Sunday, October 6, 2013

Short Story Sunday Time....

Today, instead of a one of my usual posts I decided to change gears and try something a little different.  I thought some of you might like to see a sample of some of my other writings that are not related to the Para-Earth Series.  So here's a piece I did for my creative writing class a couple of semesters ago.  The premise was to write a scene where something unexpected happens.  Well, I went beyond that and created an entire short story.  I hope you enjoy it.

BAD HAIR DAY

By

Allan Krummenacker

          Jane couldn’t believe it, the call had come.  They had wanted to see her the next day.  She had spent the previous evening going through her clothing for just the right look.  Glancing over at the corner of her bedroom, she could still see the pile of rejects she’d tossed aside during her quest.  They seemed to glare at her with resentment for being treated so poorly.  She promised to give them all a good washing and to put them away nicely when she got back.  Right now, she had to get ready.
            Quickly she moved over to the sink in the bathroom to fix her make-up.  Everything had to be just right or she’d be sunk.  Everything was lined up just as she had left it the night before.  Lipstick, eye-liner, blush… all of it was just waiting there for her.  Then she looked up and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and cried out in horror.  Clutching her chest she backed up into the wall, eyes wide, mouth gaping… BED-HAIR!  But not just ordinary bed-hair, no this was possibly the worst case on record. 
            “Why, why today of all days?” she wailed and sank to the floor.  The interview was in an hour.  What was she going to do?   Pulling herself together she grabbed a brush and went at the tangled mess with a vengeance. 
            No good.  Instead of taming the wild look, her frantic efforts had only made things worse.  She looked like a poodle who’d tried pissing on a power transformer.  Dropping the brush she made a dash back to the bedroom in search of a hat.  That might at least help calm things down.  She searched high and low but only found a baseball cap.  That wouldn’t do… or would it?  No, with her luck, the interviewer was probably a fan of a rival team.  No she’d have to think of something else. 
            Maybe she could shave her head and say she’d been going through treatments?  No that would be disrespectful of people like her sister-in-law in Tennessee.  Not that she ever cared for the woman, but still.  
What am I going to do?” she moaned and sank down on the bed.
            She could see it all now.  As soon as she walked in the receptionist would take one look at her and hide behind the desk.  One of the other candidates would smirk and ask her long it took her to get her finger out of the electric socket.  
            Or even worse, they might take one look at her and ask security to remove the homeless bag-lady that had wandered in.
            Oh what was she going to do?
            Just then there was a knock at the front door.  Groaning she started heading towards it while the pit of despair grew larger and larger in her mind.  Then suddenly she stopped.  What if it was someone who could help her?  Maybe it was one of her friends?  A fairy-godmother, come to render aid in her hour of need.  Hour… she looked up at the clock, only 45 minutes until the interview.
            Panicking she raced to the door and found a man in a UPS uniform standing on her stoop.  He had a pleasant face and was holding a package, along with a clipboard and pen.  “Unnnghhh….” was all she managed to say as he greeted her warmly. 
            “Oooo… that’s some hairstyle you have there, Miss,” he chuckled.  “I haven’t seen a case of bed-hair that bad since my days in cosmetology school.”
            Jane perked up. “You did hair?”
            “Well yeah but…”
            Grabbing him by the hand Jane hauled him inside and closed the door and locked it.  Leading him to the bathroom she babbled an incoherent explanation of what was at stake and how she needed his help.  Then she handed him the scissors and comb and told him to get to work.  If he was fast enough, she’d still have time to make the appointment.
            The man tried talking but she told him they could talk after he was done.  There was an edge to her voice that she hoped would block any further protests.  It worked. 
            With a resigned shrug, the fellow went to work.  Ten minutes later he stepped back and let her take a good look in the mirror.  Jane screamed.  The sides were uneven, her bangs were lopsided, it was worse than before.  She hadn’t thought such a thing was possible.  “I thought you said you went to Cosmotology School!” she cried.
            “I did,” the man explained backing up.  “But I sucked at it, that’s why I wound up getting a job with UPS.”
            The wail of frustration Jane uttered took them both by surprise.  She never knew she could hit such a high note with her voice. 
          As the for the failed-hairdresser, the he stumbled backwards into her bedroom and wound up tripping over the pile of discarded clothes.
            Jane watched in horror as the world slowed down and the poor guy fell backwards and cracked the back of his head against the corner of the nightstand and then the floor.  He did not get back up.  Nor did he move.
            Eyes wide Jane started to let out an unholy, “OH MY GO…”
            “THAT’S GOOD, WE’VE SEEN ENOUGH!” a voice from out of nowhere announced.
          Turning toward the front of the stage, Jane stared out at the darkness where the director, the producer and the playwright were sitting.  “Could I do that last part again?” she asked, “I don’t think I really captured the mood when Tony went down.”
            The director waved a reassuring hand, “Don’t worry.  You were great.   In fact you’re exactly the person we’re looking for.  You’ve got the part.  Why don’t you gather your things and we’ll see you back here tomorrow at 2 o’clock.”
             Delighted with this turn of events, Jane squealed with glee and rushed off the stage. 
         Once she was gone the trio slowly made their way onto the stage and glanced down at the still unmoving figure in the postal carrier outfit.  “It worked,” said the producer.
            “I can’t believe it,” said the director.

           Only the playwright smiled, “Well, you won’t have to worry about your little blackmailer anymore.  It will be ruled as an accidental death.  See, I told you I know how to write killer scenes.”