Blind Allegiance

 I wrote this story today off a writing prompt from a friend. I'm not sure I got it exactly right, but I hope y'all like it. Here is the prompt:

Third person, short story about someone who recently became blind; but you can't say how they became blind.

Blind Allegiance

Chance awoke with a throbbing headache. The slightest movement caused excruciating pain. Even lifting his eyelids required more effort than he was able to muster. 

He lay still and tried to remember what had happened, but no matter how hard he thought, he couldn’t figure it out. It didn’t help that he couldn’t hear very well, either. Without eyesight and hearing, it was hard to figure out where he was or what caused all the pain. One thing he did know was that he had to move. No matter how much it hurt, he couldn’t just lay there.

He forced his eyes open. Total darkness greeted him. He couldn’t see even a glimmer of light anywhere. Did somebody push me down a well, he wondered. 

He quickly dismissed that idea. His enemies would have found a more creative way to rid the world of him. He thought maybe someone had buried him alive. He hadn’t been able to move enough to figure out how big the space he was occupying actually was.

He decided to worry about where he was after her regained the use of his body. 

Tentatively, he moved the fingers of his right hand. All seemed well so he tried the left hand. The pain that shot through his hand and up his arm brought tears to his eyes. 

It was a while before he worked up the courage to try and move any other limbs. The toes of his right foot worked, but the ankle was another matter. He didn’t think it was broken, but definitely sprained.

When he tried to move the left foot, scalding hot spikes of pain shot through his body. His screams filled the air. 

Chance had no idea how long he screamed. He hadn’t felt pain like that in years. The last time, he had almost lost his hand. If his ankle was in as bad a shape as his wrist had been back then, Chance knew he didn’t have long to get it worked on. It had taken the doctor thirteen hours to reconnect all the tendons and repair the damage. Chance hadn’t believed he could do it. His hand was literally hanging by threads of muscle and tissue. He only hoped modern medicine could come to the rescue again. If he ever got out of whatever hole he was in.

If the extent of his injuries were as bad as Chance thought, he knew he would need help escaping from wherever he had been stashed. From the vibration of his screams earlier, he knew the space wasn’t small enough to be a coffin-like structure, but wasn’t a huge room either. If he could trust his hearing. With his ears still clogged up, and the total darkness, he couldn’t be sure of anything.

He kept trying to remember what he was doing before, but the hit to his head seemed to have scrambled his brain. He would get snatches of memories but that was all, and they didn’t make much sense. 

He kept seeing himself with another man, one he couldn’t quite place. They were standing in front of a village. Just before the vision evaporated, Chance saw the man hand him a briefcase. 

No matter how hard he concentrated, Chance couldn’t remember anything else. He could surmise, however. He had received briefcases in the past. Briefcases full of cash, diamonds, guns, and bombs.

He just had to figure out what was in the one he kept seeing in the vision, and where the briefcase was. The contents of any case he had received could never be allowed to be traced back to the owner.

First things first, he thought. I have to get out of here before I can find anything.

He tried to sit up. The world spun crazily, but Chance toughed it out. He used his good hand to brace himself and sat still until the room settled. 

His stomach threatened to rebel. The taste of bile in the back of his throat urged Chance on. He reached into the darkness, trying to figure out where he was. He pushed what felt like a piece of concrete, which he was sure caused the damage to his ankle, off his left leg.

He tried to push himself with his right hand and leg, but the pain from his sprained ankle wouldn’t allow it. All he managed to do was wear himself out. 

He collapsed back onto the floor and considered his options. Chance had been in some hairy situations before, but nothing compared to being broken and battered beyond movement in a dark hole. He had always had a plan before, but as far as he could see, there was no plan for his current predicament except getting help.

To that end, Chance screamed. 

He screamed until his throat was raw. He screamed until his chest hurt. He screamed until he couldn’t scream any longer because the saliva in his mouth had dried up.

Once his own screams died down, Chance thought he heard others. He pushed back up and tried to find something to throw. Anything that would make enough noise for someone to find him. He threw rocks and a can of some sort, all the while trying to scream some more, but his voice wouldn’t cooperate. 

He blindly searched the area he could reach, frantically trying to find something that would help. He was getting desperate. Chance knew he didn’t have long. His strength was draining as surly as the blood from his ankle. 

His hand found a small, cylindrical object. He inspected it the best he could in the dark. The object was slender with a button on one end and wires coming out of the other. Chance was sure he knew what it was. It was on the tip of his tongue. He just couldn’t quite place it. He tried to trace the wires, but could only reach so far. 

He was still holding the object when he heard someone approach. He called out, hoping they would find him wherever he was buried. 

Chance was confused when he heard footsteps behind him. He tried to turn, but his broken body wouldn’t move. He listened to the steps as they walked toward him and heard someone say, “Poor bastard.” 

“Hello,” Chance said. “Who’s there? Can someone turn the lights on?”

“I’m sorry, Sir,” the man replied. 

Chance was still trying to figure out the pity in the man’s voice when another man interrupted.

