and it might not even be considered a dream... I don't know you'll see, and please tell me if it works or if you can think of a better way to do it. I think that's it for now. please enjoy. thanks.
~Amber
Ch.2
It seemed like the smell from the shop had followed him to his house. He felt more then smelled the comfort of the odd sort of musk. It reminded him of sleeping over at his grandparent’s house. He found himself hoping for fresh pancakes in the morning.
It had seemed like a long day even though the sun had started to set around five. Darkness slipped through the windows despite all the lights he had on in his tiny rural home. Tonight felt like a night for darkness and writing. He shut off all the lights save for a small lamp on his desk. The marble notebook lay open on his desk. It seemed odd, he didn’t remember opening it.
Shrink: To become reduced in amount or value; dwindle: .
3. To draw back instinctively, as from something alarming; recoil.
4. To show reluctance; hesitate
She set down the large dictionary and shook her head.
“Is that what I do to people? Is that what I am Marcy?” Linda, pet her furless, seemingly spineless dog, and perused the dictionary once more. “I don’t think that is what I do, I sure hope not. I didn’t study psychology to get a PHD in shrinking. Why do they call us that? A shrink.”
Dr. Linda Hollenback’s office was found next to the nurses, two orange doors down from the principal’s office. It consisted of a small waiting room, with a small table scattered with magazines from the eighties. There was a tall fish tank that contained one lonely fish that would fight with its reflection until it’s flat nose was bloody. There was another pass needed to go to the bathroom, and a knock at her door if you wanted in. No one ever WANTED in. Students who came to Dr. Hollenback’s office had to come in, and they usually had to come at least once a week, but the three boys came twice a week on Tuesday’s and Thursdays after school.
The three boys were, John Cushner, Nedd Woodyt, Russel Jesnson. They were a special case. They were all in tenth grade and they all took the same classes. They we best friends with each other and no one else. They just weren’t social. They were quiet and stoical. They seemed to show virtually no emotion. Linda had become very interested in these three boys. Her goal was to help they break out of there shells. Her goal was to separate them and help each individual feel.
She took out her marble notebook and jotted down a few notes. She looked at the time. It was Thursday and classes would be ending in just a few minutes. She thought she would play a new game with the boys today.
Kat set down the silver pen and watched it roll over ink saturates pages.
“We have only so much power over a young person’s mind Linda.” Kat mumbled to the silence as he took a sip of his de-caf. This story would be interesting that was for damn sure, and so was something else: Linda Hollenback was going to die.
* * * * *
Kat woke with a start, his hot coffee had gone cold and now smelt rancid. He tapped the keyboard on his laptop and brought up the time, 2:57 am. It was time for bed, but as he and his notebook made their way the old wooden steps to his bedroom, Kat could not stop thinking about the story he was writing.
He settled into the comfort of his freshly made bed, but despite how tired he was he couldn’t quiet his thoughts. He eventually dozed off, but found himself tossing and turning. He grabbed the notebook from his bedside table and began writing. Suddenly his heart rate quickened, and his scribbles became quick and incoherent. He felt as though he had no control over his hand.
“It’s rusted. It’s over. The poor children. Their minds. They voted red against me in their minds. Try to run. Scream. Silence. My notebook. Stop it. Stop the swing. Unconscious. They called me names. They called me Black Widow.”
Kat woke slowly. His eyes slowly focused the red numbers on his alarm clock. It was 3:45. He must have slept longer and better than he thought he would when he laid down. But why was he awake now? Why did he feel so unsettled? He had dreamt about writing something. It was about Linda. He turned on the lamp on his bedside table and picked up the notebook. He turned to where he had left off writing down stairs. There was nothing else written there, but he half expected there to be. The more he stared at the blank page, the worse the horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach became. What he wrote must have been rather chilling. He continued to look at the page, as if he could will the writing to appear, then he wrote down the only thing he could remember.
“They called me names. They called me Black Widow.”
Kat read back over the words then searched the silence as if Linda hid stood amongst it.
“They called you names did they? How cruel of them. But who are they Linda, and what else did they do to you?”
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