Crashbox

A couple of simple sketches I did recently...







And here is my story from our last writing meeting. (I skipped a few in there, that I may post up later).



Writing Prompt: Double Life

July 7, 2010



Incident on the Platform at 7th St.

It was a perfect evening. The sun slanted down across the tops of the trees and tall buildings of the east bank of Bridgetown, illuminating west-facing windows and coloring the edges of the broken grey clouds with pink and orange, but leaving the streets and sidewalks in shadow. On the light rail platform at 7th St., a light, pleasant breeze stirred glimmering leaves in the setting sun, dappling the imposing granite sides of an office building just to the south.

Three small figures stood alone near the ticket machine. Two boys about 12 or 14 years old were leering disdainfully at their lone opponent, hands on hips or head cocked to one side; it was clear mischief was afoot.

Francesca Julker gazed back at them coolly. She was 13, and not very big for her age. It was not uncommon for her be picked on; she was a little too pale, with very black hair and dark-rimmed eyes with heavy underlids. Usually it boiled down to jeering 'Goth!' or 'Freak!' remarks, sometimes just the normal teasing and tormenting that comes from having an unusual appearance. It didn't really matter, and for the most part she didn't care much. Today however, she felt particularly annoyed.

The taller boy stepped closer to her. “What's wrong with you?” he demanded, maliciously playful. “I said get off our platform.” The younger one grinned and made as if he was a ghost in a sheet, bumping into things blindly. “Yeah,” he said stupidly, “Move it, zombie-butt.”

Frankie's lips compressed. She reach quietly into the black pants pocket of her all-black ensemble.

It was not easy living here in the big city. Nearly a month had passed, and she was still trying to adjust. The Blodgett's were nice enough folks, but it was irritating to have to hide things from them all the time—like going out at night to practice. Her mother had decided to send her up from the south to live with the cousins for the summer, which was the last thing she wanted; especially so close to beginning her real training. Just until the start of the school year, mom said placidly. That's not that long. You are too, alone, too intense, you need a change of scene. But I'm almost helpless, Frankie protested, I don't even have my broom yet! Patience. Patience and courage, mom smiled back. You'll be a full-grown witch soon enough. This will be good for you. Get to know some normal kids, go out to the park, loosen up; cauldrons and spells and drafty old houses do get a bit gloomy for a child, you know. When mom said something it was law. Frankie didn't argue after that. So here she was, alone in this bright, summery city without her books or candles, trying to pretend she was a normal little girl. She even had to wear colorful clothes sometimes when Mrs. Blodgett got that worried look and muttered under her breath: “Such a dark child!” At least she had her glasses. They were no broom, they worked in a pinch.

“Dude, she's dumb too!” The sarcastic voice broke through her thoughts roughly. “Hey moron! Hey ghost-face! Can you even understand me?”

The heavy, old-fashioned black framed glasses were in her hand. A really mean spell was needed for these two. Her patience had run out, and she plotted dark, witchy punishment. Fumbling to put them on, she began to craft her spell, quickly, in a soft voice that shook a little. It was an unforgivable risk, here in public, in broad daylight, and she knew it. And the glasses were a little unpredictable...

The boys looked at each other. The younger boy burst out laughing, but the older one frowned. “Hey, cut that out, weirdo!” He reached for the glasses just as she was putting them on. Her voice rose in pitch. Almost there! She grabbed the earpieces with both hands. “I said STOP IT.” The older boy looked serious. His big hand slapped the the glasses rudely off her face.

And the spell reflected, it backfired in her inexperienced hands. The glasses fell to the ground, cracking one of the lenses, and bounced a few feet away. Everything was very quiet.

The two bullies stood staring before them with glazed eyes in mute amazement. The fading sun winked across the last of the tallest rooftops, and the clouds begin to lose their fiery color. Signal lights changed over empty streets, and in the gathering dusk on the now deserted platform no one even noticed the wiggling green toad on the sidewalk, hopping awkwardly in the direction of an old-fashioned pair of black-framed eyeglasses.