Category: Speculative Fiction

This prompt is a lot darker than the ones we’ve been looking at recently. The job here is to use the setting to establish a mood. The object is to use the same setting, but in one make it from the point of view of a character who just got a new job; the second time do it from the POV of a character who is contemplating suicide. (For that reason, please do not read if you feel the subject matter would be unpleasant.)

“Adams Street”

The Adams Street bridge clanked loudly as the drawbridge machinery locked it closed, the guard rails bouncing a little as the housing rattled. Jenny watched the mechanic working in the wheelhouse, far above the street, and wished that she might go up and see the bridge controls. She looked up at the tall white building across the river from her, the black bulk of the Sears Tower rising like Everest behind it. The black windows were a nice contrast to the argent walls of her new building, her office housed somewhere on the twentieth floor. She looked back at the wheelhouse impatiently, wishing the mechanic would hurry up.

Finally the security guard raised the gate blocking pedestrian traffic and Jenny started across the bridge in the midst of the flow of people. She was surprised, it was two in the afternoon and still the sidewalk was packed. Some were obviously tourists, backpacks and cameras in hand. Others were just as obviously on their way, like she was, to their offices; suits and fancy shoes making them seem glamorous. The bridge had little wells of metal, making holes like honeycomb filled in with concrete. Her pumps slipped a little on the surface and she wondered how treacherous it would be in the rain. She came to the middle of the bridge and watched the join between the two halves bouncing slightly as the traffic crossed. A large delivery truck lumbered by and the space gapped an inch or two and she suppressed a shiver. No one else noticed, so she gritted her teeth and stepped over it, catching a glimpse of the greenish water far below.

The second watchtower on this side of the street was lit by a bare bulb, no fixture covering it. She could just make out the shock of blonde hair belonging to the mechanic and wondered suddenly if he’d let her in if she knocked. She slipped on a bit of metal and caught herself against the hand rail. None of her fellow pedestrians spared her a glance and she walked on, a little offended.

A homeless man begged for money on the corner, his crutch tucked securely under his arm. His odor sprang out at her like a barking dog and she sidestepped slightly, wary of pickpocketing. She moved around him to the short set of stairs and came up to the revolving doors. She took a deep breath to center herself and pushed through, entering her new life.

Jenny emerged from Union Station, the grey overcast sky low ad close enough to touch. She stepped out from the overhanging roof and moved forward to the round planter box, maybe ten feet in diameter, and sank down on its far side, facing the river. Her feet ached. She slipped out of her shoes and rested her heels on top of them, keeping them off the concrete but letting the toes breathe.

The Adams Street bridge went across the river to her left, leading cars and pedestrians into the heart of Chicago’s Loop. Tommy had loved the Loop, with its business and restaurants and the museums on the far side. He’d been a member to the Art Institute. She couldn’t see it from where she sat, but knew it was at the end of Adams Street just before Millennium Park. She could walk there from here in about fifteen minutes, walk right up the wide shallow steps between the bronze lions, all the way in to Callebaut’s masterpiece. It was Tommy’s favorite. ‘Rainy Day, Paris Street.’

She looked away from the bridge and its wrought iron decoration to the green water below it. She could only see a narrow strip from where she sat but didn’t feel like walking over to the railing to see the whole of it. Little more than a canal here, bounded on both sides by concrete walls and manipulated at the end by locks, Tommy had loved the river. He’d loved the stench, the engineering feat that turned its direction backwards and made Chicago the enemy of St. Louis downriver. The Chicago River had been his favorite, and he’d ended his life in sight of it.

No one had found the body right away. He’d climbed down the embankment over by the Merchandize Mart, hidden from view by a few thin bushes. She could walk there, too, in about the same time it would take to walk to the Art Institute. She turned her head but the buildings and cars blocked her view of the Mart just as the trees and shrubs must have blocked his, as he slit his wrists at their feet.

She cleared her throat and looked back at the Adams Street drawbridge. Rust decorated its underbelly and she could make out the massive housing for the wheels that let the two halves raise, so ships could pass by. She stared at them until her eyes misted over with the need to blink, or with tears.

Two ducks floated by the housing, hunting for food.

This prompt explores atmosphere. Horror stories do this very well (we all remember “a dark and stormy night,” right?); so the idea is to play with those images and see what we can come up with.

“The Silent Ones”

Susan looked up at the old Tudor, its windows black and looming over the entranceway. A short patio extended from the front door, its beveled glass pretty but empty like a staring eye. She glanced down at the EMF meter in her hand but it stayed silent.

She sighed and put her foot on the first step. The wood creaked loudly, startling her. She put her hand out to catch her balance and a large splinter slid into her palm like a knife into butter.

She worked at it with her teeth and tongue and finally sucked it out. It tasted bitter, like old paint or creosote. She spat it on the ground and watched blood well into her hand. She sucked a few more seconds, just to make sure it bled clean.

The moved toward the door and the floor beneath her feet bounced a little, like it was warped. She looked down and her stomach clenched. The planks were separated by an inch or so and blackness seemed to well up from between them like smoke. She shivered and blinked. The moment passed and the impression went away. She shook her head and went up to the door.

