The Palace of Forgotten Arts: Story No. 6

The conductor's momentary lapse of attention passed under the radar of every last player in the orchestral group. This little-known fact would have shocked the impeccable sensibilities of one audience member, who liked to think of himself as the lowest paid but highest valued member of the nationally acclaimed music review editorial staff at Nashville's illustrious Daily Courier.

However, that tiny breath of indecision lead way to the revolutionary shiver that ran down the make-shift aisle of the Havana PakBel Blues Cubby Room. A touch of magic seeped from the conductor's pen, which waved wand-like through the air and momentarily vanished. A blank stare came over bespectacled eyes that had been darting from sheets of staff to soprano sax, from trumpeting phone to crunching time clock, from creshendoing closing of doors to bass line accounting. Before the weight of the gold-plated pen clicked back into view, it had whispered its spurious hint that misled each contract artist headlong into a floating chaos. Swimming in the abyss of mindless meter, they forgot their inculcated drive. Forsaking the path to uprighteous citizenship, they gave way to a little toe-hold of free association among qwerty keys and headset snap and gave utter artistic license to a collective id.

To the instruments of their daily demise, this liberation went all but unnoticed.

Casual Friday: Story No. 5

I had been with the company for several years before realizing that the boss had a lazy eye. How could this happen? After all it had been literally staring me in the face for all that time, or at least one of the eyes had and one of the eyes hadn't. And yet I remained oblivious.

This oversight on my part would come back to haunt me in the specter of puns lacking both intention and taste.

Paddy used to say that the misdirection of my deeds were the worst part. I had the heart, the pluck, the follow-through, but the direction? Paddy would just scratch at a spot on her head, invisible for all her orange fluffy coif, and she would say, "Betty, you're a piece of work--and an oddball one at that!"

Fantastical Interlude: Story No. 4

A giant tentacle of foliage burst through the wall in an explosion of white plaster and pink insulation. Beige paint chips rained down upon the startled humans who staggered back in crouched defense. A massive trunk the size of a small tree curled up toward the ceiling of the opposite wall. The tip of the vine quivered and dodged as it explored the retaining space, looking for the Achilles' heal that would allow it to continue its path of architectural destruction. Even the offshooting leaves were sentient, twitching, alert. It appeared to the humans who caught tentative glimpses over the tops of their file folder shields, that they were being investigated by a giant serpentine office plant with squiggly leaves for scales.

Dead Man Walking: Story No. 3

My boss rounded the corner with his usual air of piercing self-satisfaction. I quickly slipped my hands out of my pockets so that they could assume the swing of the strident. Out of sheer instinct, my mind instantly cleared, my guts steeled, my breath quickened in preparation for the coming face off.

The hall wasn't big enough for the both of us. It would have to be him or me, and it wasn't going to be me.

Halltalks: Story No. 2

I slipped into the hallway for the eighth time in what had threatened to become an interminable 3 hours, wondering whether I'd make it to lunch without imploding in a puff of polyester and sawdust. With a sidelong glance at the "overhead light sensors" (aka "slave monitors") hanging derisively at regular intervals down the length of the hallway's popcorn ceiling, I felt behind me to make sure my shirt was well-tucked and no belt slippage would provide fair grounds for ritual ostracization and commensurate dismissal.

A person in my position, can never be too careful. Even the likes of Janet Jackson, mistress of pop, diva of dance, are susceptible to the disastrous effects of wardrobe malfunction. What's a stealth-mode operative like me to do when faced with the choice between the safety of the mission and the aggravation of relentless re-tucking?

I grabbed my collar by the sides, smoothed it along and gave it a tug for good measure.

Fabula Rasa: Story No.1

It was a dark and rainy day. My beige-walled cubicle was clammy with recycled air pumping in from the ventilation duct overhead. Despite torrents of rain falling on the other side of the window pane, ever-increasing humidity emitting from the air conditioning unit, and no less than three beverage varieties sitting on my desk in anticipatory hydration, my mouth was drier than the most pretentious of martinis. Bone dry.

I kept slorking water from the soggy waxed paper cup left over from this morning's dash through the gas station near the freeway exit for a breakfast of sugar and caffeinated concessions. No amount of liquid would satiate my thirst.

If swishing a half-shot of vermouth around, dentist's office style, and spitting it out into my tiny office-issue trash can without smelling like happy hour had been a viable option, I would have done it. Between the Superantioxidance Vitanutritorganic Smoothie, the Big Gulp filled with water, and the lukewarm coffee leftover from the morning, all I was getting was an aggressively energetic need to walk down the hall to the restrooms every hour, parched no less.

A Story A Day

New year, old fear: I will continue tripping down a path of mediocrity, never contributing significantly to the beauty of the universe and therefore failing to justify the continued energy expenditure on behalf of the conglomeration of atoms in which I reside.

In November 2007, I attempted my first nanowrimo novel: Marshmallow Macabre. I got through about 8,000 words in 30 days. Though a far cry from the 50,000 required to win, that's the longest story I've ever written. I self-deprecate. Yes, but I realize that building the kind of stamina I want will take practice. And so, on recommendation from a friend who knows best, I'm embarking on "A Story A Day" starting tomorrow.

The Rules
(as they currently stand)

1. Every day, I must write one story.
2. The story must be posted/linked in this blog.
   
3. There are no length/genre requirements.
4. Stories may be contiguous to stories from previous days.
   
5. There are no acceptable excuses for not writing a story.
6. No end date has been established at this point.
7. Some, but not all, of these rules are subject to change.

Unlike my approach to nanowrimo-ing, I see this primarily as an exercise in time management and discipline, as much as the actual storytelling. That said, I'm now 15 minutes past bedtime and too full of internet gobbledy-gook to continue any further examination of this endeavor. So, if you happen to find yourself tuned, please do stay that way for tomorrow's daring, outlandish, scathingly accurate, and even presumptuously precipitous: "Story No. 1!"