My feet were a thud—thud—thud on the pavement like the beating of a heart. The music began as I ran down my street and towards the quiet roads that were my usual route.
I like things a certain way. From the music I listened to—to the exact cadence of my feet on the road, it’s always a pattern—always. The first song took me by surprise, and I yanked out my MP3 player to check the name. There was no way “I just died in your arms tonight” was supposed to be on there. Did I even have that song? I live my life a certain way, though, and I don’t skip songs, and I don’t change my route.
The shadows as I left the neighborhood behind were longer than normal. It was a quiet night, and still my feet thudded on the ground in sync with my heart. I tried to shake the eerie feeling that someone was watching me. It was the darkness, and maybe I was too tired to be on a run.
“My Little Runaway” came on, and I yanked my MP3 player out again. I definitely don’t have that song. The previous song might have snuck on with an eighties compilation, but no—I didn’t have that song. Behind me, a pair of headlights illuminated the street, but when I turned—nothing. There was no car.
“Freaky,” I whispered to myself.
“I Will Survive” by Cake started up—and while I have that song, it wasn’t supposed to be on here. I have a routine—a set routine. Besides, the scrolling letters said, “I will NOT survive.” It would have been funny—except that it wasn’t. I was skirting the forest and a strange breeze fluttered through the trees and chilled my arms which already were covered in goose bumps. Nearby, a dog howled just as “Thriller” began.
“What is going on?” I asked my MP3 player and then felt stupid. It was like an homage to strangely-titled songs for running in the dark, but it was a weird fluke. Once again, headlights swung past, but there was no car behind me. There was a dog, and it was getting closer.
I didn’t change my route, but I did pick up the pace. The thump of my feet still matched the beat of my heart. I ran faster. I hit the hill I despised going twice my usual speed. The dog was coming, and it was big.
My MP3 player started to play “Helter Skelter.” There was the sudden spot of light from headlights that I knew weren’t behind me. A spot of uneven ground made me stumble, and I caught a glimpse of something large pursuing me as I twisted before recovering. I ran faster. My throat felt torn and painful. I was back in the neighborhood and the headlights swung around again. I couldn’t look. Whatever was behind me was coming faster.
My heart was pounding. My feet were pounding. Faster. I had to go faster. Hitting the end of my street just as “Silent Night” came on, I yanked the ear buds out of my ears.
A quiet rain fell around me, but that was the only sound. I turned to look behind me. Nothing. Nothing was there. I held one of the headphones up to my ears—nothing—my MP3 player was dark as if turned off. My breath was the only sound in the silence. Nothing. It was a quiet run, and nothing had gone wrong, had it?
Weeks of obsessive tending and gentle turning ensured a blue ribbon for his biggest pumpkin next weekend. His chest puffed with impending pride as he fantasized about the envious stares of the other town folk, especially that pretty, stuck-up woman next door, who always looked through him, not at him.
The cold wind started again and he shivered, watching the sky darken too quickly. As bright, painted leaves rained on his crop, he instinctively turned his head toward an infant's cry. At the top of the hill, under the old Maple, his stuck-up neighbor was shielding a bundle from the wind, fumbling with her blouse...
Here is my story:
The Pumpkins are Wrathful
Joad stroked the pumpkin that was his pride and joy. He crouched, gazing across his field of fine crops that migrant workers had tended during the long hours under the baking sun. He was obsessed… driven, but it would all be worth it to see his pumpkin… HIS pumpkin… take first prize. His neighbor, Ms. Rose… once Mrs. Rose, would be impressed. She’d regret her snide remarks. What would she do when he won? Her husband was dead. She needed a protector. He could be that man.
As the sun was setting, a second sun slid high above the hills casting a green hue across the land. He ignored it. That was to be expected. She’d never given in without a fight. It was part of what he liked about her. Her fiery temper was hot and slick, and he had no doubt more would be coming.
A cold wind started. It blew painted leaves across the ground. They were purple. He ignored them too. Perhaps, he should have gone with a vineyard. No… too obvious. Besides, he liked the metaphor of the pumpkin and size. Hopefully, she would go along with that.
An infant’s cry pulled his gaze to the maple that separated their properties. Mrs. Rose… no… Ms. Rose was there fumbling with her blouse as she held a bundle against her chest. Would she do it? Some part of him was… well… disappointed that she’d given in so easily.
Then, the alien child burst from her chest snarling.
Joad sighed. Perhaps, he could ignore this too, and she’d get back into character momentarily.
The alien child scrambled up her chest and began choking her. Rose fell to the ground, writhing, and making gurgling noises.
“End Theater Simulation,” he called, standing up. Rubbing his face, Josh walked toward Ellie in the large green screen theater. His footsteps echoed against cyber mural screens on all sides which pulsed in anticipation. “Ellie… what the hell was that? We agreed it was my turn to pick the play this Friday. My turn.”
