Three Minute Story #1

It started with a cold wind across the cheek and an unnatural silence. The skeletal bowels of a D Class Zephyr is scary enough without mysterious goings ons, but then the killing started. At first we thought it an accident. Accidents seemed to be related to that strange door, though. The door was built to go nowhere since it was sloppily welded to the hull and upside down.

Like all new recruits Anthony took an interest in that door. The maintenance workers I spoke with said if you knock three times, loudly, for it's thick steal, the devil his self would answer. Anthony must have thought that interesting.

Anthony claimed he was different and better than the rest of us workers. He was going to prove the rumors wrong but most of all he was going to prove how tough he was. I don't know if he ever knocked on that door, but I know he was down there when the boiler exploded. Three men died that night.

There have been other accidents in the history of this particular Zephyr, but Anthony's Memory lives on. He wasn't afraid of ghosts or devils.


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I'm not proud of this one, just trying to make deadline. >.<

Do What You Love

One thing I learned at art school was that no one is born an artist. To be great at any art, thousands of hours have to be spent practicing and producing garbage and then you have to be told it's garbage several times so you know what to improve. If you survive all that, you may be able to produce something you can be proud of. If you love doing it, nothing will get in the way of you practicing your art. (Including one or two jobs that you have to keep to pay the bills.) (-;

 To get some good practice in, I have posed a challenge for this week (Monday - Friday). I got this idea from NPR's Three Minute Fiction challenge, where you write a story that only takes three minutes or less to read. Since they are so short, one should be written every day for the next five days. Each story should contain a beginning, middle, and end. And just to add to the challenge, I'm going to add that you have to include at least 3 of the five senses.

 The beauty of this exercise is that the stories don't have to be any good, they just have to be finished. As a writer, one of the biggest things that gets in the way of my writing is that I second guess what I'm doing, over think it, and then freeze up. I believe that's one of the biggest causes for "writer's block" (with me anyway). Has anyone else ever experienced "writer's block"? Do you do anything to work past it?

 So do we have any other writers out there that will join me in this challenge?

 Also, since it is Halloween, I wrote a poem for my lovely room mate on our whiteboard. I have posted a picture of it for you all to enjoy! Safe trick-or-treating today, everyone!

Hello World!

Writing must begin with a good breakfast. It doesn't have to be fancy, but at least a little nutritious. I whipped up some yogurt, dry oatmeal, and pomegranet seeds this morning to get my day of writing started.

So here's what I got so far. It isn't much, but I feel like it's a good beginning. Also, I have no idea where it's going to go yet. But it's a start.


The Machine That Knows Everything

Even though the laboratory had been empty for almost a year, the Doctor’s assistant came in three times a week to take care of the equipment. He cleaned the unused slateboard, refilled the reserve solutions as they evaporated away, and tightened the gears on the chronometer with hope that someday it would suddenly be needed in a new experiment. Circuit boards, copper tubes, and one loyal assistant’s memories were all that remained of Dr. Morolle’s experiments.

At the end of his routine, he removed his gloves and the anti-static clings from his shoes. As he hung up his lab coat, a voice cut through the silence and made him jump.

“You should visit him, Allen.”

Allen Wall spun around, shocked that he didn’t notice someone in the lab with him this whole time. “I’m sorry, madame,” he said.

Mrs. Morolle was sitting at the writing desk. She was hidden behind the stacks of books that were being referenced during their last project. She was casually thumbing through one of the heavier volumes: A Complete Guide to the Theory of Systematic Biology and Circuitry Mitosis. She wore the same black funeral dress every day since they declared her husband in a coma. He was not likely to ever wake up.

“I can tell he misses you,” she said.

“That... that isn’t logical, madame. I... I...I mean Mrs. Morolle. I uh... I’m sorry, I don’t intend to be rude, but he’s not likely to be feeling anything in his current state.” Allen stuttered so heavily he barely made it through a sentence.

“It doesn’t have to be logical. His brain is dead, but his heart still beats.”
Allen didn’t know what to say to that. He identified the flaw in her statement, but wasn’t so cold as to keep arguing her romantic notions.

“I see Fritze has moved on,” she continued, gesturing at a newspaper. “Success!” the headline cried in thick bold letters. “Biological Machinery Ends Food Crisis.”

Allen grabbed the newspaper and his eyes locked on the picture of the Doctor’s old partner. “He’s taking the credit for all the work! And he’s using it for biologically engineering farms for crop production! What a travesty, but not surprising. Considering his second-rate research and methodology, he doesn’t know how to utilize the processor. He doesn’t even mention the Doctor at all! It was his invention!”

