IntShoWriMo 2016 Prompts: Day 10

Put Shaggy (Scooby-Doo`s partner) and Batgirl in an elevator and write a 200-word scene. — creativewritingprompts.com

A ring is found with an intriguing inscription inside. — Writing.Com

Write a story that begins with the title of the book you’ve most recently read and ends with the name of your favorite character that you’ve written. — Writer’s Digest

The popular saying “you can’t go home again” refers to the difficulty of matching a confrontation of one’s childhood and home as an adult with the version that exists in nostalgia-tinged memories. Write a scene in which your main character has attempted to “go home again” and is in for a rude awakening. What expectations and memories did she have before arriving home? Do the shortcomings of home reveal something about her personality and identity? — PW.Org

Day 10: Only a Fool Believes He's Dreaming Before He Wakes Up

IntShoWriMo 2015: Day 10 Prompts:

While you dig the soil for a flower-bed, you find a magical dragon bone. — Writing.Com

You had that dream again. The one where the beast with the drooping hands and wicked fangs stares you down from your window. Except the windows open this time—and you’re awake! What happens next? — WritersDigest.Com

Akpan

Day 10: I, Akam

Today’s Prompt: Write about five things you would do to entertain yourself if you did not see a soul for 7 days.

— Courtesy: CreativeWritingPrompts.Com

Word Count: 1,510

            “You go ahead and survive in there for 7 days and you can walk away a free man. All debts cancelled.”

It was a large building past its glory days. It could have been an apartment or a hostel once. But it had long since served its purpose and its ghost defaced the landscape like an unsightly landmark. All the inlets and outlets had been boarded up not with wood but welded with metal. The main entrance provided the only access into the building. My captors pushed me inside, slammed the doors shut and reinforced it with chains. Even if there really was another way out, I knew death alone awaited him on the other side of the steel doors.

            The men who dropped him off had given me this odd challenge as the only alternative besides immediate death. All I had left was a prayer—which is the direct English interpretation of my name, Akam (/arkham/), anyway.

            “Survive 7 days in there and you walk,” they told me and drove off, heading south of my location. I had spotted one or two security cameras mounted within the perimeter. A single path led to the house and the weeds prowled it. I stepped into the wide corridor of the structure.

            “Piece of cake,” I said. “There’s bound to be a master bedroom in this place with a giant-sized double bed somewhere in here. All I gatto do is find it.”

Find it, I would but I, Akam was about to learn a vital lesson about beds; they weren’t always vacant and especially, not always inviting even in an abandoned house. I walked along the corridors, feeling the walls, working at my first tour of the place—my new residence.

            “Since I’m gonna be hanging around for 7 whole days, I better acquaint myself with the settings. Wouldn’t want to get lost in the dark,” I said.

I spent the first day in that place of death doing a tour and trying the doors which to my amazement, were mostly locked. I tried kicking some in but they won’t budge. One however, yielded but it was stuffed with cleaning and maintenance tools. I’d found the broom closet. Great, I thought. Now I’ll set to work and get this place cleaned out in 7 days. I shut the door in disgust and wandered on searching for the master bedroom. By sunset, it had become apparent I, Akam would spend the night in the corridors on the cold floor. I never found the master bedroom that day.

The second day, I resumed my ‘touring’ as I have tagged it. Sheez, I thought. I’m not gonna spend 7 whole days sleeping in the corridors on this cold tiles. This is not some kind of prison, is it?

While trying the locks on one of the top floor rooms, I opened the door to a large bedroom. It was a wicked mistake cause I spent the day entertaining myself in a most unusual way. Of course, it was the master bedroom. I suspected it was flanked by some kind of office/study because there was a view of the lake and yes, there was a giant-size double bed. Big, nice, cozy and almost sparkling clean if you ignored the layer of dust, that is. It was almost like the previous owners left in a hurry. A body lay on the bed. It was guarded by a dog whose skin clung to its bones. The body was a skeleton but it wasn’t my problem, the dog was. The bones probably, belonged to a vagrant who came here to pass time and then passed on in his sleep. A thought occurred to me which rearranged my psyche, What if these bones once shared the same fate which have been tossed into my bosom? But as it was, the guy wasn’t available to take questions. The gnarl of the dog threw me out of my reverie. Suppertime, that gnarl seemed to say and, what took you so long?

            “I’m just gonna turn around and walk away and you can forget you ever saw me cause I’m gonna do the same thing.” I booked for the door.

