Abduction

All posts tagged Abduction

On films and blood and TV and Twitter.

Published September 23, 2016 by mandileighbean

I know I’ve said this so many times that it’s actually starting to lose meaning, but I promise that my focus is going to be on my writing career from this moment on. You won’t believe me, but that’s okay. I mean it this time, I swear.

And I have evidence to prove it … sort of. There’s an actor named Eric Balfour (see image below.)

He was in TV shows like “24,” “Six Feet Under,” and most recently, “Haven” (which I really freaking loved and highly recommend. It’s currently on Netflix, so you’re welcome). I binge watched “Haven” over the summer – because I was a teacher on summer vacation who was broke – and fell in love with his character and with his physicality as an actor; he’s like really tall and his movements should be awkward seeing as how he’s mostly composed of limbs, but his movements are deliberate and graceful. It’s almost fascinating to watch him do anything, especially interact with other actors.

If you haven’t noticed, when I like something, I really, really like something. I go all in, man. So now that I liked this actor named Eric Balfour, I started following him on Twitter. When I watched the series finale of “Haven,” I directed a Tweet to him about how I thought his character got a raw deal (no spoilers, I promise). He liked my tweet. He read my tweet, and then he liked it.

So when he asked for book recommendations that would make great television series that hadn’t been optioned yet, I tweeted the title of my book (Her Beautiful Monster). He liked that tweet, too. He read that tweet too, and then he liked it. He liked another tweet. This was insanity. I took it as a sign from the universe that this was a chance, one of those crazy moments that could be the opportunity of a lifetime, the beginning of a fairytale. It could also be nothing, but hey – you have to be in to win it, right?

Being so emboldened or empowered or what have you, I sent him a direct message through Twitter, telling this actor a little bit more about my book. He read the message. He read the message and he wrote back.

HE READ THE MESSAGE AND HE WROTE BACK.

This Hollywood actor who owes me absolutely nothing, who has no idea as to who I am or what my intentions are or anything like that, took the time to respond to my self-indulgent message to tell me he would look at my book and wished me luck in my career.

That’s something. Even if all this comes to nothing, it’s something. And I am forever grateful.

In other writing news, Martin Sisters Publishing is interested in publishing my second novel, Moody Blue. I’m just waiting on the contract and once that happens, prepare for a marketing blitz.

Because this is my focus now; writing. So, here’s a weekly writing prompt. Enjoy, and pleasepleasePLEASE let me know what you think.

WRITING PROMPT #28: “He makes films. I didn’t ask what kind.”

 

Amy spit blood onto the cold, concrete floor beneath her bare feet. She still had that tell-tale coppery taste in her mouth, so she knew that she was still bleeding even without the help of a mirror. Amy thought it made sense that she was still bleeding because she was still sore as hell. Her head was pounding at the very base of her skull – she assumed that had happened when he had shoved her in the van. As  a matter of fact, despite the ache in her skull that slowed her thinking, Amy was sure she’d slammed her head twice, slammed her head against the metal door after the brutal, hard shove inside the van, and then her skull crashed against the metal floor when she lost her footing completely and fell flat on her back. Megan had been tossed in next and had landed on Amy. The air rushed from Amy and it felt like insult had been added to injury. Amy turned to survey Megan now.

Megan was still out cold. She hadn’t been able to stop screaming. The hysteria and desperation seemed to be keeping her mouth open, her throat raw and lungs filled because Megan just kept screaming until the butt of the 9mm made contact with the right side of her face. Blood dripped from Megan’s wound like water from a tricky faucet, splashing on the floor in a rhythm so reliable it was almost comforting. Amy eyed Megan’s slumped position in the metal folding chair and knew there was no way she was comfortable. When Megan woke up, she’d be stiff, sore and essentially useless should the opportunity to escape present itself. Amy knew such thinking was a pipe dream as her eyes acknowledged the itchy rope used to tie Megan’s legs to the legs of the chair and to tie Megan’s wrists together behind her back. Amy was similarly secured, but still she twitched her shoulder and wrists with foolish optimism, like maybe the ropes would suddenly be loose. But Amy had no such luck – never did, really and never would seeing as how she’d likely die in the barren room with the concrete floor.