She stood up and smoothed her lycra suit down. “You went too far, Josh.” Gesturing down at herself, she said, “These breasts are not feeders. They’re perfect just as they are. Plus, don’t think I didn’t know where you were going with that. Rose? She was the chick at the end of Grapes of Wrath that ends up breastfeeding that old guy. I’m not playing out this sick fantasy of yours just so you can get your rocks off over Steinbeck.”
“I was King Arthur last Friday.”
“No… you were Lancelot,” she said, raising an elegantly sculpted eyebrow. “Lancelot gets the girl in the end, remember?” Ellie crossed her arms over the aforementioned breasts and smiled. Tossing her shoulder-length black hair, she took a few steps forward. Damn… but she looked good in lycra. Hot… very hot. She pressed her mouth against his briefly before stepping back. “Well, lover, it’s your choice. I’m telling you now, though, that this Joad fellow will not be getting Ms. Rose. I knew that from the moment my stage directions hung in front of me with that whole breastfeeding business.”
“It was a symbolic metaphor,” he said defensively.
Ellie grinned. “As was your pumpkin’s size. Yes… I know.” Coughing, she commented, “That pumpkin was exceptionally large, Josh.”
“Yeah… it was,” he admitted, grinning too. Then, he sighed and asked, “If I cut the breastfeeding business?”
She shrugged, wrapped her arms around his neck, and rubbed her body against his. This was why she won all their arguments. Her date plays typically were much more exuberant than his. He liked that vitality about her.
“You’re not really going to make us go to a State Fair, are you?” she asked, wrinkling her nose. “I seem to remember your pigs and horses actually have a very realistic odor. I don’t know how or why you do it.”
“It’s the experience…. It’s supposed to be like real life,” he complained. He prided himself on that aspect of his simulated play. It should be realistic. Sound effects were always slightly over-blown, but that seemed acceptable in his mind.
“Josh…,” she whined.
He relented as he always did. “Okay… no Fair. I want to keep the pumpkin, though.”
“If you need that as a… prop.” Ellie rolled her blue eyes and smoothed the lycra down her body again. She looked so great in green. Glancing up, she caught him admiring her, and a sly smile slid across her face. “Okay… no breastfeeding and give me a name that doesn’t make me feel downtrodden.”
“No one would dare trod you down.” Josh smiled and rubbed a hand through his light hair as he rethought the play. He wanted a classic. Moby Dick maybe? He thought of her comments on the pumpkin. Maybe not. He put his hand to the earpiece and pressed the ‘record’ button. The field spun around them as before, though it was drier and a faint smell of smoke hung in the air.
She was dressed in a lacy, scarlet gown that she looked over fastidiously.
He was dressed in a riding uniform, and an enormous black horse grazed nearby. In back of them, a beautiful white plantation house scrubbed the sky. In deference to his girlfriend, he made the horse unscented. Hopefully, she appreciated this as it was definitely a compromise on his theatrical principles.
“Ahh… I see our metaphorical pumpkin made the jump,” she said, looking down at the giant pumpkin.
He shrugged.
She tapped one of her pale fingers against her red lips. If she saw more of the actual sun, she might not be so pale. She was beautiful, regardless. He saw the moment the script he’d built in his mind hung in the air between them. Scrolling her eyes through the words that only she could see, Ellie tilted her head, considering.
Hopefully, she approved, but frankly… he didn’t give a damn.
"Most problematic was the writer’s dependence on stock moves. Characters, both male and female, sighed at least thirty-five times, often twice on a page. Female characters bit their lips on twenty-four separate occasions (unless I missed an errant bite somewhere). In one scene, a character bit her lip, and two lines down, she bit it “resolutely.” How’s that for determination? The writer, apparently distrustful of the reader’s intelligence or imagination, micromanages every action and every line of dialogue, which is not only tiresome, but weakens the effect.
I was stumped by certain lines: 'She plundered on'; 'His words cloyed to her'; 'His stomach was a washing machine cycle on high.'
I appreciate what Ms. Ryder was aiming for but she misses the mark. If she would jettison the overwrought prose and master the fundamentals of construction, she might deliver a novel that would serve her talent better than this one. I know she has it in her, but this ain't it."
"Not helping was the fact that the prose was less than riveting. I'm sorry to be such a bean counter, but I tallied thirty sighs, seventeen lines "growled" or "grunted,”twenty-two lines “muttered," and thirty-one speeches employing "er" and "um." This is lazy writing, folks. By the time I found myself listing the eighty-two-plus adverbs thrown in, I realized that when it came to the comic-fantasy choo-choo, my car had been uncoupled and left behind on the track."