The skinniest dog I’d ever seen in my life had other plans. It made a dash for me while I hung around. I spent the entire day fighting off the dog and got bit several times but eventually, I put it out of its misery. I was spent. I’d gone two days without a meal and water. I fell on the floor beside the dog and slept off. I awoke by midnight but it was too dark to see anything and to do much else but walk into walls so I slept some more.

On the morning of the third day, I awoke to a drip-drip sound. A storm raged outside. Rainwater poured in through the roof, no surprise there. I took off my clothes and washed where the leaking was heavy and then I found a bowl in the broom closet, rinsed out the muck and fetched a bowlful of rainwater. That would serve me as drinking water for a few days, I thought. But the rain wouldn’t let up. It continued to pour through the ceiling. The water came up and there was a little flood in that place about ankle-deep. I spent the day in bed with the bones which I eventually pushed off into the rising water. Thank God, the power supply to the house had been cut off or I definitely will not be writing this story. By the fourth day, I was way too famished to do anything, I had almost emptied the bowl which contained the rainwater. I went downstairs but couldn’t beyond the last four steps. Everything that wasn’t under water floated. I wrote a quick mental reminder, ‘Don’t come down here in the dark.’ I think if I had to choose, I’d pick death by starvation over drowning any day. I spent much of Day Four sweeping leftover flood out of the master bedroom. It was tough. I had gone four days without a meal. But I did it just to while away time and to keep from thinking too much about food.

There was no rain on Day 5 but there was plenty of sunshine. Way too tired and racked out of my mind to notice, I went around that room tapping the walls. I can’t tell what exactly I was looking for or even if I was looking for anything at all, until I came on a hollow sound. I thrust my weight into it and heaved. A low creaking gave way to a loud crack! and the wall ceded. A gap appeared and as I pushed further I saw what it was; a secret portal. On the other side was voila! The office I anticipated earlier. There was a paraffin lamp on the study table. I found a matchbox in the top drawer. When I lit the lamp I spotted a book lying closed on the edge of the table. I noticed the odd hand writing on the cover and I considered it a record book of some kind but a closer examination threw a jump into me.

WARNING: DO NOT GO BEYOND THIS PAGE IF PRONE TO HEART ATTACKS

I have no record of heart attacks in my family; I didn’t think the warning applied to me. I opened the book. It didn’t take long to see the need for the warning.

            ‘Night after night, it came. At first, it came for the children, scaring and teasing them and we thought it was the monster stories their parents told them at bedtime that gave them a scare. We forbade those stories after the screams which were becoming louder wouldn’t cease. It did little to improve the situation. Then one morning, after a night session of terrible, hair-raising shrieks, we found a child’s bed empty. We checked under his bed and there he was whimpering with pain. “He said he’s coming for me, said he’d take me away next time. He had claws.” We tried our best to put it out of his mind by telling him it was a nightmare. The next day, it came and took Danny away; ripped him to shreds, it did.’

One by one, whatever it was took them away. It came a time they couldn’t stand the sight of the corpse and they boarded up the rooms with the corpse inside. I can’t tell what exactly this place used to be in its time but I, Akam have taken the liberty to bring this book out into the open so the world may know the evil that took place here probably, centuries before. Much of this might have been mixed into local legend, perhaps. I don’t have much time to live much longer; the rabies from the dog bite is taking its fatal toll with no medication and all so I remind of the book writer’s warning: This is not for the faint of heart.

Eneh Akpan

June 10th, 2014

DAY 10: Trunk

Courtesy: madamenoire.com

Today’s Prompt:

You are helping out at a charitable center by organizing donated items. When searching through an old suitcase, you find a suicide note dated six months prior. What’s peculiar is that you know the person. What’s even more peculiar is that the person is still alive. Write the story about what happens when you pay that person a visit and ask him or her about the note.

Courtesy: writersdigest.com

Word Count: 2,039

I can’t stand what’s happening to me.

I’m stuck in a rut and I have not the slightest idea how to wrest myself from its grip. I don’t understand it at all. I have a very strong urge to put the blade of a knife to my guts and slit it wide open like lips stretched in an unnatural grin. Yet, I do not understand why my faculty leans toward the suicidal. I’m not suicidal by nature.

I got my career on course, my life on point. I got a wife, two kids and a promising future still…

What is happening to me? Sometimes, I feel like Atlas trapped under the weight of the universe but this is not a burden I wish to carry.

This note is addressed to whoever cares to read it when/if they find it.

