Post by grifter on Apr 20, 2006 23:31:06 GMT -6
i have never written a short story before, i have wanted to for a while and finally started, let me know if this is worth working on, or if i should drop it from my mental to do list
Overtime
Randal had been awake for thirty-two hours. He felt the long hot pull of sleep at the back of his head. He checked the compass-clock stuck to the dash. 11:11pm vibrated in florescent green stinging his eyes. The tow truck stopped caring about time years ago. Its factory clock was only random hashes of light blue. They seemed to spell “hello” in an alien language. Just like the writing on the sides of UFOs from those late night shows on the history channel. Randal laughed sleeplessly to the empty cab fogging up the windshield, and the hot pull became a warm tug. He lit a cigarette, thought about the overtime, and down shifted.
“Excuse me, troll-billy. Do you work here, or did you crawl in here to sleep it off?” Randal sat up unaware that he had been asleep on the floor. He blinked big twice seeing nothing. His hand moved instinctively to his coat which recently had been his pillow. He found his pack of smokes liberated one and sentenced it to burn. “That’s right not a very nice person, you have a customer.” Randal was use to verbal abuse, a lot of the shop's money came from towing illegally parked cars. “Seventy dollars” he choked, with the calloused heels of his hands against his eyes. “Seventy dollars! Listen Jethro or Billy-Bob…” Randal stood up behind the counter and got aggressive “No lady you listen to me. If your car was parked illegally, and now it’s in our lot, then you are going to give me seventy…dollars. The last word was a whisper. Maybe it was the adrenaline or the surge of nicotine, but Randal suddenly remember the BMW he was bringing in last night.
The first thing Randal noticed in the parking lot was the morning sun. It burned out the image of the blond he left wide eyed. She had gotten quiet when all six foot four of him leaped the counter. He stayed in the shadow of the garage till the BMW came into focus. It was two feet from a Cadillac and his tow truck was blocking them both. The last thing Randal remembered was something about the history channel. He smiled an I’m so glad I didn’t fuck-up a fifty thousand dollar car smile. He tried to stretch away the stiffness of three hours on the floor and went back inside. “I’m sorry sir” the blonde said. “I’ve been walking for at least ten miles, and you’re the first person I’ve seen. My car broke down. My boyfriend is trying to fix it, but he doesn’t know anything about cars. He thinks it’s the battery.” Randal ground out the day’s first smoke and started on the second. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’m use to being yelled at, just not first thing in the morning. I’ll drive you back to your car, and we’ll see what we can do.”
They climbed into the cab without a word. One was tired, and frustrated, the other semiconscious. Randal turned the key, and…nothing. He tried a couple more times not expecting a different result. “That’s exactly what happened with my car,” the blonde said in a detached monotone. When she spoke Randal realized she was pointing at the dash. “This truck does this all the time,” he said, in his best don’t worry voice, but it sounded more like a question as he realized she was pointing at the compass-clock. The digital clock display was blank. The black ball of the compass suspended in a clear sphere was swiftly spinning counter-clockwise. As Randal reached for the compass the blonde stopped pointing, as if something terrible was going to happen to him that she wanted no part of. It popped loose in his hand with less effort than he expected. He brought it close to his eyes. The N that normally pointed north was now a green blur on the whirling black ball. “What did you say your name was?” Randal asked. “I didn’t say, it's Cynthia, Cynthia Hall.” she replied. “Randal Wilson,” he said, their eyes never leaving the compass.
Overtime
Randal had been awake for thirty-two hours. He felt the long hot pull of sleep at the back of his head. He checked the compass-clock stuck to the dash. 11:11pm vibrated in florescent green stinging his eyes. The tow truck stopped caring about time years ago. Its factory clock was only random hashes of light blue. They seemed to spell “hello” in an alien language. Just like the writing on the sides of UFOs from those late night shows on the history channel. Randal laughed sleeplessly to the empty cab fogging up the windshield, and the hot pull became a warm tug. He lit a cigarette, thought about the overtime, and down shifted.
“Excuse me, troll-billy. Do you work here, or did you crawl in here to sleep it off?” Randal sat up unaware that he had been asleep on the floor. He blinked big twice seeing nothing. His hand moved instinctively to his coat which recently had been his pillow. He found his pack of smokes liberated one and sentenced it to burn. “That’s right not a very nice person, you have a customer.” Randal was use to verbal abuse, a lot of the shop's money came from towing illegally parked cars. “Seventy dollars” he choked, with the calloused heels of his hands against his eyes. “Seventy dollars! Listen Jethro or Billy-Bob…” Randal stood up behind the counter and got aggressive “No lady you listen to me. If your car was parked illegally, and now it’s in our lot, then you are going to give me seventy…dollars. The last word was a whisper. Maybe it was the adrenaline or the surge of nicotine, but Randal suddenly remember the BMW he was bringing in last night.
The first thing Randal noticed in the parking lot was the morning sun. It burned out the image of the blond he left wide eyed. She had gotten quiet when all six foot four of him leaped the counter. He stayed in the shadow of the garage till the BMW came into focus. It was two feet from a Cadillac and his tow truck was blocking them both. The last thing Randal remembered was something about the history channel. He smiled an I’m so glad I didn’t fuck-up a fifty thousand dollar car smile. He tried to stretch away the stiffness of three hours on the floor and went back inside. “I’m sorry sir” the blonde said. “I’ve been walking for at least ten miles, and you’re the first person I’ve seen. My car broke down. My boyfriend is trying to fix it, but he doesn’t know anything about cars. He thinks it’s the battery.” Randal ground out the day’s first smoke and started on the second. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’m use to being yelled at, just not first thing in the morning. I’ll drive you back to your car, and we’ll see what we can do.”
They climbed into the cab without a word. One was tired, and frustrated, the other semiconscious. Randal turned the key, and…nothing. He tried a couple more times not expecting a different result. “That’s exactly what happened with my car,” the blonde said in a detached monotone. When she spoke Randal realized she was pointing at the dash. “This truck does this all the time,” he said, in his best don’t worry voice, but it sounded more like a question as he realized she was pointing at the compass-clock. The digital clock display was blank. The black ball of the compass suspended in a clear sphere was swiftly spinning counter-clockwise. As Randal reached for the compass the blonde stopped pointing, as if something terrible was going to happen to him that she wanted no part of. It popped loose in his hand with less effort than he expected. He brought it close to his eyes. The N that normally pointed north was now a green blur on the whirling black ball. “What did you say your name was?” Randal asked. “I didn’t say, it's Cynthia, Cynthia Hall.” she replied. “Randal Wilson,” he said, their eyes never leaving the compass.
