Can it be? Is it even possible? I'm actually posting something in the lit. forums other than critiques?
Well, due to my absence in writing, I decided to write a short story today. I've had this idea for years, and wrote an original rough draft when I was 13 or so. I found it today, and decided to fix it up for the YWS.
This is in drastic need of critiques and stuff, although I'm not too serious about making it better. This was just a 'learning experience' to get me back on track.
Turn back while you can...or something.
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“Jones’s a free man today.” Floyd said as he climbed up to the top bunk of a steel bunk bed. He sat on his mattress with his boot-clad feet dangling on the side. Floyd leaned back until his head hit the cold, grey wall. A lonely bead of sweat ran down his dark forehead and into his left eye, as if it had been running away from his short, unruly white mess he called hair.
“Yeah? I’s been, twenty years or sumthin’, you know.” Frank said in the same arrogant tone as any other day.
Frank Rideout had a reputation of always wanting to be right, and doing anything to win an argument. The arguments themselves usually ended pretty quick, or as soon as the opponent got tired of Frank’s bickering. Although a lot of people thought he was annoying, his gung-ho attitude earned him a pretty high rank in the Five Points feudal pyramid.
“Give or take,” Floyd shrugged.
Floyd reached into a small brown bag and took out a battered paperback copy of A Clockwork Orange. He opened it to page fifty-seven and started reading, sounding out the occasional ‘horrorshow’ and ‘slooshying’. This Anthony Burgess masterpiece was a popular read all around Five Points, although almost none finished it.
“What’d he do anyway, Floyd?” Frank asked, with a hint of audacity.
“Jones? He robbed over like a million in cash, tha’s what I heard.”
“Nah, I heard he robbed twenty banks in a week, he even killed a hostage. Y’know, allegedly and stuff.”
“Yeah, go fuck off now, Frank,” Floyd sighed, “I’m reading.”
Frank’s eyes narrowed. “What the fuck you reading there anyway, man?”
“A Clockwork Orange, now fuck off, Frank,” Floyd said hesitantly. He continued reading.
“What the fuck is that shit? Jesus, why you gotta read all the time, man?”
Floyd ignored him. He lied down on his hard mattress and attempted to get comfortable, but couldn’t. Again sitting up, he kept reading. Frank looked at Floyd and laughed at his cellmate’s attempt to sound out ‘zvonok’.
“Ah, whatever, man,” Frank said and sat on the bottom bunk.
All was quiet except for the slight sound of footsteps and clinking keys. A bellowing voice broke the silence.
“Hey, hey,” the voice echoed, “Get in line there, Jones.”
Everyone in the whole cellblock stood still in shock. Then, all hell broke loose. Every single man (except Floyd) ran to the bars in order to get a closer look at Jones.
Frank smiled and looked back at Floyd, who was still reading. “Floyd!” he said, “Whaddafuck you doin’, man? Jones is coming down.”
It wasn’t very common for there to be such chaos over a convict being acquitted. Jones was an exception. He was basically seen as the godfather, since he had resided in Five Points for the longest time.
“C’mon, Floyd,” Frank said, “Stop fucking reading and get over here.”
“Nah, I seen that at least a dozen times. It’s ain’t gonna be any different until I walk down that road.”
The two guards and Jones quickly disappeared into a room at the end of the hall.
Jones was led into a white room, reminiscent of a doctor’s room, but emptier. The only thing inside the blindingly white room was an oak desk, a large white computer and a long leather sofa. Two bald men were waiting inside. One was Frederick Valderrama, the doctor that was about to give Jones his physical until he was let out into the free world. James Schofield, the chief guard supervisor, was the other hairless male. He was basically the one that saw to that everyone did what they were supposed to.
“Hello, umm…Anthony Jones,” Schofield said diffidently, “Doctor, where should he sit?”
“Just over there in that long leather sofa,” Valderrama said, “It’s not what you normally see in a doctor’s office, but we’re doing some…remodeling here…you know.”
Jones sat down in the hard, tan sofa and put his hands on his lap. Schofield pulled Valderrama off to a corner of the room and glanced back at Jones.
“So, remember,” Schofield whispered to him, “Its just control, alt and delete at the same time for the program to work.”
Valderrama nodded as he was patted on the shoulder by the supervisor. The doctor made his way back to Jones.
“So, congratulations on the acquittal, Anthony,” Valderrama said. “What we’re going do first is just is hook you up to that big computer on my desk there. Just to check your heart rate, temperature, and etcetera. It saves quite a bit of time over having to do everything manually.”
“Alright, sure,” Jones’ deep, Barry White-like voice made everyone tremble, “That just means I’ll get out of here faster. Right?”
“Exactly.”
The doctor walked back to his desk and got three tiny wires. He walked back to Jones.
“Now, I’m going to have to wire you up to the computer here. Don’t worry, they stick right to you. See? I don’t have to puncture your skin or anything. Then, I just have to run it back to the aforementioned computer over there and hook it up into the drive. It’s new technology, we’re one of the only doctors who have it. If you would just take your shirt off for…for just a minute.”
“Umm…yeah, whatever the hell you say, Doc.” Jones took off his plain white t-shirt in one nimble movement and threw it on the floor.
Valderrama took the wires and stuck one of them on Jones’ chest, and the other two on his right arm. He then took them back to a large, white computer on his desk and cautiously hooked it up to it.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Valderrama ran back to Jones with a red rubber ball in hand. “Just hold on to this with your…right hand and squeeze it as hard as you can.”
He gave Jones the ball and sat back down at his desk, examining the computer screen carefully.
“Wow, you’re pretty fit. Let’s see here…heart rate is normal. Temperature…98.6. That’s good. Hmm…this is taking a while to load…”
The doctor’s fingers quickly made their way to the keyboard, as three of them held down three keys coincidentally.
The red rubber ball hit the ground and bounced slowly to Frederick Valderrama’s feet.
