DisassociatedWord's Stories

For No One and Another

2007-10-12T01:58:36Z

The bus rolled down an embankment and most of the top was pulled off. All but three of the windows were shattered. Several people were screaming. Emily slammed her laptop shut, grabbed all her stuff and climbed quickly out of the bus. She managed to scramble away from the bus just before it burst into flames. Then she screamed, but no one else was anymore. She knew if there was anyone still in the bus they would be screaming, so she figured everyone had managed to get out. That was a good thing anyway. Emily looked at her watch and sighed. She was going to be late for work. This was the third day this week that she’d be late to her job at the record store. At least now she had an excuse. ‘The first day my alarm actually worked this week, the bus had to crash,’ Emily thought miserably. ‘Just my luck.’ She picked up her bag which she had dropped, slipped her laptop and headphones into it, and began walking back toward the road, planning to hitch-hike, yet again.

For No One

2007-10-12T01:04:34Z

The sun had set hours ago, but it was still light when the short, blue-haired girl walked out of her house. She pulled a pair of black-rimmed glass out of her canvas Warhol bag, contemplated them for a moment, rubbed the lenses against her dark jeans, then slipped them on. Down the street she could see the long city bus pulling up to its stop. She hurried to catch it, climbed on, dropped a few coins into the metal box at the front of the bus, and, not wanting to be bothered by the others on the bus, who talked of nothing but Avril Lavigne, or Kelly Clarkson, or some well-known “singer” like that every single morning, Emily walked to the very back of the bus. She pulled out a small white laptop, opened up a media player, put on some headphones and began to watch a short film she’d recorded at the last event she had gone to. This one had been in downtown Albany, a bit of a trek from her home in Damariscotta, but worth it. Suddenly the bus jolted up in the air.

Writings From Your Troubled Mind

2007-09-29T04:05:44Z

A dozen stories, counting drafts, is nowhere near enough. Some people have hundreds. But somehow you know yours are always more substantial, more thought out. Even if they’re the ones no one reads, or hears of. Even if they’re the ones rated 2 or 3, because you know they’re being read and criticised by the awesome literary people who actually understand literary criticism and can use it well. And another thing, on some of your stories you’ve actually reached nirvana. Do you see that on many people’s stories? I didn’t think so. And while you sit there wishing you could finish those drafts that seem to have been sitting around for years, you just start a new story altogether, because you’ve got one more great idea. And this is a great idea, though you look at other people’s hundreds of stories that only seem to be made up of good or okay ideas. But as you think of these complaints, I know you will see the inner light, and be able to quickly churn out a random but brilliant story. Think of me, when this happens.

Twisted Pink Tree

2007-09-23T20:11:34Z

Tintilla walks barefoot through the field, heading toward a large twisted tree covered with pinkish leaves.
Amidst the leaves are just a few clusters of purple berries, scattered here and there.
A soft breeze blows the girl’s long skirt behind her.
She reaches the tree and holds one hand up toward a group of berries, but they are too high.
She takes hold of a low branch, throws her leg over it, and turns to a sitting position on the branch just above it.
She reaches up again, this time taking hold of some berries in front of her.
She lays against the tree, eating her berries, and falls asleep.

Cynical Fish Story

2007-09-18T02:21:45Z

Elana stood in front of the fish, watching them swim around. She was seven years old, and all she wanted was a fish. “Can I get a fish?” she asked her mother. “No dear, they’re too expensive,” her mother replied. “But if you get three rings around these poles you win a fish,” Elana said. “Well alright,” her mother relented, “if you do that I guess you can get a fish.” “Yay!” shrieked Elana. She turned to the man behing the fish booth. “Mr. Fish Man, I wanna get a fish!” she yelled. “Well, you get five chances to get rings around these poles. If you get three rings on, you get a fish.” Elana threw the rings, but didn’t get three on. “Oh! I wanted a fish!” she shrieked. She pouted for a while, but then she found another game where you could win thirty dollars if you won the game. This was exactly how much the fish cost if you didn’t win one. Elana played, and won the thirty dollars. She bought a fish, and was happy for the next week…until her fish died, as they always do soon after you get them from a fair…

When the tide comes in

2007-09-07T03:28:38Z

I used to stand at the edge of the sea at night, watching the waves crash in. I would stand there, my bare feet getting wet, as I waited for the sunrise. And when the sun finally came up, I sat down in the swells, my body rising each time a new wave came in. Later the tide came in, and with it came many tiny dead fish. I did not know what kind they were, but there were hundreds of them. They were only a few inches long. In the early morning the tide came, carrying its burden, and I would walk up and down the beach, stepping on these dead fish, breaking their already useless spines.

