He asked. She said. Part 2

From my previous article on using said and asked when the dialogue already has a question mark to denoted a question being asked. Yet now, I have a situation where I want to use a ? followed by She said. The way that I am using it, it is not a question, it is her repeating him in a mocking way, although she wants to know what he is about to say.  

Paul came up to her. 

"It was dirty, and now it's not. It has to be real."

"Because it is."

"It is."

The of them started nodding in unison. 

"Only." 

Paul stopped to think about what he was going to say next. 

"Only?" Janet said

He took a deep breath.  

"Only, I don't think we should be afraid."

Janet came down the steps. 

"We shouldn't be afraid?"

"We should be a little afraid, but I don't think it's going to hurt us." 

She crossed her arms. 

I put a ? mark and used she said, because she is not asking a question, she is repeating that last thing he said as a question for him to continue. He started with, "Only.", then stopped. So she says, "Only?" Janet said, repeating the words, instead of "Only." She repeated, which would break Leonard's said/asked rule that I am using. 

Let me know what your thoughts about doing it this way, or if I should adapt a different technique. 

He asked. She said.

        In the book The Fiction Writer's Guide to Dialogue by John Hough Jr., he says (pg.5), "I'm not a tickler about "asked"--I may have used it myself a few times--but the question mark at the end of the line makes the verb redundant."

        He writes  this in response to the Elmore Leonard's "Ten Rules of Writing," which Leonard states "Never use a verb other than 'said' to carry dialogue."

        But I feel, if you use a question mark, then it should be 'She asked.' 

Because in everyday speech I say:

May I ask a question

She asked you a question

He wants to ask you a question

I asked him a question

The question was asked by my friend Albert

I NEVER say: 

She said a question to you

May I say a question

He wants to say a question

The question was said by my friend Albert

        Ask and Question go together like love and marriage, till death do us part. So to have a line of dialogue, "My money was left where?" She asked, is a better sentence than, "My money was left where?" She said. 

        This is how I feel. If you feel I am wrong, please feel free to comment or email me with your thoughts on the subject. For know, I will stick with asked. Thank you. 

The Grand Finale

 The Magician

          I found this picture on a writing prompt post in one of my subscribed writing groups on Google+. I downloaded it and saved it in my photos folder with other photos just like this. Writing prompts are a great way to inspire stories and get the words to flow. I have been watching the new TBS show The Alienist about a serial killer in late 1800's New York City. This photo of the magician standing with chains all around him feels like a character who could exist in that world. I meditated on the idea and completed the short story piece The Grand Finale available below. 

          I challenge you to write your own story using this picture or finding a picture online that inspires a story inside of you. If you do, please link to it in the comments below for myself and others to read. 

The Grand Finale 

by

Joshua J. Wood

  

        The drummer landed his sticks on the snare drum playing a tight buzzing roll that hushed the crowd. The four other musicians sat staring at the stage with the rest of the audience in the small boxed shaped auditorium. Each person crammed in tiny metal chairs, rubbing elbows with the person next to them, all waiting for the grand finale. 

        From behind the long red curtain dressing the stage, a blonde woman with silk tanned skin strutted out onto the stage in a one piece spandex leotard that squeezed all the best parts of her together. A number of men whistled at her appearance. She stopped next to a large trunk sitting on the side of the stage, bent down at the waist with her back to the stage giving the men a reason to howl in excitement. She stood back up holding a long heavy looking metal chain as she struggled to lift it up in the air. She carried them towards the magician standing in the center of the stage. Shirtless with his arms to his side facing the four rows of audience members. The women blushed red at his exposed muscular physique all the way down to his belly button where his spandex pants hugged his waist and stuck tight to his legs continuing down to his bare feet. 

        A stout man with a pencil thin mustache stood at the bottom of the stage, opposite the band. He lifted up a dull black bullhorn with numerous fingernail scratches in the side to his mouth and shouted, "Ladies and gentlemen. With the help of his beautiful assistant Isabella, The Great Carmichael will defy the laws of the known world, right before your eyes. Don't avert your gaze as you'll be amazed as he's locked in chains then dumped into a tank of water. Will he break the chains in time to escape? Or will he drown and be taken to the afterlife in God's good graces."

        Isabella lifted the chains and draped them over Carmichael's shoulders. The chain laid across his chest hanging down to his knees. He took the two sides and crossed them over his chest. Isabella went back to the trunk and pulled out another chain. This one shorter and lighter than the last as she didn't struggle to carry it across the stage. She stood behind Carmichael and wrapped it around his waist. Carmichael grabbed the chain on both ends and pulled it tight around him. "Isabella, now for the locks." he said. 