“Fame and fortune is trivial, Allen. My husband was the greatest scientific mind of our time. He gave us so much. Now he just lays there, waiting to expire. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Allen escorted her out of the lab. “The real tragedy is that we are unable to do anything for him.”

Those parting words weighed heavy on the young assistant’s mind. Now that he stood alone in the office, the memories of working long hours setting up complex algorithms for the Doctor’s latest projects came back to him. He was there for all the major moments in Dr. Morolle’s recent work, including the initial hypothesis that biology might be able to be combined with machinery. A processor made out of living cells would have infinite uses in a human body, including repairing damaged cells. It was currently being used for fertilizing crops.


When Allen came home to his flat, a notice was posted on the door. The polite reminder was accompanied by a muscly man armed with a large wrench. Allen tried to sputter out a greeting, but he gave up awkwardly.

“Two hour,” said the muscle-man in a thick foreign accent. He nodded and put his key in the lock. Allen was not going to argue that the notice said 24 hours.

Mrs. Wall was inside the one-room apartment, packing the couple’s only footlocker. “You must have met Mr. Charming. Thank you for getting started on the packing. My dear, I am so sorry.”

“What are you talking about?!” she snapped. She was furiously stuffing her possessions inside the trunk. Allen stood by the door suddenly afraid of her impending rage.

“My wife...Lianna...”

“I WAS your wife! Not anymore! I’ve had enough!” She picked up a vase of dried flowers and lobbed it at Allen where it hit the wall in an explosion of glass. “Where were you today? My father sent a messenger because you did not report at the bank again. It said that if you did not report by midday, your employment would be terminated. How many times have I told you?! I have never been so embarrassed.”

Allen suddenly felt dizzy with shame. This was probably just another one of her outbursts. She would calm down soon and come to her senses, he was sure of it.

“When we married, I thought you were going somewhere. We had a house! I believed your stories of a better world! I was an idiot for believing your lies. I AM an idiot for carrying on like this. You couldn’t even give me a child.” She closed the trunk and started weeping.

“My love, I will fix this.” Allen’s hollow offer went ignored. Lianna Wall dabbed her eyes carefully. “I don’t know how, but I will.”

“My carriage is waiting in back. The driver will be in to pick up the trunk.” She paused for dramatic effect. “My father was right. You are worthless.”

She slammed the door as she left, and the sound echoed in Allen’s heart. That night he left their home without taking any of their possessions. Without her, he truly had nothing.

“I’m here to see Doctor Emmit Morolle, please,” said Allen at the visitor’s desk.
A nurse’s aid flipped through her charts. “Doctor... Doctor... M for Morolle,” she said.

“He’s a patient, sorry.”

“Oh, I guess Doctor’s can be patients, too. Isn’t that ironic, though?” she mused. “Ah, here he is. Let me just check you in and take you to his room. You’re the first visitor he’s had in a while. Are you family?”

Allen signed his full name in the visitor’s log and looked around nervously. The sterile white environment was as uncomfortable as the nurse asking him personal questions. He stared down the hall imagining walking into a room and seeing an old shell of a man hooked up to tubes and respirators. What would he do when he got there anyway? Talk to a man that wasn’t even conscious?

The memory of his wife’s last words sunk in to him. Even if he could stomach being there, he wasn’t worthy to stand before his mentor.

“Never you mind, miss. This was a mistake. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

“Nonsense, Mr. Wall. No one comes to visit this patient. And he has such a kind face. I’ve always wondered what his story was. Let me take you to him. It’ll only be a few minutes. How did you say you knew him?” The nurse smiled warmly to try to comfort the young man.

“I was his assistant.”

“Ah, you must be very smart, then. I’ve been told that he invented all sorts of electronic wonders. The electric lights in this hospital, for example. Oh! I’m sure you already knew that.”

Allen nodded and followed the nurse.

“We are so grateful for his contributions, Mr. Wall. The hospital nurses asked for donations so we could rent out a Phonograph to play in Mr. Morolle’s room. Sorry, Doctor Morolle. It’s a little strange calling him Doctor.”

“Understandable,” said Allen. He wasn’t paying attention to the words pouring out of the nurse. He found her voice bright and soothing.
Suddenly he realized she had stopped talking and they were standing in the Doctor’s room.

“Here we are. I’ll leave you to your visit, Mr. Wall. There is a bell by his bedside if you need anything.”

“Please, don’t go, miss.”

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Some specific feedback I'm looking for:

1. Do you want to read more?
2. What do you think will happen?
3. What grammatical/syntax/spelling errors did you spot?
4. What was confusing/unclear?