A revision of something great…

Allo all, I haven’t been sharing much of what  I have been working on lately b/c a lot of my time has been split up. Several different things going on including a commitment I made to Mocha Memoirs Press. Makes things problematic, but eh, I’ll get more content up in the near future. in the mean timmmmmmme, check out  this snippet below of one of the stories I’ve been working on as of late. I hope you all enjoy and please drop a comment.






Jameson Smith was having a bad day.


Mind you, for Jameson Smith almost any given day was bad. This was because Jameson was one of those unfortunate young men who seem to be born with no luck, and whose pathetic existences pass them by leaving them with nothing better to show for it then the national award for self-esteem, and third place in the local spelling bee. Life had given Jameson no real advantages. He was smart—but not that smart. He had the build of the boy in the Charles Atlas ads, who gets sand kicked in his face and humiliated in front of his girl, before Charles Atlas made him a real man. Not that Jameson could even get a girl, mind you. Not with his complexion, which made him look like he had just risen from the dead, and was considering going back on that choice.


No, most of Jameson’s days were bad ones, but some reached greater depths of suffering than others. You see most days, people did Jameson the great favor of ignoring him. As opposed to today, when four young toughs were explaining to him why they were offended by his having the audacity to walk on the sidewalk through their neighborhood.


“And take that! And that, you freak!”


The reason for this reception was, apparently, that they thought that Jameson had looked at one of their girlfriends in a manner they thought was inappropriate, or possibly, because they thought he was a homosexual. Jameson wasn’t sure which it was, and he had his doubts they really cared.


It was as their boot heels were colliding with his ribcage that he heard the voice. The horrible, horrible voice. “Let him go, punks.”


The so-designated punks immediately stopped the important business of beating Smith to a bloody pulp to stare in terror at the owner of the voice.


“Oh shit!” muttered one. “It’s Natalie Thompson!”


A pathetic whimper issued from Jameson. Everyone else present assumed it resulted from his injuries and so didn’t pay it much mind. And they were all wrong, except in the most metaphysical of senses.


The biggest, surliest, stupidest member of the gang (who was, by these virtues, the leader) immediately spat on the ground. “I heard a you, Thompson. Everyone says yer tough, but it sounds like bull ta me…”


Natalie gave a very calm smile that was as thin as a knife’s edge, and about as unpleasant. “Care to try your luck, then?” she stated, cracking her knuckles.


The leader immediately rushed forward. “Come on, guys! It’s just one girl!” His friends seemed to be on the verge of following him when Natalie’s knee collided with his stomach. This was followed by her right fist crashing into his nose, her left fist socking his jaw, and her right foot stomping on his toes.


As their leader collapsed, the other punks ran off. Jameson watched them go as he lifted himself off the ground, then turned to look at his… savior. Natalie eyed him with the cold, cocky smile that is the personal property of those who are just a little too sure of themselves. Looking at it, Jameson had to suppress an urge to deck her in spite of what she’d just done, an urge that was only kept in check by the facts that: a) only a real heel would hit a woman; and; b) if he tried, she would probably break both his knees, and use his spinal cord as a xylophone.


Jameson sighed. There was something inherently humiliating about being saved by a girl to his mind, even if she was a master of the martial arts. Still, there were worse things…


Natalie raised a mercenary palm. “So, Smith, do you have my fee?”


Such as having to pay her protection money. Jameson reached awkwardly into his pocket. “I’ve got—five dollars on me…”


Natalie rolled her eyes. “Honestly, sometimes it’s like you think I’m some kind of charity. I mean, you’re already paying my preferred customer rates!”


Jameson gave a pained nod. “I’ll get the rest to you. Soon.”


Natalie gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “You do that.” With that she turned to walk away—then glanced over her shoulder. “You know, I’m starting up a service I call “the gold level”. For just fifty more dollars, you get a vital signs monitor, which will notify me the moment someone lays a finger on you…” Natalie’s shut her eyes, smiling softly. “I can count on your patronage, at least…”


A wave of anger swelled up in Jameson that would have been terrible to behold if he were not an utter wimp. Checking it in, he merely took a deep breath. “I’ll consider it.” With that, he strode off in measured defiance.


Or would have, if that banana peel hadn’t been there. Jameson was still trying to get Natalie’s chuckling out of his head when the cane came crashing down on his hand. Its owner glanced calmly to the side, and regarded him with a mildly apologetic gaze, as she moved it. “Oh. Sorry, Jameson.”


Jameson felt his spirits lift, even as his hand was suffering from near-crippling pain. “It’s all right, Ashley. I’m fine.” he replied as he gazed into the eyes of Ashley Thompson, the girl—no, the woman for whom he’d gladly cut off his own head, and serve it on a silver platter, with a sprig of parsley as a side.


She nodded. “Well, that’s good,” she stated levelly, and then walked away.


He’d gotten a positive response from her. Jameson rose determined to take advantage of this moment. What he needed was some way of saying, ‘Ashley, I worship the very ground on which you tread. I know that it’s an imposition beyond all reason to ask a goddess like you to even deign notice a grotesque creature like myself, but would you maybe, perhaps, consider going out for a bite to eat some time?’ Only shorter, and more succinct. And then it hit him.


“Nice weather, isn’t it?”




Ashley gave him a look that mixed annoyance with boredom and pity, all in equal measure. “No. It’s hot, and muggy, and the sun is too bright.”


Jameson gulped. Already he was ruining his chances. There was only one thing to do. He gave a quick nod. “I suppose you’re right.”


Ashley gave a frustrated groan. “No, Jameson. I’m not. The weather’s perfectly fine. The problem is me.” She glanced down at the ground, her expression bitter. “It’s just—seeing Natalie take down that thug—and then making you pay her for it—it made me wish I could still practice martial arts. I’d use them to protect people, not to make money. But instead I’m a useless cripple.” A tear rolled down her cheek.


Jameson tried to convey the thought, ‘Ashley, I’d think you were the most perfect being imaginable even if you were a blind, deaf, mute quadruple amputee. You’re so smart, and so pretty, and so kind. Please don’t cry,’ as best he could.


“That’s too bad.”


Ashley nodded, moving quickly away. “Yeah. It sure is.” Jameson thought about following her, but decided against it.

  1. I like so far. That poor chap, Jameson, though.


    • jasmyn
    • May 11th, 2012

    you’re really good! I like this


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Life Is MESC


The life of a middle school language arts teacher. Not to be taken to seriously. Kapeesh?




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