Warmup: 180 [2]

Here is the other warmup that I promised last week!
It's still Wednesday over here.

---

Abel stared into the mirror as he pushed his tie up to the collar of his shirt, stared hard at the tiny curves on his mouth. It looked oddly like a smile, and Abel could not bring himself to push the corners back down.

He turned and glanced at the bundle of covers that slowly rose and fell, and he thought to himself, "Why am I realizing this just now?"

He picked up his pre-prepared briefcase and walked out the door, locking the house from intruders immediately after. He slid the key into the ignition and fired up the engine, backing up from his long driveway.

The sun shone brightly in the sky, and today Abel didn't squint or look away. He drove on, silent, admiring the way the sun's rays reflected off the car's hood, the roads, and buildings. No one on the roads obnoxiously sneaked past stop signs and red lights as Abel swore they did every other day. Actually, now that he thought about it, today was stranger than all other days. Different.

Abel reached the tallest, highest bank in the city, one that nearly dominated all the other small banks. Cars sat in all of the parking spaces in front of the building. Abel shrugged mentally and drove around to the back. He parked and pulled his briefcase out with him, locking the car as swerved around to the front to enter.

The receptionist smiled at Abel as he approached. "All of the spots in the front were occupied, sadly."

"I don't mind," Abel said.

The women stared at him, blinking as if she just watched a parent smacking their child's cheek harshly. "You don't?" she asked disbelievingly.

"Stuff happens, it's all right."

He left the receptionist in her stupor and walked along halls and stood in an uncrowded elevator. Once the dig indicated his floor, he stepped out and walked down a hall until he entered his own shiny office, seeing "ABEL WILTSHIRE" on the door.

Again, why was he just realizing this now?

He slid into his chair and set his briefcase on his desk, opening it and pulling out papers in neat stacks, bound by large clips. Today, instead of being a train wreck, work would be a peaceful meditation full of mathematics and people being screwed over by money and someone offering helpful advice.

Today, Abel was a good guy.

"I'm home," Abel said as he entered his house, glancing back at the door that was left unlocked. He walked into the living room, shoes deposited at the door, and saw Mark sitting on the couch with the television glowing with a music video. Mark's eyes blinked at the phone in his hand, his fingers tapping swiftly. When Abel sat on the couch, Mark quickly hit the "send" button and laid his phone next to him, eyes resting on Abel.

"Oh, hi. I guess work was pretty good today, huh?"

"Any reason you guess so?" Abel said with a smile.

"You're in a good mood. Usually if it's a bad day, you pout or something."

Abel chucked, causing Mark to flinch. "Not at all, it's quite the opposite! I'm sure I helped some people from financial debt for six years. That is definitely something to be happy about."

"Wow, okay," Mark said, leaning into Abel with a second glance. "Nothing bad at all?"

"Not at all."

"I'm glad that you are glad," Mark sighed happily, watching the random commercial on the television. "I like these days."

Abel ruffled Mark's shaggy hair and nuzzled him. "So what would you want for dinner?"

Mark shrugged.

"I can make whatever you want. Or buy to your wishes. Or we could go out? Or perhaps you would rather wait for later or hang out with friends, that would be okay with me."

Mark turned to face Abel. "If I skipped out on a dinner with you for friends, you would be okay with that?!"

"That's what I said, wasn't it?"

Mark slowly turned back to the television and shrugged. "I just didn't think you would be, I dunno, okay with missing a plan."

"Trust me, I'd be okay." He nuzzled Mark once more and he felt Mark shudder under him. The younger boy scooted away from Abel and looked at him.

"You're acting different."

"I am?"

"Yeah. All... nice and stuff."

"Is that bad?" Abel asked, his head tilting.

"I guess not, but it's kind of freaking me out." Mark bit his lower lip.

Again, Abel chuckled. "I would have never thought that kindness would freak you out."

Instead of further prying, Mark just stared at Abel for a few moments. Next to his hands, his phone vibrated, and Mark's face visibly brightened. He glanced at his text and looked up at Abel. "Oh, dang, looks like Nellie did want the group to eat after all. Sorry, is it okay if I go with them?"

"Of course. I can occupy myself here in your absence," Abel said, no glint of rage in his eyes.

Mark nervously smiled and walked to the door, slipped on his shoes, and dashed out the door.

Warmup: 108 [1]

Yet another weekly warmup from The Periwinkle Pen!
A character wakes up and their personality is the total opposite.
I'm also going to post another of the same exercise (with Abel instead of Mark) for next week.
I do have longer stories, they are just either: a) incomplete or b) getting feedback.

---

Something reeked of freshly pressed suit.

Mark sat up in bed and scratched at his head, hair filling his fingernails. His fingers yanked at tangles and smoothed out his hair. Throwing the covers aside, he let his legs swing over to the edge, facing the bathroom door. He could hear water running from behind.

For once, Mark thought to himself, I'm actually awake in the morning.

A minute later, the water shut off, and then Abel opened the door, nearly jumping when he found Mark staring at him. "Why are you awake so early?"

Mark found himself narrowing his eyes. "I don't need a reason for my body to wake me up."