The key stuck in the lock, squeaking and she pushed it open. She looked at the EMF meter, but it was silent. She looked up and a shadow moved. She froze.

After a few more moments of staring, nothing seemed out of place. She felt sweat drip down her back between her shoulder blades, itching a little, and laughed at herself weekly. “Stop being such a ninny.”

A loud creak sounded from inside the entry hall and she gasped. She stared into the gloom, trying to let her eyes adjust to the dimness even though she wasn’t inside yet. “Hello? Is someone there?”

After several more minutes of waiting with nothing happening, she stepped all the way into the house. The back of her neck prickled and she brushed at it, but felt nothing. She turned to the door and swung it. It moved heavily and slammed shut, the hollow resultant boom echoing all the way up into the house. The minute it closed, darkness descended like a hand.

She fumbled her flashlight out of her pocket and flicked it on. The narrow beam swung around the entryway, a wide open space at the bottom of a stair that wound up and around the room for two storeys. She looked up to the cupola but couldn’t see anything except the faint black outline of a chandelier brooding just overhead. The shine of spider webs winked at her in the flashlight and she shivered.

She walked toward the kitchen at the back of the first floor, the map in her mind telling her the stairs to the basement were on the left, the formal dining room just beyond that and the sitting room on the right. As she came even with the basement stair she heard another creak, like a floorboard popping.

She turned and looked back, and caught out of the corner of her eye the golden chatoyance of an eye watching her from the dining room. She froze and the flashlight fell, shattering against the floor with a sharp pop. The EMF meter went off in a burst of lights and beeps and she started to run.

She never saw the stairs.

The basement door, far above her now, creaked as it closed. The lock clicked faintly and silence descended.

This prompt asks us to consider the same situation, but once from the perspective of a dying character, and then from the perspective of a birth. It was interesting what came out of the keyboard; this is one of those that seemed to write itself.

“Untitled”

Richard looked out at the street. The front window of the house was low and wide, not quite a bay window but the size of one. He could see all the way to the end of Kensington Court Road, down to where the street turned to the left and exited the group of houses that made up Kensington Court. They stood sad and run-down now, nothing like their splendor when they were built in the post-war boom. Back then, things were bright and optimistic. Not like now.

The oxygen tank next to his bed sighed softly, its faint hiss just audible over his labored breathing. Madge bustled in the kitchen, the desperate banging of pots and pans as she washed up from brunch clear to his ears. Their kids had escaped as soon as they could, almost before she’d served the coffee after breakfast.

He couldn’t blame them, not really. The stink of his sickness was sharp even in his own nose; what it must be like to them he had no idea. He nestled against the soft feather pillow, the bed springs creaking faintly. His son-in-law Michael had installed the bed in here, in the living room, the former magnificence of the room faded now. Madge hadn’t complained, though he knew that it must have pained her. She’d spent years getting the room just-so. Now…

He started to cough and couldn’t catch a breath. He tried to speak, to call Madge, but his voice wouldn’t cooperate. He stared outside, watching a car go buy slowly. It faded from few around the corner as his eyes slipped shut.

The oxygen tank continued its susurration, oblivious.

“Michael, I just can’t do this anymore!” Linda wailed. “He just looks so weak!”

Michael sighed. “I know, honey. You have to be strong. It means so much to him, and to your mom.”

Linda rubbed her stomach, the distention from little Victor junior lumpy under her palms. She felt him kick a little and grunted.

“Moving again?” Michael asked, smiling.

Linda started to answer and gasped. The pain took her by surprise. The nurse was right; this wasn’t anything like Braxton Hicks. “Michael…” she gasped.

He glanced over at her, eyes widening. “You’re kidding.”

She shook her head sharply, not getting breath to speak. She stared out the window at the old neighborhood, Mr. Phillip’s garden waving in the hot summer sunshine. She loved that garden. “Hurry,” she gasped.

Michael turned back to the road and accelerated.

Immediately after that, he hit the brakes and she cried out, the seatbelt cutting against her right breast and pressing painfully against Victor. He didn’t like it and kicked.

Little Johnnie Phillips, the grandson of old Mr. Phillips, waved cheerfully and ran across the road after his ball. Michael glanced at her and accelerated again. “Just hang in there, baby.”

“Baby is right,” she grated. “Oooh…”

Michael turned left at the end of the drive and they moved toward the entrance to Kensington Court. The light changed and he pulled into traffic, heading for Lutheran General. “Hurry, honey,” she gasped.

“But your water hasn’t broken!” he protested.

“You want it to happen in the car?”

His eyes were wide as he turned to stare at her and then turned back to the street, his jaw set. “I hope there’s no traffic.”

“Just wait a minute, Victor,” Linda whispered. “Just a minute, okay baby?”

Kensington Court receded on their left, the splendid old houses resting in the summer heat. Linda wiped the sweat from her lip, hoping she didn’t make a mess in the car. Victor kicked again, impatient.