        Isabella smiled, went back to the trunk. She bent down, again making the men howl, and pulled two large locks from its depths. She walked to the front of the stage and held them out in front of her. The locks were thick brass with wide arching latches. In the center of each one was a darkened keyhole cut into it. At the sight of them the crowd gasped and rumbled, the drummer accented his roll before everything died down again. Isabella walked across the edge of the stage so the whole audience could see, little murmurs from the crowd as she did. 

        Once she made it to the end of the stage where the stout announcer sat, she spun around and walked back towards The Great Carmichael. He stood waiting, pulling on the chain around his waist. Isabella made her way in front of him, turned to face him. She rested the latch of the first lock through the hole in the chains, then again for the second. She grabbed the end of the long chain crossed over his chest, pulled it straight and walked it around him. Carmichael held his arms tight against his body. Isabella came around pulling the chain against his other arm until she was back in front of him. She pulled the lock from the hole, stretched the chain tight and set the lock between the two holes, then snapped them shut. She repeated the process with the other end of the chain, scrapping the the chains together until she arrived in front of him, and again snapped in the lock. 

        "To prove he can't move", the announcer shouted through his bullhorn, "The Great Carmichael, lift up your arms!" Carmichael tried, but his arms would not move. He wiggled and shook, but he was locked into place. "Ladies and gentlemen, the water!"  

        Isabella walked off the stage through the dark red curtain. Everything stood still as the buzzing of the snare drum filled the silence. Isabella returned pulling a tall tank filled to the top with water. The four wheels on the bottom squeaked with each rotation. She continued to pull it until it was directly behind Carmichael. She laid the rope on the ground and pushed it underneath the tank. She stepped to each corner and locked the wheels in place. After the last one, she went back to the trunk and this time pulled a small step ladder out of it. She carried it behind the tank and set it up out of view of the audience. 

        Carmichael turned and walked behind the tank. He disappeared for a quick second before his head reappeared over the top of the tank. He continued to step up until his waist was level with the edge. He flung his right leg over, splashing it into the water. He rested it on the edge of the tank, then flung his other leg over and again splashed water over the top, this time raining water down on the front row of the audience. They laughed and giggled with delight. 

        Isabella removed the ladder and returned it to the trunk. She reached off stage grabbing a tall metal folding screen. She wheeled it towards the tank, pulling it with one hand. She stopped and set it next to the tank where Carmichael was sitting at the top. She unfolded it a section at a time, each one covered in a thin black curtain, straight towards the crowd. Carmichael took a deep breath, pushed himself up and slid into the tank submerging himself underwater. Isabella bent the sections around the tank. The three curtains stretched from the floor of the stage to over the tank by three feet. Each section covered the left, front and right sides, keeping the audience from seeing what was happening behind it. Carmichael floated in the water as Isabella rolled the front curtain in front of him. Then continued around to the right and disappeared behind it all.  

        Again, the audience didn't make a sound. They all had held their breath as if they were in the tank with The Great Carmichael.  Only the buzz roll, that now seemed louder than ever, buzzed throughout the hall putting everyone's stomach in knots and making the hair on the back of their necks stand straight up. The stage was motionless, still as a picture. Not even a drop of water splashed to the ground. Then the curtain started to move. 

        The left section of curtain rolled toward the front of the stage. A hand gripped the outside of the metal bar. It folded forward onto the front curtain. The muscular arm of Carmichael came into view as it came around the middle of the black curtain. He folded the center section of the curtain over putting himself in full view of the crowd. His body soaked from head to toe, water dripped to the stage floor pooling in tiny puddles underneath him. He stepped aside pushing the final section of curtain with him. The tank uncovered revealing Isabella, inside with the chains locked against her body. The audience jumped to their feet in vigorous applause, the band began to play an adrenaline rushing series of major chords. 

        Isabella thrashed and kicked in the water. She struggled to free herself, pulling her arms up and down trying to squirm her way out of the chains, but they were too tight and the locks would not break. She jumped towards the surface pedaling her legs to swim to the top, but the chains were too heavy and held her down at the bottom. 

        Her screams for help only came out as bubbles, a sign she was losing her breath. Her eyes reflecting disbelief as everyone cheered her demise. She pushed herself against the back of the tank and pulled her knees to her chest. In a swift movement she kicked the front of the tank. It didn't budge, it didn't crack. She kicked again, then again. The tank was too strong, it wouldn't even move. She had locked the wheels in place herself.  