But Amy didn’t want to die alone. Amy wanted to have a fighting chance, and she wanted one for Megan, too.

“Megan,” Amy called in a harsh whisper. Megan didn’t move. “Megan,” Amy tried again, this time a little louder. Amy had to be careful – she wanted to be loud enough to wake Megan but quiet enough to keep from getting the attention of the sick fuck who abducted them. After calling Megan’s name a second time, Amy listened hard for running footsteps or creaky doors or any sure sign that someone was coming. Amy listened so hard she didn’t allow herself to breathe. When the only discernable sound was the steady drip of Megan’s blood, Amy started calling out to Megan again and again, louder each time until finally Megan’s eyes fluttered open and she groaned in discomfort.

“Fuck,” was all Megan had to offer.

“You’re telling me,” Amy said as she snorted humorless laughter through her nose.

There was a beat of silence. And then another. Then there were soft sniffles. Amy raised her splitting, throbbing head to eye Megan. She was crying quietly. “I’m sorry,” she said between gasps of air.

Amy swallowed hard. “It’s not your fault.”

“Yes it is!” Megan suddenly roared. Amy flinched, but stayed quiet. “It’s my fault because I know this guy.” She was openly sobbing now, being loud and sloppily confessing to an unknown betrayal. “He said he needed actresses at this house party we were both at, and I was drunk so I signed us up.”

“Actresses for what?” Amy asked. She was confused and her battered brain was refusing to cooperate, to make heads or tails of any of it.

“He makes films. I didn’t ask what kind,” Megan said, breaking and sobbing some more. Her cries were pitiful and awful and terrible and worse than the silence. For a grotesque moment, Amy wished the sick fuck would rush in and punch Megan right in the mouth so Amy would at least be spared the howls of desperation of her best friend as they inched closer to death. Was there ever a worse soundtrack for a death scene?

“Maybe you should have,” Amy said. She locked eyes with her best friend. Megan stopped crying, shocked into silence by Amy’s attitude. How could she be sarcastic at a time like this? How could Amy be anything but terrified? Anger was bubbling up to Megan’s surface until Amy offered her a smile. It was queasy and horrible, stained with blood and pain, but it was just so fucking Amy. Megan smiled in spite of herself, eternally glad that if the end was nigh, she’d face it with her best friend, with the realest girl she knew.

On delivering pizzas.

Published April 20, 2012 by mandileighbean

My little brother made his Confirmation today. It was a very nice ceremony, and I was happy to see so many students with their families. Afterwards, we had a nice pasta dinner.

I finished lesson plans, and plan to get my gradebook up and functioning this weekend.

I wish I had an update about the publishing of my manuscript, but alas; I am empty-handed. I sent in my unformatted manuscript so the editing process could begin and while that is underway, I am beginning to fill out the media forms. I am to provide the publishers with contact information for local media sources so the publishers can send out a press kit. It’s exciting but if I’m being honest, I’d rather be writing – just simply writing.

That being said, enjoy tonight’s prompt.

🙂

PROMPT: “Pizza Delivery Driver”
You’re a pizza delivery driver and it’s your last stop of the night. The house is on an unlit, unfamiliar street. As you ring the doorbell, you’re greeted by an unusual character who invites you in while he gets cash- and abruptly knocks you out cold. When you wake up, you’re tied to a chair. What happens next?

