One poke is all it takes....

The wall stared back at him, white and empty. He would've killed to see a picture on that wall. Anything he would've preferred to sitting there on a cold table with nothing to serve as a buffer between his legs and the steel but a thin pillow and sanitary paper. Ugh, sanitary, it made it sound as if he had the disease already. Oh no, he couldn't be that fortunate. They told him the shot beat the alternative. Pfft, how did they know? Did they ever catch it? Greg seriously doubted it.

They, the nurse and the doctor, crowded around him as if had the words "wild animal in need of cornering" on his back. He thought one person might've sufficed. One stepped beside him, and Greg found his view of the wall blocked by a lab coat. Suddenly he missed the comfort of the wall, at least that didn't make him feel awkward.

"Ready, Gregory?" The doctor asked with a seemingly mocking voice.

Greg sighed. Would he ever feel ready? The last time...his arm hurt for a week, a week. That's a week of missed guitar practice, missed drinking blended coffee drinks while reading the paper, oh, and texting on his phone with one hand and doing his homework with the other. Not to mention how tired he'd feel after...

"Poke." The nurse and the doctor chimed together.

He stared at the wall...er, lab coat, bracing himself for the inevitable. His eyes squinted shut, his fingers clenched the edge of the table....wait...what happened to the needle? Greg glanced to the side, watching as the nurse put the needle away.

"Aren't you going to poke me?"

The nurse blinked. "You didn't feel it?"

Salem

Salem, Salem

Open by day,

Locked up by night

Fine place to play

No place to work

Unless I want to

Shovel french fries

Or turn forty-five.

Salem,

A place for friends,

But only if you

Know them already.

It's also a great place

To build work experience,

But only if we have it already.

Keyword Drabble: Sentient Calculator

It wasn't fair. Today just happened to be the perfect day for a test. He glanced down at the paper in frustration, watching the letters numbers and symbols blurring into a pleasant, therefore annoying shade of gray. His eyes drifted over to his neighbor, his hands crinkling the freshly printed test sheet. That girl had a calculator so technologically advanced it was practically sentient! 

He had a calculator. In fact, the calculator was almost as good as the artificially intelligent one sitting right next to him. Unfortunately for him, and his grade, said calculator happened to be left somewhere...possibly dropped by the snowman he had passed in a hurry on his way to class today.

Drumming his fingers, he tried to not think about stealing that calculator and smashing it in loving memory of his device missing in action. He attempted to distract  himself from the reek of freshly devoured pickles, and the urge to reach for said device of grade saving doom. It seemed to pull at his hand like a magnet. Sweat dripping down his brow, he watched his hand tremble toward the desk, just inches away from his own.

And then lightning struck, throwing out the power, abruptly ending the test. His hand traveled innocently back to the desk, pushing his paper further up the desk.

Through Rose Stained Glass, Prolouge Part I

Sirens squealed and howled, but they seemed more faint. Even their bright red and blue lights appeared muted, nearly grey that afternoon. It didn't feel that late in the day either. Everything felt cold to the touch, except the body. Once touched, the skin felt luke-warm, and squishy like a water balloon. Above all else, the sticky blood overloaded her senses. Scarlet, appearing red, then brown, filling her nose with the rank smell of human flesh, leaving a metallic taste on her tongue. The of gun powder made itself known, but failed to take over the smell of mortal blood.

Then they were alone. She vaguely remembered her hands feeling cold and heavy. They slid over a smooth metallic surface, not caring to recognize what they touched. Her eyes stared ahead at the body, the carcass, the dead. Moments dragged on, and the wounded failed to rise....as did their chests. Nothing felt real anymore. Soon she'd wake up, soon. Her hand tried to reach her other arm to pinch it, killing the dream, but it wouldn't leave the weapon it held. It wouldn't let go.

Hands grabbed her shoulders, pulling her back and away from the scene, and pulling the cold steel from her hands. A smile crept along her lips as her hands felt lighter, but only for a moment. The same hands that pulled her back and held her captive, clamped on cold, stiff rings. She blinked, feeling the reality of handcuffs. She would wake up soon.

"You have the right to remain silent."

She had to wake up.

Forgiving and Forgetting

I would forgive you,

If only I could forget you.

Perhaps,

I could forget you

Once I forgave you.

But every sound

Shape

Shade

Sight seems to

Remind me of that day,

And the days following,

Sinking into sticky black,

And staying glued there

In spite of the shining

Light of letting go.

It does you no harm,

But it does me no good.

In fact, I think it harms me more

Than it ever did you

IF I

COuld only let it go. Let you go on with

YouR life,

Your Goals, and then,

Possibly I

Could  moVe on too, on

With  my  lifE

Fork in the road

She stood motionless, save for the scant movement of her diaphragm, ebbing and flowing with her soft but steady breathing. Her eyes stared ahead, into the distance as if to tear apart the horizon with her gaze. The breeze caught the ends of her hair, tossing them like the hands of a stylist. It felt warm,  comfortable, and tempting, luring her into lying down and basking in the known world.

But part of her ached, making her breath sharp and shaky, leaving her eyes closed. In spite of the warm day, she shivered. In the expanse of the fields of wheat around the road, she felt caged. The wind no longer felt warm and comforting, but suffocatingly hot. She wanted, she needed to leave, but where would she go? A road sandwiched her in the front and at the back. It stretched far back before her yawning in her past and stretching endlessly into a possible future. To her left forked a smaller path, twisting its way at an angle. Slowly meandering its way through the yellow, it vanished in green, and faded into the blue mountain.

She swallowed, her throat ragged from swallowing tears. Her mouth hanged open, matching the stretching of her eyes. They poured over every surface in the distance, analyzing them and filing them away for furture scrutiny. The yearning seemed to only grow stronger, like the water escaping through the crack in the dam. Her eyes fell closed again as she tried to steady her lungs and calm her pulse. Dragging her head back, she looked at the long, straight road. For a moment she almost glanced back to where she had come, but stopped.

Looking down at the pale gravel beneath her shoes, she let a smile slip across her lips. Now she knew. She took one step, and then another, leaving the footprints engraved in the spot she pondered on.

Hello, and Welcome.

You've made it to the Forty-Fifth Paradox, and now you sit reading at the halfway point between truth and fiction. Enjoy your time here, I know I will. Lean back as far as you dare on your chair, prop up your feet, and relax as sensory images and various feelings wash over your person. I, your host, am a creative writing major which found a place to polish my writing, and to let my imagination pour out in all directions for your reading pleasure.

Here at the Forty-Fifth Paradox, we have a different system, but a simple one.. A few posts will be chapters, or portions of chapters of a novel idea I've been tossing around. It involves a cold case, a confessed killer (or an unconfessed liar?), a prison ministry participant, faith, skepticism, and of course, teenagers. ;P . Other posts will be drabbles (200 words or less), one shots (300+ words) and poetry. You, the reader and guest, play a key role in the upkeep of the Forty-Fifth Paradox.

• Your favorite post thus far: a comment saying why

But wait! Sit by the fire a bit longer, and I'll let you know of another way your input makes a difference. Leave a comment with a keyword you want the next post (drabble, one shot, or poem) the first five will be bolded in the next post. By the flip of a coin, I'll choose between poetry and prose, and then between one shot and  drabble. (In some circumstances, drabble will be more likely, due to time constraints.)

Alas, your hostess must end yet another day, and head to the back for some well deserved rest. Feel free to linger by the fire, but please put out the flames if they threaten to burn down this lovely paradox. The fire's bite is always worse than its bark.