He expected a snap--for Abel to growl with his eyebrows forming an incomplete V--but Abel just opened his mouth, but then just shut it and blinked. Dumbfounded. Mark felt his own mouth curl into a smirk.

Abel shook his head and walked to his clothes, which laid over a chair. Dressing himself, he said, "When my body feels shocked, I say questions. It's not my fault you /somehow/ took that the wrong way." His tone grew intense.

"Whatever you say. Because God knows you can't ever be wrong."

Glaring, Abel's head turned to Mark as he slipped his shoes on. "Something is wrong with you."

"There you go again! It's me, like always, right?!" Mark stood up and headed for the door, and over his shoulder, he added, "You're a perfect little princess."

Mark could only reach the end of the hall before he felt a hand grab his shoulder and turn him around. Abel lowered himself to eye level, glaring. He searched his eyes before saying, "Did you take strange drugs? Hit your head on something hard? Because you're acting like an asshole, not the Mark I know."

"Oh, excuse me? An ass, you say? I guess you're kind of shocked, looking into a mirror after all."

Abel's hands squeezed Mark's shoulders, and Mark could feel the rage slowly leaking out through them. "What are you going to do, hit me? It's not my fault you can't handle the truth."

"For one," Abel said, sucking in breath and letting his grip loosen a bit, "I don't deliberately say shit to piss you off. And second, this is not how you usually act. You're not an ass. You're not mean. You're not supposed to hurt other people. You're--"

"So I'm not usually supposed to be strong? Thanks. Thanks a lot, Abel."

Mark slipped away to fetch a new outfit, staying in his personal room until he knew for sure Abel left for work. He texted his friend, Gil, to pick him up, and he paced outside for almost ten minutes when Gil's car pulled into the driveway. Mark felt himself roll his eyes as he walked to the car.

"Took you long enough," Mark sighed, stepping into the passenger seat. Gil performed a double take and pushed his glasses up his nose.

"What?"

"You heard me."

Gil shifted his weight but continued to stare at Mark, eyebrows concerned. A head poked out from the backseat. "Mark, are you feeling okay?" Nellie asked, wrinkling her freckle-covered nose.

"Just stop right there," Mark sighed, exasperated and lifting a hand up in emphasis. "You're going to sound like Abel."

"/I'm/ sounding like Abel?" Nellie asked incredulously.

"You going to sass me?"

"This is weird," Gil said looking out the window on the driver's side.

"You're acting different, Mark." Nellie said, shrinking back just slightly. "I'm only concerned. I didn't mean to sound accusing or anything."

"Just because I'm irritated doesn't make me ill. That's what I hate," Mark said.

"If you're too irritated," Gil began to mumble, "we don't have to hang out today."

Mark looked between them for a moment, and then he started to slowly nod, a strange smile cracking his face. "I get it, I get it, you two. You don't want me around because I'm not all happy and stuff. That's fine, have fun, you two."

And out the car he went and into the house, stomping.

Gil and Nellie glanced at each other in disbelief.

"Did that seriously happen?"

"I don't know. Pinch me."

Warmup: Aliens Right Behind You

This is an idea from The Periwinkle Pen, from weekly segments called Weekly Warmups.
In this exercise, I wrote something short based on a picture.
To be honest, I borrowed the title off a song, give or take one word.

---

Cold sweat coated my palms like drying glue. The communicator in my hand shook as I tried to control my breaths.

Now they know John is dead.

I will never forget his last words.

"There are aliens right behind you."

I stole a glance behind me, sucking in my breath quickly. But nothing stood there. No sounds. No footsteps. No growls. No snarls.

I gulped down the sigh that wanted to escape. I cannot allow myself to stick out any more than needed. Already, my body feels exposed with just the thin, elastic suit to cover the essential areas--chest, torso, hands, legs, feet. If John's uniform was clean and untainted, I would have worn it instead. I swear the boss dresses the women up like this for kicks.

I slipped the communicator back into the secret outlet slab and concealed it. With a wince, I pulled myself up from my kneeling position, and my legs screamed in their boots. But I could move them, and that's all that matters.

After checking my back again, I pressed my back against the wall and sidestepped quickly down the corrider. The corner approached, and I leaned a cautious head to check the area.

I won't let an alien tear me a new one. A death won't bring me down. And John knew so, and he knew so when he gave me his last piece of "advice." He knew that I don't listen to dead men.

There's maybe ten, fifteen more minutes to go until I reach the ship.

About eight now. I look behind me.

Five. Look again.

Two. Check.

One.

And John was right. There are aliens right behind me.

Warmup: This is War

This is an idea from The Periwinkle Pen, from weekly segments called Weekly Warmups.
In this exercise, I wrote about whatever the music video of Sigur Ros' "Untitled" made me think of.
I'm a weird person.

---

Deadroot glared across the fence at Plywood. The enemy's handlebar mustache and naturally wrinkly forehead gave Deadroot cold shivers. Evil men in history donned mustaches, and no men who still lived to feel wrinkles on their faces in this day and age suspiciously tugged at the hearts of America's last withstanding citizens.

"Earlier," Deadroot began, resisting the temptation to spit in Plywood's direction, "you agreed that nor you or you men or citizens would dare cross this border. And what I have you just done?"

"Crossed the border," Plywood smiled, revealing the many gaps among his grin.

A vein throbbed against Deadroot's stress-wrinkled forehead as he clenched his fists. "You know damn well what this means."

"Indeed I do. We'll have to play another game because of my foolish actions," he sighed, shrugging. He lifted his arms and dropped them again to his sides. "What can you do?"

"What I can do," Deadroot spat--and damn, was that great to let out--"is kick your ass at this game.

Plywood grinned and nodded before promptly turning and walking away, with his men. Deadroot snorted before turning and stomped off, parting the small layer of ashes like an ocean.

Muttering under his breath, Deadroot reached the schoolhouse, whose exterior was colored black with white stripes. The man noticed graffiti scribbled onto the side. In yellow chalk, someone wrote, "FREE THEM FREE THEM FREE THEM OR WE WILL DESTROY" until someone took blood red chalk and covered the rest. To the side, the red chalk read, "liars all of them hippie faggots keep on working gov." At the last sentence, Deadroot smiled. At least some of his citizens had his back. Justified.

He entered the building and passed a security guard, to whom Deadroot said, "Make the announcement, group B."

The guard, who looked no younger than twenty three, lifted his left wrist to his mouth, pushing a button on his watch. "Send group B to the Waiting Room."

Deadroot reached a long room and stood in the middle, facing a wall. Pitter patters heard, a door opposite to the entrance opened, and a line of children shuffled inside. Shackles hung from their wrists and ankles, and all but a few kept their heads the down. The deviants dared to send a glare at their captor and  then turned their glare toward the ground.

Once the children lined up against the wall, Deadroot stood in front of the child to the far left. He grabbed the boy's face and leaned close, staring with a hard gaze. He turned the boy's face to the left and then to the right. He grunted to himself and moved on to the next child. For five children he proceeded, grunting to himself after each inspection.

A school bell rang out.

All the children's heads turned simultaneously to the mayor.

His lip snarled, and to a guard, he motioned toward the children he looked over. The guard removed a key from his pocket and unlocked the children's shackles, and the six children shuffled through the door the mayor had first entered.

Along the halls, six coats had been hung for the children. Each child snatched one up and slipped their arms through the sleeves, looking at each other in silence. Deadroot stood several feet away, his eyes never drifting away. And once all the children were snug in the winter coats, the turned to another wall and plucked off gas masks.

The children walked outside as ash crunched below their feet. With Deadroot as the caboose, the train of children marched across the land, turning left at some point. They approached a large building, and on the other side of the fence, Deadroot glimpsed Plywood leading children to said building. Deadroot could recognize the children, one young girl's face in particular. His heart skipped a beat.

In the building laid a Roman Colosseum. Deadroot urged the kids through the entrance gate to the field. The major then joined a group of his people and stared at the upcoming spectacle.

"Who will fall this time?" one man whispered to another.

"One of ours, you just watch," the other man responded, nodding to the other side. In a lower voice with his face turned away from the mayor, the man added, "It will be his daughter."

"How could you say such a thing!" the first main said. The mayor glanced their way.

"That's karma for you. Shows how stupid we all are."

"Attention," cried a voice belonging to Plywood, who stood on the opposite side of the spectator's field. "Because my men crossed the border, we must now play this game yet again. Prisoner against prisoner. Life against life." He threw his arms up as his voice rose to a boom. "Those who remain alive will be allowed to return to their respective counties, but only after a prisoner is taken down and chokes on the smoky ash blanketed across the land.

"This game--begin!"

A prisoner of Plywood immediately began to gather ashes in his hand in a circular pattern like a snowball. Those on her side began to do the same. Startled, one of Deadroot's prisoners rushed at the first girl and kicked up the ashes. Plywood's prisoners threw ashballs at the other side while Deadroot's prisoners scrambled about, skinny elephants running a muck.

One prisoner of Plywood rolled a large ashball and ran for a prisoner of the other side. Plywood's prisoner successfully trapped Deadroot's, and other prisoners of Plywood stacked even larger ashballs onto the trapped child. After they stepped back, the ashman trembled, and the previously trapped prisoner of Deadroot stomped out, hurling an ashball into the air.

Ash continued to fly as the prisoners ran circles around each other. Some ash hit prisoners in the shoulder or stomach or leg, but the prisoners continued to collect their weapon. Some men in the audience shook their heads, already forgetting which prisoner was on who's side. Some mayors stared down at the field, eyes focused on one person each, blind to all the others.

And a gas mask flew into the air.

And a mayor stood up.

And a crowd of children dropped the ash in their hands.

As if awakened by a dream, the children walked slowly toward the fallen child. Beady eyes stared back at, blinking slowly, mouth agape, at little monsters. Gasping for breath. Ashes slipping into her throat.

And a mayor clapped with a smile.

And a father dropped his face in his hands.

And a man turned to the one standing beside him.

"This game won't solve anything."