PIECE:

My eyes blinked slowly and out of sync. My left eyelid rose higher and just a moment before my right eyelid, so that it took a few blinks before the room surrounding me came into focus. At first, it was only two halves that my sluggish mind was having a hell of a time connecting. I went to bring my hands to my face to rub my palms up and down my cheeks in an effort to wake myself up, but my hands were tied securely behind me. The fear and implications of the realization were enough to jolt me to reality, and revitalize my lethargic senses. The room came into a startlingly specific kind of focus; the walls that were not quite white with the cobwebs hanging in the corners; the scratched, wooden floors that had probably been a point of pride some time long ago; the chair across from me; the emptiness of it all. I could find no identifying detail that would be used later to apprehend the individual who lived here, and who had clearly tied me to a chair.
I tried to recall what had happened. I was working at the local pizzeria, delivering pies for lackluster tips. My 1995 Ford Explorer was wheezing away from the pizzeria – and unknowingly away from the safe harbor there – towards an address I had never delivered to before. The rain had just let up and as I neared the destination, I let my foot off of the gas pedal so I was just rolling along, the rubber tires crunching against the damp pavement in the still night air. It was late, true, but it was eerily quiet. No one stirred, and there were no lights – not even lamps besides televisions that could just barely be seen through curtained living room windows. When I stopped outside 85 Potter Lane, the house was just as dark as the street and I debated on whether or not I should even get out of the truck, let alone walk up the driveway and knock. But I knew there was money to be made, cash to be in hand, so I willed the hair on my arms and neck to relax and headed for the front door. I knocked, and it sounded casual and sure.
That confidence with which I knocked quickly fed when the door opened and revealed a stooped, older man with delicate, fragile-looking hands that were clasped together and resting against his thin, frail chest. His hands were the first thing I noticed and from there, my eyes observed his dark blue velvet sweater, and loose jeans that had never been and never would be in style. He had no shoes to cover his wrinkled, nauseating feet and he was bald. I wonder if I observed everything I possibly could before meeting his eyes because in some unexplainable way, I knew it would be creepy. The lines were muted so that though he was older, his face did not show it. His eyes were nearly blank and unremarkable, as was his small and twitchy mouth. He smiled wide and it did nothing to disarm me. “Oh, pizza’s here,” he breathed. I could smell tuna and an abundance of patchouli – a combination that offended the nostrils and turned the stomach. “I just have to get some cash from my dresser. Won’t you come in?” He was still smiling.
I stepped in, smiling and holding the pizza box as if it ensured a barrier between the two of us. He shut the door behind me, and I silently prayed he would be quick in retrieving the money. I also scolded myself for my unwarranted feelings of distrust and hostility to this stranger who had so far been awkward and nothing more. Turning to look at a picture hanging on the nearest wall, the world fell to black.

I awoke tied to a chair, with only an empty chair before me to keep me company.

“You’re awake,” he breathed from somewhere close behind me. I couldn’t help it; I screamed and struggled against the ropes binding me.

“All the cash is in the car, and you can have all of it! Just let me go, please! Please don’t hurt me!” I screamed.

“I don’t want money,” he argued, sounding offended. “It’s not about what I want at all. It’s about what you want.”

“I don’t understand,” I readily admitted. Ignorance could translate to innocence.

“I saw you, looking around my home. You were looking to rob me, to take from my home!”

Clearly, this man was psychotic. “Sir, I was just looking around because there was nothing else to do! I swear, I had no intention of robbing you!”

“They sent you to spy on me, then.” He walked around the chair to stand before me, and his blank eyes were no wild. His hands were at his sides and his fists were clenched tightly. There was a palpable energy exuding from him, one of rage and paranoia. I swallowed hard.

“Sir,” I gasped, trying to relax and be rational, “I’m just a delivery guy. You ordered a pizza, so I brought it to your house. If you keep me here like this, you’re going to be in trouble.”

“Let them come,” he said. He seated himself in the empty chair opposite me. He leaned over to his left and pulled a knife that had been resting on the floor. Delicately, he placed it on his thigh and looked to me. “I’m not afraid anymore.”

My jaw dropped open and I screamed. What else could I do?
Read. Comment. Share ❤

%d bloggers like this: