What’s in My Writing Hopper

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Every now and then I want to write the darker side of human nature. I want to dig deep and cut away to bad men who want to be loved. That is why I wrote Blind Date. It was supposed to be a sweet love story, but then I opened a bottle of wine.

I’ve decided to go back to The Company and pull out the rest of the team. However, this time, I’m entering the darkness with a heart warming story of a man at a crossroads in his life and his next decision, will change everything. His code name is Stop.

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” ― Maya Angelou

Every decision may cost you.
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The Writings on Her Wall: A Facebook Novella, Entry #2

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Thank you for coming back to our ever evolving tale of the Facebook perv who was called for higher purpose. To update you, if you are not on board, please see my previous post on Exercising Your Writing Muscle for the beginning of this story.

Once more, here is the definition of a Facebook Perv.

Facebook perve : A person who goes on facebook, randomly reading peoples wall to walls, and later discussing what they read. (Courtesy of Urban Dictionary).

We rejoin the story in progress picking up from where we left off. For the purpose of continuity, I am including the last section from The Reader.
Akins-Anderson Sydney: Sydney continued to stare at the computer screen, but he had long since stopped reading. His intuition had been correct. He was being watched, though until he knew by who he would act oblivious (He had his share of enemies). He sat a bit straighter in an effort to strain his peripheral vision-nothing. It was then that a new message appeared on the screen. He read it over, then re-read it. An encrypted code was neatly hidden between the words. The code was for a meeting. He made a mental show of thinking it over, but Sydney already knew the end result of such contemplation. He would go, if only to find out more about the woman (he was sure now that the aura he sense was that of a woman), and why there paths had crossed. A breeze passed behind him, and with it a feather light touch. He turned around, but saw nothing. She was gone. .


Augusta Writers: She waited at the coffee house on Broad Street wondering if her new victim understood what he was supposed to do; adding another sugar to the coffee, it always started this way, the game of cat and mouse. Twirling the lock in her hand, she sniffed the faint strong scent of the Reader and enjoyed the smell. It was woodsy, manly with a hint of an average soap. This one was not pretentious like the last Reader. This one, had possibilities; this one could be it. Again, another sip of the bitter liquid as she replayed in her mind the new quest to ensure that writers would be heard in such a time of need. Her personal quest to make certain that this town would not fall victim again. He new reader needed to be strong. Her new Reader needed to be a man that was sure of himself. She needed a hero of sort, one unafraid of the challenge. She gasped when the shadow appeared at the window……
Akins-Anderson Sydney: The morning air was laced with the strong scent of coffee and trepidation. Across the street loomed the Broad Street coffee house; the place they were to meet. Sydney took a deep breath of the crisp December air, and considered what he was getting into. In the message he had received yesterday, the woman had called herself simply ‘The Writer’. The title was enigmatic and seemed to hint at some esoteric knowledge. What did she write? Who did she write for? But most importantly, why did she want him? Those and many more questions tumbled about his mind like fire flies in a hurricane. Yet he knew there was only one way to get the answers he sought. High above an endless sheet of clouds blanketed the sky a lugubrious gray. Sydney had never been one for omens, but the weather was not optimistic.

Calm down, he mentally chided, stop taking cues from the weather. Encouraged by a cool breeze, he jammed his hands in his coat pockets and walked across the road. As a full time reader and part time writer Sydney had gotten into the habit of observing himself from an objective perspective. It helped keep him ground in reality when fantasy was so alluring. He found himself doing so now as a means of staying focused.
In his mind’s eye he saw himself walking across the road; a twenty two year old black guy wearing a gray coat and glasses over dark brown eyes. He was tall, six feet, and of medium build. On impulse he had shaved his head bald yesterday night, and as another spirited winter breeze chilled his scalp he found himself regretting it immensely.

It was halfway down the cross walk that he felt her aura emanating from the red brick building. It was strange, but not unpleasant. He likened it to the smell of white lotus, coffee (coincidently enough), and blood; sometimes sweet, sometimes bitter, yet always deadly. He slowed his pace when he reached the sidewalk and turned towards the door. It was then that he stopped. A lone form sat in a window booth. Sydney turned and faced The Writer.


Augusta Writers: She held up one finger and gestured for him to enter; slightly turning, she eyed the Barista, bidding him to bring another cup of darkened courage. As The Writer crossed Broad Street, she knew it was him. There! He held the same strong demeanor and posture, but today, unlike yesterday, he was hairless. If the Reader chose to never regrow the locks of hair, she held in her fist, the last remaining curl of his Samsonian strength.

He was younger than she had imagined, but looked fit for the challenge. The glasses covered dark brown eyes that seem to read so much more than just her words. He entered the café and took a seat across the table from the Writer. The waiter arrived with his coffee and he was surprised to find it was the way he liked it, or at least she ordered what she thought she saw him drinking at the Internet Café before.

The Writer’s eyes darted back and forth in an effort to locate in the air the right words to explain why he was here with her. She searched the room for ways to punctuate this conversation without the story being stale and trite. The Writer should at least tell the Reader her name, but there was not time for such trivial matters. If they both survived this, the pleasantries would then come forth, draped in civil platitudes, but for now, what she needed was him.

A flash of pearly whites put the Reader a bit more at ease, but he only sipped the coffee as she reached down in her bag and retrieved the Gobo. She rapidly applied the flashlight to illuminate the object which lit up the wall. Time seemed to stop in the café. The only two who were able to move were the Reader and the Writer. The writings were now on the wall. The Writer watched the Reader who was now reading the writings on the wall. A flash of realization came to him and his mouth dropped open.


There is still so much more to come. You can follow the live feed on Facebook or check back in a day or so for the latest update.

PS: After reading his last entry, I have to up my writing game.