        Isabella started to slow. No more bubbles came from her mouth. She made one last push, but it wasn't enough. One last pleading look out into the crowd, but they just stood and stared waiting for her death. And with one last gasp, her lungs filled with water and her life faded in front of their eyes. Her body pulled down to the bottom, her scared expression pressed against the side of the tank. The band held their last note then cut off. The audience let out a disappointing, "Ahh" as the show came to an end. 

        "Ladies and gentlemen, thanks for coming. That is the end of our show. Let's hear one last applause for The Great Carmichael!" The audience cheered and clapped once again as Carmichael stepped to the center of the stage and took a bow.  The bullhorn voice filled the room, "Please exit in a single file and have a great night." 

        After that, the stout man put down his bullhorn and picked a towel sitting behind his chair. He carried it up to the stage reaching it out to Carmichael. He took from the man's hand and threw it over his head, drying his hair. "I don't know how you do it, but it's just incredible. incredible." The tuba player approached the stage catching the eye of the man. "Excuse me, I have to get the band their money, but you have someone waiting in the back." Carmichael nodded and continued to dry off. 

        The stout man rolled off the side of the stage, found his footing on the floor and with his arms open spoke compliments to the band as he walked towards them. Carmichael draped the towel around his neck, where the chains had once laid, and walked behind the stage. Passed the curtain, he walked down a narrow corridor and turned to the side as a pale man dressed all in black pushed a wooden coffin towards the stage. The pale man nodded and flashed a smile of brown teeth. Carmichael nodded back remaining stoic in his expression. After he had passed, Carmichael continued down the corridor towards a door against the wall in the corner. He stopped in front of it, wiped the towel over his face then pushed on the door and opened it. 

        A small room with a desk a size too big was on the other side, turned at an angle to create a space wide enough for a stout man to get behind it. Sitting in front of it was a wooden chair occupied by a person with straight raven black hair down to their shoulders. Carmichael stepped next to the desk. The chair squeaked as the occupant looked up at him revealing a woman with beautiful dark features, radiant brown eyes and an hour glass curved figure. She looked up and smiled a perfect row of bright white teeth. Carmichael grinned as he leaned against the desk. "So you want to be a magician's assistant?" The woman batted her long curly eyelashes and whispered the word, "Yes." Carmichael held out his hand and she took hers in his. He bowed down and kissed her on her row of fingers, "Then from now on", he raised his head to meet her adoring gaze, and said, "I will call you Isabella."

The End    

Meditate on Failure

We learn in the book, Samurai: The Code of the Warrior, about Yamamoto Tsunetomo, a samurai retainer of the daimyo Nabeshima Mitsushige. After the daimyo died, Tsunetomo was required to commit suicide, instead he asked permission to become a Buddhist monk. Permission was granted and for over a decade he lived in a seclusive hermitage.

One day a young samurai arrived and spent the next seven years recording the wisdom of Tsunetomo in the Hagakure or "hidden leaves", the definitive document on the way of the samurai.

In the Hagakure, Tsunetomo says,

"meditation on inevitable death should be performed daily. Every day when one's body and mind are at peace, one should meditate upon being ripped apart by arrows, rifles, spears and swords, being carried away by surging waves, being thrown into the midst of a great fire, being struck by lighting, being shaken to death by a great earthquake, falling from thousand foot cliffs, dying of disease or committing seppuku at the death of one's master. And every day without fail one should consider himself as dead."

This on the surface level sounds very grim to think about. As another famous philosopher comedian Jerry Seinfeld once joked,

"According to most studies, people's number one fear is public speaking. Number two is death. Death is number two. Does that sound right? This means to the average person, if you go to a funeral, you're better off in the casket than doing the eulogy.

People are afraid of death, so why in my quiet moments, whether you meditate or not this could be before you go to sleep, drinking coffee or even sitting on the toilet. Those quiet moments the last thing you want to do is think about dying or considering yourself dead. We live in our own dangerous times where dying in a fiery car crash, shot in the street for your wallet, slipping on ice, choking on a bone or cancer is a reality on a daily basis just as it was for the samurai.

But the lesson for the samurai is failure equals death, so be prepared for death. In our modern lives, we have protections against death and don't have to welcome death as an honorable end before we feel it is time. We have hospitals, doctors, nurses, medicine, police, air bags and band-aids to keep us safe, but nothing can keep us safe from failure.

We will all fail. Not everyone will fail big or often, but at some point, you will fail. That is our samurai destiny.

