November Novel Nuts

This is my November Novel -- A 50,000 word exercise used to help those of us who would like to write but don't ever seem to find the time to write. (I don't seem to be able to ever find enough time to write)

This story is one that has been creeping around in my head -- so here you go, follow along as the month progresses -- Lets see if i can do it.

GIVE ME DEATH -- By T.S. Smith


Prologue

The shrill whistle blew marking the end of another day. Dirt and grime covered every inch of exposed skin and clothing the young man wore. His Dickies were more gray silt than tan with the debris. His white hard hat puffed a plumb of rubble into the air as he tapped it roughly against his leg. He wiped his brow with a dirty red work rag that left behind a gash of moist dirt in its wake. He replaced the hat -- tapping it home on his head, gathered his lunch pail and tattered jacket into his free hand.

His pace was resigned -- almost reluctant to leave the shelter of the giant crane’s cabin; he slowly placed his gloved hands and steel-toed boots on the long metal ladder, descending the thirty-odd steps to the ground below.

He lifted his time card out of the rack containing fifty duplicate time cards. The only discerning difference was the T. Thomas printed at the top of his. He slid the card into the time clock flinching as the clock stamped the time and bit a chunk out of the side of the beige benign surface. He slid it back into the rack where its home would be until the next workday.

T. Thomas turned and walked through the steel meshed gates to the sidewalk beyond then slowly trotted down the street toward home, head bent counting the separations in the sidewalk to himself. There were two hundred and twelve separations until he reached home. Tomorrow there would be two hundred and twelve separations in the sidewalk on his way back.


GIVE ME DEATH

By T.S. Smith

Have you ever given much thought to your own death? Not that I think about you dying, well not much, at least. However, I do think an awful lot about myself dying -- it’s an obsession really. I also obsess about the death of those around me -- those who are close to me -- those who I really wish would die. Not you of course, you’re fine in your perfect world, but mine isn’t quite as nice as yours is. Let me illustrate….

My name is Tom T. Thomas, or in reality, my birth certificate is emblazoned with the name Thomas Thomas Thomas. I didn’t have the most creative parents. I had to change my first name to Tom in grade school just to keep the bullies off my back -- if I’d only knew then what I know now I would have let them beat me to a bloody pulp before puberty reared its ugly head.

My mother -- who held me bound in purgatory for nine months, felt little need to touch me after giving birth. She felt her job was adequately finished. Most of the care I received in the early years came from my grandmother -- luckily enough she died choking to death on a chicken bone along with the dog. We buried them together to save my father from having to dig another hole. I didn’t cry at the funeral. To be honest I was happy to see my grandmother die, she was a miserable woman and would have likely made a top three spot on my list of people who should die.

She always smelled of a week old ashtray and flowers mixed, it was a revolting aroma. Her lips had a permanent divot where the Lucky Strike cigarette sat with an inch long ash dangling precariously waiting to drop on my body as she dressed or bathed me. She also wore the reddest lipstick and nail polish -- a color that’s only natural with arterial bleeding. Her skin was always pasty white except for those areas nicotine had painted yellow. The contrast between the red and pasty white lead me to believe she was a vampire -- and my dreams were darker those nights she tucked me into bed. My last waking visions of those blood red lips wrinkled with age, lowering over my face to kiss me goodnight -- still gives me nightmares.

My father on the other hand was a wonderful man. He loved having a son to carry on the family name -- even if that name was obviously so common. When he came home from work in the evenings he would tossle my hair and ask, “How was your day?” I nodded dutifully, even though I was unable to articulate the horrors I lived every waking moment he wasn’t in the house. On the weekends my life was bearable. My father would take me to the park, or fishing, or just sit and read the paper to me depending on how miserable the weather was outside.

It was one of those beautiful sunny days at the park that the only bright spot in my life was extinguished.

Walking along the tree lined lane of the park my father reached up and grabbed his left arm as if someone had suddenly hit him. I watched his face in horror as the pain gripped his chest and he was -- in seconds -- laying face first in the grass, dead. I cried that day.