“His hand!” the man yelled. “Get back!”

Chance figured out, right before the first bullet struck, what the object he held was.

No Time Like the Present

“Will you play with me, Daddy?”

“Not right now, Maise, I’m tired.”

He didn’t look tired. Mommy said the blue under my eyes was because I didn’t sleep good, that my eyes were tired. Daddy didn’t have blue under his eyes.

“Please, Daddy, just play Barbie with me. I can show you how.”

“I said no, Maise.”

Maybe Daddies don’t get blue eyes from being tired. Maybe they just get cranky. That’s what Mommy said Daddy was when he came home from work every day…cranky. I don’t like it when Daddy is cranky. I like it when he’s happy. I like it when he plays with me.

“You can be Ken. You don’t have to be a girl doll, Daddy.” 

I know boys don’t like playing with girl dolls. They like the boy dolls that they can play in the dirt with. I don’t let any boys play with my girl dolls. The girls are supposed to stay pretty and clean. That’s what Mommy told me after I made mud pies with Charley Brindle last week and got dirt all over my new dress. She made me change before we went to get my superpower juice.

“I don’t want to be Ken, Maise. Daddy has a lot on his mind. I need to be by myself to think.”

I don’t like thinking. When I think too much my head hurts. Even the superpower juice doesn’t help the hurt go away. Mommy says I need to keep busy so I don’t have time to think about things that make me sad and make my head hurt. 

That paper Daddy is holding must be making his head hurt ‘cause he’s scrunching his nose all up. It looks like the paper is from Jefferson’s. I see the name of my superpower juice on the first line. Maybe they ran out! That would be very bad. Mommy says I have to have the superpower juice. I’m not sure why. Her and Daddy never take it. Maybe they’re already superheroes.

I wonder what CareMark Insurance means? That’s on the top of the paper. The bottom says canceled. They did run out of my superpower juice! 

Oh no! Daddy’s crying. Daddy’s aren’t supposed to cry.

“Don’t cry, Daddy.” I rub his arm like Mommy does mine when I take the superpower juice and it makes me sick. “It’ll be alright. Maybe I can get strong without the superpower juice.”

“Oh, Maise,” Daddy says and then hugs me close. “You are the strongest person I know.”

Daddy must not know many strong people. I’m tired all the time. I’m not strong. Daddy is the strong one. He used to pick me up with one hand. Before I got to where it made me dizzy. The superpower juice hasn’t helped with that. I wish it would. I’d love to fly around the room again.

Mommy tells me the superpower juice is working, but I heard her and Daddy talking the other day. She said I’m getting weaker instead of stronger and that they might have to give me more superpower juice. I don’t want to take more. Superpower juice may be good for you, but it doesn’t feel good taking it. My arms are black and blue. I asked Mommy why I couldn’t drink it and she said it doesn’t work that way. It only makes you stronger if it goes right into your veins. I’m not sure what veins are. I know it hurts when the superpower juice goes in them though. I guess I won’t have to take more now since it’s been canceled. 

Canceled means no more. They canceled my favorite TV show last week. 

“Let’s go play, baby.”

“Are you sure, Daddy? You don’t have to play if you’re sad.”

“I’m sure, Maise. There’s nothing more important than spending every minute with you. I’m sorry about earlier.”

“It’s okay, Daddy. We have all the time in the world.”

Daddy always tells Mommy that and it makes her smile. I wonder why it made Daddy cry again…

Pick of the Litter

Our writing exercise this week was for the narrator to be a spectator to the story. I'm not sure I got it exactly right, but here's my take:

Sometimes, I watch them and I just know they’ll be mine. Other times, they still surprise me. It’s rare, mind you, but when it happens, I can hardly contain my frustration. After all, I picked them for a specific reason, because they have that special something I’m looking for, so when it doesn’t work out I have to start over from scratch. I hate wasting my time like that.

Take Carly, for instance. I thought she was perfect. I’ve been watching her for weeks. I picked her because she has that certain something, an elegance about her, that I find appealing in any woman. The only problem is that I’m starting to think it’s all a facade.  

When she thinks no one is looking, Carly can be downright crude. I so hate crudeness in a woman. I’m going to have to watch and think on this a little longer. Thankfully, I have Tara to satisfy my needs in the meantime. 

Sweet Tara. Well, she wasn’t so sweet when she first woke up, but I’ll forgive her for her lapse into the vulgar. It would be a shock to wake up in a strange room with all your clothes removed and a clown bending over you.

Still, she kept her dignity for the most part, and she never, ever acted like a slut the way Carly does. No, Tara definitely has that special something. 

Once she calmed down, Tara was a delight to watch. She tentatively reached out to the clown to see if he was real or not, which I thought showed great courage. After assuring herself the clown was only a prop, Tara searched the room for an escape route. That part is always fun to watch. I never know exactly how they’ll search or how long it will take before they give up, but the end result is always the same. The utter hopelessness that washes over them when they realize there is no way out is delicious.