I am a man of forty-five, educated and ordinarily, cheerful and high-spirited. All that was before a few hours ago when I discovered this note.

Now, I can’t stand what’s happening to me, anymore. I feel an irresistible impulse to terminate my existence through one of the most gruesome methods. Yet, I don’t seem to be in charge of my mental functions.

I don’t want to die.

I don’t want to die.

I don’t want to die.

Kenam (/kay nam/) retrieved a collapsible chair from a corner of the spacious room and collapsed into it. He didn’t know what to make of the note. So far, it’s failed to strike a chord. How does one tell if the suicide exhibited purposive behavior or if an outer force compelled him/her? All the same, what kind of cohesion could he expect to find in a note that narrates how its author took his own life? Kenam could give no appropriate answer to his own question. Besides, this was his first time of reading a real suicide note (he’d read lots of it in Lovecraft’s and Stephen King’s stories) and he’s never had cause to craft one. God forbid he should ever require writing one.

The other volunteers were busy packing and unpacking items from trunks either as rusty as the one where he had fell upon the note in his hand or a tad too rusted. The whole place was understandably, messed up and to boost, it was a wild party. There was as much excitement build-up in the house as should be expected at a charity function.

                Kenam wondered if any of his fellow volunteers had hit jackpot; laid hands on something of true worth as his discovery. He did not feel like sharing his find with anybody, for now. In spite of that, he was a bit restless about proceeding to the end of the note and witnessing the death of a troubled soul. Had the deceased’s or suicide’s family sent in his belongings? Why had they not noticed the note tucked away in the old shoebox?

A chill ran down his backbone like dewdrop careening down the spine of a blade of grass, as a thought flashed through his mind that he could have been the one Fate or God or whoever was in charge of things like this, intended to rescue this fellow. He was probably occupied living inside a bottle at the time, a prototype genie of the beer bottle. Kenam had not touched a bottle since his close shave with death five months ago. He’d been the definition of the word alcoholic. Cattle, which fell out of a truck ahead of his vehicle, reduced the impact that with all probability, would have issued him a pass into the next life. As an upshot of this event, Kenam has had a battle on his hands every time he had soup primed with cow meat.

Realization dawned on Kenam who only then fully grasped how his old self had been slowly but with no less degree of intensity writing his own suicide note. One bottle at a time. And he escaped by a narrow margin not because he thought suicide was not an option and then tore up the note but because…

                “Because of the innocent cattle that was never meant to be there, in the first place,” he said aloud. His head was bowed and he observed a drop of tear wet the page held out in his hand.

                “It’s so weird I was so deep into how extreme the suicide must be, taking his life; I totally forgot to mend my own ways.” He cracked up. It was the sound of apprehension turning in for home.

Kenam started discarding the paper, then a bolt of inspiration shot through him like electricity. He flipped the page and looked up the name of the author of the note. What he saw knocked the air out of him like a one-two punch to the middle section. The name was familiar. It was signed Duno Abasi. (/doo nor/)  (/abbacy/)

                “Is this weird or is this weird?” Kenam scoped the wide and high of the room expecting to pick up somebody hiding in the shadows, only there was really no shadow in the well-lit room, and eyeing him with a smirk spread the breadth of their faces. Only the brief, quick, side glances other volunteers tossed him every now and then. “Whoever is playing this dirty prank ought to know better.”

                “Something bothering you, Kenam?” It was Marguerite, the coordinator. “You look totally…”

                “Beat?” Kenam filled up the gap for her.

                “No, just troubled like low-key worried.” Marge as the volunteers called her stepped up to Kenam. “What’s with the stationery?”

Kenam barely had time to fold up the note and tuck it away in his pants pocket before Marge glimpsed its content.

                “Ugh, ugh, private waters, Marge. You don’t wanna know, trust me.” He feigned a smile. He made a terrible job of it and he knew.

                “Alright. If you say so,” Marge said, smiling sweetly but obviously not buying into Kenam’s variety of trash.

                “It’s nothing serious, Marge. I’m cool, seriously.” Then he added, “Look, Marge, something urgent just came up. Can you guys hold forth for a few minutes? I gotta run; I won’t take long.”

                “Oh, go on, Kenam and take your time,” Marge said. “We’ll manage. By the way, we’re almost done here.”

                “You’re an angel, Marge. Thanks.” And just like that, Kenam, the former alcoholic was off on personal errand. Kenam was about to uncover what might be the most shocking secret of his life.