Examples include:

• Getting a low score on a test
• Losing a sale
• Failed experiment
• Breaking up from a relationship
• Falling out of a window
• Dropping a glass
• Forgetting a deadline
• Missing a landing at the Olympics
• Being told 'NO'

The Winter Olympics are on. Sometimes I forget how much I love the Winter Olympics. Snow and Ice, winter clothes especially thermal underwear. And especially the amount of focus, determination and grit that skiers, snowboarders and skaters have to compete at the highest level in their sport that is  in the center of our attention for two weeks every four years.

The snowboarding half-pipe event is my favorite of all the events, and failing is an option. You can fail big in snowboarding in two different ways: missing a trick or crashing, the worst of the two. Of course each one has a thousand sub-errors that can occur: not enough speed, too much wind, loose boots or anything that can happen, does happen. So an Olympic snowboarder needs to meditate on failure.

An Olympic snowboarder should not only meditate on failure. They need to meditate on success and failure. The best performances in my high school marching band days were those that I visualized success. I rested my mind and went through the show, the notes, the steps as perfect as they could be. But I do remember thinking, "even if I do my best, what will happen if it's not good enough. How would losing feel?" I would then imagine us losing. Why would I put myself through that? The answer to that question is to prepare myself for failure.

As Tsunemoto would meditate on dying in battle, he was preparing himself for a situation that could occur and how he would react to it. The same that an Olympic snowboarder is about to do battle with the half-pipe and they have to be prepared to win and to die.

Steven Pressfield writes in Turning Pro,

"The sword master advancing into ritual combat has inwardly made peace with his own extinction. He is prepared to leave everything, including his life, there on the fighting floor."

We can adapt this mentality to face the challenges in our modern lives. Everyday you look at a project, you need to prepare to make millions or to make nothing; to win gold or to finish last; cut down your opponent or be cut down and die.

Failure is everywhere and it is hard to think about, because if we do, it might come true. Yet, it is still all around us, so we have to be prepared for it. The more prepared we are the less it will sting; the more we can learn from it; the easier it will be to stand up, charge up the mountain and do it all over again knowing we left everything there on the fighting floor.

Kill; Be Killed (A Short Film Script)

Kill; Be Killed

Written by

Joshua J. Wood

Based on a True Story

INT. Helicopter - Day

FOUR Medical Infantry: TURNER, MAYFIELD, KELLER and ADAMS sit side by side in the back of the helicopters cargo hold. The PILOT, PRESTON, flies them over the DESERT towards a small batch of TREES. The GUNNER, JONES, sits on the edge of the open door and aims his automatic rifle over the terrain.

TURNER

This is a five man recovery. I’ll exit first and wrap up the first man. Mayfield and Keller you follow to wrap up the second and third. Adams you hold cover with Jones. 

ADAMS

Roger. 

Adams pulls out his PISTOL, checks his ammo. 

TURNER

I will double back and wrap up the fourth. As soon as Keller is in Adams, you run in to wrap up the fifth. Mayfield, once your man is secure you hold cover. Got it?

MAYFIELD

Roger. 

KELLER

Roger. 

ADAMS

Roger. 

JONES

Roger.

PRESTON

No pressure guys, but let’s do this quick. 

TURNER

I roger that. 

Preston brings the helicopter down outside the tree line.

PRESTON
In 3, 2, 1- Go, go go!

The helicopter hits the ground. Turner jumps out with his service PISTOL held out in front of him, followed by Mayfield the Keller. Adams jumps out

EXT. Ground - Continuous

Adams kneels on the ground close to the helicopter aiming into the trees.

JONES
Hold fire until they come back out. We don’t want any friendly fire.

ADAMS
Roger.

Turner, Mayfield and Keller enter the tree line. The sound of GUNFIRE rings out. Bullets zip by, one hits the side of the helicopter near Adams. He holds still.

JONES
Come on, come on.

Adams and Jones sit and wait. The gunfire STOPS. Silence. Out of the trees, Turner comes running out with an injured MAN, SAMPSON, over his shoulder. Mayfield and Keller come running out behind him. Mayfield carrying BOSKO, Keller carrying MILLER. The gunfire starts again. Jones fires back, Adams shoots FOUR shots before a strikes the side of the helicopter next to his head. He falls to the ground, fires TWO more shots.

ADAMS
Son of a bitch.

Turner lays Sampson on the gurney.

TURNER
Mayfield, make sure he’s strapped in. Adams, pick yourself up. Let’s go.

Adams gets to his feet, charges towards the tree line firing THREE shots. Gunfire zips all around him. He dives into -

EXT. Trees - Continuous

Adams lands behind the first tree. Breathing heavy, he looks for the wounded. A FOOT sticks out from behind a tree ten yards away. Adams squat walks holding his pistol in front of him until he reaches the tree. A RIFLE meets him on the other end.