When the tears stopped, Tara got mad. I love it when they get mad. The pounding on the door, scratching at the walls and screaming just heighten my desire. It’s almost time.

She’s finally settled down and is back sitting on the bed. Now I can release the gas. I would love to just lower myself through the ceiling opening and appear while they are awake, but that isn’t feasible. I don’t believe any of the women could overpower me, but you never know what can happen when adrenaline takes over. Yes, better safe than sorry I always say, which is why I use the gas to knock them out before I enter the room. 

Here goes nothing.

That’s a girl, lay down and sleep, daddy will be there soon…

Digging Yourself Deeper

 Here's my story from this weeks writing exercise. What do y'all think?

"You've been outside digging a large hole for several hours when you realize that you can't recall why you are digging it. Retrace your steps to try to discover your motivation. (500 words or fewer)"

                                                  

I’m so tired I can hardly keep my eyes open. It seems like I’ve been digging for days, but I know that can’t be true. I remember going to work yesterday. I know it was yesterday because the sun is just coming up so another day is dawning. 

The pain in my shoulders tells me I have been at it for a while. My head aches something fierce, which makes sense when I think about the blood I wiped out of my eyes earlier. 

I wish I could remember why I’ve been digging a hole. I know it’s important, although I couldn’t tell you how I know. I feel the urgency. That’s why I haven’t stopped until now. I’ve finally reached my limit.

At least I was smart enough to bring a ladder into the hole with me. Not that I remember getting it from the garage, but I must have because nobody else is with me. Of course, the only other person that’s ever here is Greg, and he wouldn’t spit on me if I were on fire. 

I wonder where Greg is. He doesn’t usually let me out of his sight except to go to work. I am his property; he has the papers as he so often reminds me. 

It’s not like him to sleep through me getting up during the night either. Usually, the smallest movement wakes him. I can’t count the number of times I’ve almost peed myself waiting until morning to go to the bathroom. 

It seems like I remember Greg bringing home some beer last night. Maybe he got drunk. Hell, maybe I did too and that’s why I can’t remember why I’ve been digging a hole in the back yard. 

No time to worry about it now though. If I don’t have breakfast on the table when Greg wakes up, there’ll be hell to pay. I don’t think my aching body can handle a beating right now.

That’s strange. The back door is wide open. I never leave it open. A stray cat could wander in and Greg would have a fit. Muddy paw prints might mess up the pristine floor. 

What the hell? Greg is going to kill me. Who knocked all the kitchen chairs over? And the oven’s still on. The house could have burned down while I was out digging a damn hole. 

Is that blood? I should call the cops, but if Greg is ok, he’ll be upset if I involve the cops. I’ll look around first. Where’s my big butcher knife? I always leave it in the top drawer. Guess this one will have to do.

That’s a lot of blood. This is getting scary. 

Pull it together, Sandy and open the door. Greg will kill you if he’s hurt bad and you stand around like a scared rabbit doing nothing. 

Well, well. Looks like Greg won’t be killing anybody. And here I thought all the blood on my shirt was from my head wound.

Late for the Meeting

This was the writing exercise/prompt that inspired my newest story. What do y’all think?

WHY YOU WERE LATE FOR THE MEETING

You're at lunch when your smartphone buzzes with an e-mail from your boss: "Don't forget, we have a meeting in 10 minutes." Of course you did forget, so you rush out of the restaurant and attempt to make it before it starts. But a crazy chain of events stops you from getting back in time for the meeting.

“I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date,” has been running through my mind ever since the, ‘Don’t forget, we have a meeting in 10 minutes,’ message I received on my phone just a bit ago. 

I was enjoying a rare lunch with my husband. We had finally managed to arrange our schedules and meet at one of our favorite restaurants. The first time in over a year that we’d seen each other before dark, and I ruined it when I had to leave for a meeting with my boss.

I still can’t believe I forgot about the meeting. It had been scheduled for over a month, but I was so excited that Greg and I were able to get together that it completely slipped my mind. 

Greg, bless his heart, was so understanding that it made me cry, which in turn made me even later to the meeting because I had to stop off and fix my makeup. Once my face was presentable, I kissed Greg, apologized one more time, and ran out of the restaurant. I’m not sure we’ll be allowed back in after that scene.

I was already ten minutes late for the meeting when my heel caught on a grate in the sidewalk and snapped right off. I went down so fast it made my head spin. 

I’m one of those old-fashioned women who still wear panty hose, but after the fall, I had to remove them because there was a tear down both legs from knees to ankles. The blood I wiped off with a tissue the best I could. 

When I rushed through the door, my secretary, Stella, looked at me as if I were demented, which I felt like was exactly the case. I threw my purse on the couch and was struggling out of my jacket when something Stella said caught my attention.

“What did you just say?” I needed her to repeat it because I knew I couldn’t have heard her correctly.

“Debra called and said the meeting has been rescheduled for tomorrow. Mr. Thomas had to leave unexpectedly.”

When I started laughing and fell to my knees, Stella was so stunned she dropped the phone she had just picked up.