Words of Love

2007-07-01T18:52:20Z

At midnight, Sandra walked out of the store. Loen and Nathe were there. “You know she’s leaving soon,” Loen said. “It’s now or never man.” “You’re right,” Nathe replied. “But I shouldn’t tell her like this.” “What other way is there?” While they talked, Sandra got into her car. She still hadn’t seen them. The next morning, Sandra left on the earliest flight to Chicago.
Loen woke up just after Sandra’s plane left. She sighed and walked out to the letterbox. In it was a note that said: Loen, I love you. xxx Sandy. “Oh god,” Loen whispered. She took out a cigarette and flicked out her lighter. Later, reading the news, she saw that Sandy’s plane had crashed. “Damn,” she said. “I better call Nathe.” When he answered the phone, Loen said, “Have you heard the news?” “Yes,” he replied sadly. “I should have told her I loved her. Maybe she’d stay.” “Nathe…I don’t think she would’ve,” Loen said. “Why?” “I just found a note from her saying she loved me.” “No.” “She signed it her special way. I’m sorry.”

The End of the Catskill Game Farm

2007-07-01T05:37:42Z

This was the last day anyone would be able to visit the Catskill Game Farm. The next day they’d start to send away the animals, to other zoos, or back into the wild, or god-knows-where. Even the animals knew what was going on, you could tell from the look in their eyes. Or at least Anya could. “Look,” she whispered to her older brother Frederic. “That giraffe is crying.” He rolled his eyes at the four-year-old girl. “Come on, mom’s waiting for us,” he said, annoyed with his sister. “Animals are stupid anyway.” “NO, you’re stupid. You don’t get it because you’re just a stupid teenager. You think you know everything, but you don’t know ANYTHING . Especially about animals,” Anya said, frustrated. How could he be so ignorant? “It’s time to go,” he said, uncaring. She sighed. She turned back to the animals. “Goodbye, Mr. Giraffe. Goodbye, everyone.” She waved a little, then got in the car. As they pulled away, she could’ve sworn she saw a tear trickle down the side of the giraffe’s face.

Marmaduke's Hannukah

2007-06-30T22:46:35Z

Marmaduke walks along the snowy road, muttering to himself. I shouldn’t have trusted him, he thinks sourly. He never cared; I should’ve known he’d throw me out soon.
He steps off the sidewalk and onto the snow-edged gutter. A car drives by, splashing some half-melted snow at him. He turns and snarls, only to see his owner’s angry face staring back at him. He hops back onto the curb to avoid further conflict.
Suddenly, he hears a chorus of voices, then- “Look mommy, a kitty. Can we take him home?” “Well, he doesn’t have a collar. He looks like a stray. Alright then.” The woman turns to the others and says, “I think we’re leaving early, ok?” No one answers. “Whatever.” She picks him up and they trudge home.
As soon as they get inside, he sees the tree, and knows something bad has happened. He squirms and jumps to the floor. He says to them, “I don’t think this is going to work. You see, I’m not like you.” “Aw, look at the cat meowing,” the woman says. “Can I go back to being ignored, please?” Marmaduke asks.

Strawberries, Pills and Alchohol

2007-06-30T03:30:42Z

I’m so fed up with him beating me and swearing at me,
Clarissa thought. This is the last time, father. Her father had been an alchoholic since she was six years old. Now, at thirteen, she had learned enough from the outside world that she knew what she could do, how to end the terror of her father’s beating her.
He never bought anything for them to eat. It was always take-out or pizza. This was another thing Clarissa hated about him. There was never anything in the fridge except strawberries (he had a weakness for strawberries) and liquor.
Because of him, Clarissa was depressed, and took pills to handle it. Now, as he slept, she took several of these pills and slipped them inside the last of her father’s strawberries, which she knew he would eat in the morning. He wouldn’t notice the pills, he would be hungover (or already completely drunk again).
When she arrived home from school the next day, he was lying dead on the floor. She called the ambulance, pretending to be frightened. No regrets, she thought.

The Blaming Girl

2007-06-29T01:28:31Z

She saw him in the dim light, coming toward her. When he got close enough, he said, “Do you remember that day five years ago?” “What are you talking about?” she asked, though she knew. She was even surprised that he remembered. “You know. I know you know.” “My brother’s death was all your fault,” she said, though she knew it wasn’t. She just wanted someone to blame. She didn’t want to blame him, she loved him. But in another part of herself, she hated him. And she couldn’t blame herself. “No,” he said. “Please realise it wasn’t my fault.” “Go home,” she said. “I don’t want to talk about this now.” “And you never will, will you?” he replied. Then he turned and walked home.
The next day when she got the newspaper, she saw the headline MAN KILLED IN 5 -CAR ACCIDENT . Pathetic, she thought. Skimming over the article, the name of the man caught her eye. It was him. She sat down at the kitchen table, put her head down, and began to cry. It was then that she knew that everything was her fault.