The house was a blend of sea green and dark yellow on the outside. Kenam found a parcel on the back porch, picked it up and rang the doorbell. He heard footsteps shuffling on the other side, chances of his host being home were high. He seemed to be in good spirits, too. Kenam heard the jingle of keys and then a click as it threw the lock. He heard a latch slide off and as the door creaked and opened a crack, he thought, what if the man who was opening the door to his house for him and the author of the note were not the same person? What if this Duno Abasi knew zilch about those last words?

In his panic, Kenam considered changing the purpose of his visit. The words, I came to see how you were getting along, played behind his lips and for a brief moment he was tempted to utter it. He waved it off and decided he was prepared to face the consequences of his stupidity if he had judged wrong. He didn’t leave those guys at the charitable center and come all the way down there for nothing.

                “It won’t hurt to know the truth, if I can hel…”

The door opened and a tall, well-groomed man in his late forties stepped out into the May sunlight.

                “Hey! Kenam, what have you got there?” He gestured to the parcel wedged in Kenam’s armpit. “You didn’t tell me you worked as a FedEx dispatch.”

Kenam grinned. “It’s your mail or whatever. I picked it off your porch on my way up.” He shoved the parcel into Duno’s hands. “Hello, Duno.” Kenam offered his hand and Duno took it. The men shook hands briefly.

Inside, the house was cool. Thanks to the tree-planting gig Duno had performed several years earlier.

                “Look, Duno.” Kenam wasn’t smiling anymore. And he was in a hurry to get it over with before cold feet set in and ruined everything. He had his speech ready. “I didn’t come here to dick around with you and besides I got to get back to the charity, they need me.”

                “The charity.” Duno cut in. He didn’t sound like he heard the ice in Kenam’s voice. “How’s the charity going?”

                “It’s good, Duno. Great, actually but…”

                “Go on, take your seat. I’ll fetch you a cool glass of water…”

Kenam could sense the claws of panic clogging his lungs up. If he indulged in this conversation any longer, he’d toss his chances. It was either now or never.

                “Did you try to kill yourself about six months ago?” he blurted it out with his eyes shut.

Duno was visibly shaken but maintained his calm and said nothing. He stood in the middle of his living room staring at his guest. Kenam could read a thing on his face. It was a blank.

Kenam broke the awkward silence. He was almost sorry he came. “I’m sorry I had to be blunt about it but I thought if I didn’t spit it when I did…”

                “Don’t worry.” Duno raised his palm. “I understand. Believe me, I do.”

Kenam reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and shoved it into Duno’s hand.

                “Here, read this.”

Duno did not pick the note out of Kenam’s hands. He only stood there staring at the note like it was an exquisite piece of artifact that suddenly popped out of thin air.

                “Ain’t you gonna read it? Are you just gonna stand there like a statue? I came because I want answers, Duno.”

                “I know what it says. I scribbled it.”

Kenam didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He sure as heck did not feel relieved. It wasn’t what Duno did say as what he didn’t say. Kenam never contemplated the answer would be such a bitter pill to swallow. Besides, a deeper part of him had been secretly wishing that his mentor–the man who wringed him off the neck of a bottle–would answer in the negative.

Kenam slumped into the couch with an audible plop. His strength drained out of him.

Duno observed Kenam’s perplexity with a twinge of amusement. “Come on, don’t take it out on yourself, Kenam. It was designed to be a harmless prank. Nobody was supposed to get hurt.

                “About six months ago, an old friend from my high school days was visiting and I remembered how we used to play practical jokes on each other back in school. So, I scribbled a suicide note and made it look as real as it could get. I even turned over some furniture you know, for maximum effect.”

Duno saw the question in Kenam’s eyes before the other man said a word.

                “I know you’d like to know if my game really panned out. The answer is no. Of course not, I should have known better. The son of a gun sniffed out my plan 100 miles away. I’d left the door open a crack. The fool let himself in, got the note and after he read it he bellowed, ‘You may all come out now. 911’s not coming. Your number is up.’” Duno brayed laughter. Kenam was too numbed by anxiety all he could do was sigh.

                “But look who eventually, got played. You know, I thought I lost that note where’d you find it, Kenam? In one of the stuff I donated to charity?”

                “It was tucked inside your old shoebox.”

                “In an old shoebox! Who would have thunk it? Miracles still happen, I guess?”

                “Yes, they do,” Kenam said, rising up off the couch. “If only you knew how much a little prank has opened a man’s eyes to see the error of his ways.

Eneh Akpan

June 10, 2013