ADAMS
Whoa. I’m here to help.

A WOMAN, HAYES, sits with her back against the tree.

HAYES
Get Zimman first. He took one to the leg.

ADAMS
Where is he?

HAYES
On the other side of that tree over there. See his helmet sticking out.

Three trees down ZINNMAN slumps over from behind the tree.

ADAMS
See it.

Adams shuffles around the tree, darts to the next one. Gunfire flies overhead and hits the ground next to him. He turns and takes TWO shots, then darts to the second tree. The gunfire stops.

ADAMS
Zimman? Zimman!?

Zimman tries to move and lets out a GROAN.

ADAMS
Shit.

Adams turns towards the direction of Hayes. He sees Turner helping her up. He turns back towards Zimman, turns and takes ONE shot towards the enemy then runs towards Zimman.

ADAMS
Zimman, can you stand?

Adams lifts his shoulder up, Zimman lets out another GROAN.

ZIMMAN
Get me out of here.

Adams sees blood soaking through his uniform from his thigh to his pelvis.

ADAMS
I’m going to pick you up and carry you over my shoulder. Do you understand? I’m going to get you out of here. Come on.

Adams wraps his arms around his waist, lifts him to his feet. Zimman continues to groan in pain. Adams bends his knees to level his left shoulder to Zimman’s waist. He lifts him up in a fireman’s carry with his left arm wrapped over top of him and his right arm, holding his pistol, wrapped around his legs. The gunfire starts again.

TURNER (O.S.)
(through the radio)
Adams, where are you?

Adams turns around, sees the helicopter through the trees.

ADAMS
On my way.

Adams takes off ducking behind a succession of FOUR trees. One after the other, he stops and looks then runs to next. On the third, he readjusts his grip.

ADAMS
One more and we’re there Zimman. Hang on.

Adams bolts to the fourth tree, a BULLET blasts into the left side throwing bark in all directions. Adams spins to the right, turns the corner and points his pistol straight and fires ONCE. A TALIBAN MAN stands five feet from Adams, a bullet in his forehead. Adams turns towards the enemy side fires TWO shots and is out of ammunition.

TURNER
(from the helicopter)
COME ON!

Adams turns and runs out of the tree to -

EXT. Ground - Continuous

Jones, Keller and Mayfield keep him covered as he hands off Zimman to Turner, hops onto -

INT. Helicopter - Continuous

PRESTON
All aboard?

TURNER
Roger. Get us the hell out of here.

The helicopter takes off. Jones continues to fire into the trees until they are at a safe distance in the sky. Adams sits up and slides towards the seats at the back of the cargo haul. Laying on gurneys are the three wounded soldiers, Hayes sits on the same bench on the other side of the helicopter. Turner sits next down next to Adams.

TURNER
Good shot Adams.

ADAMS
Thanks sir.

TURNER
Was that your first?

ADAMS
Second.

TURNER
Oh, I guess that’s how you made it look so easy.

ADAMS
I guess.

Adams looks down and sees he’s still holding his pistol. He unclips the empty cartridge, clips in a new one, cocks it and turns on the safety before holstering it.

ADAMS (CONT.)
It’s kill or be killed.

TURNER
You’re right, but we still have work to do. Get these guys some shots of morphine and we’ll start putting pressure on the wounds to stop the bleeding.

ADAMS
Yes, sir.

Adams lifts up the seat he was sitting on, grabs a box and pulls it out.

CUT TO:

EXT. Helicopter - Continuous

The helicopter flies off into the sunset. Underneath, smoke rises from the homes and small buildings populating the country side of IRAQ. An EXPLOSION goes off in the distance as the helicopter continues past the horizon.

The End

What does every book on writing say?

"Show, don't tell."

You hear this advice a lot and will continue to hear it over and over and over until one day you are writing something and you stop, think and rewrite it to show and not tell the audience the piece of information you want them to know. 

In the current screenplay I'm working on, I wrote a nice little monologue for one my characters explaining to another character why another character is getting on his last nerve. I read it, then went back to the beginning of the scene and added more scenes showing how that character is getting on the character's nerves. 

The monologue revealed how I was explaining to the audience information that needed to be shown to them, so they could see it for themselves before he tries to explain it to another character. In this way the audience knows something the other characters do not until the character's feelings are said out loud to another character and all the cards are laid out on the table. 

Cut Off

        I held the edge of the blade to my arm, pressed down to cut the skin where my mole popped out into the world. PAIN! Roared out as I continued to push it down through the skin. I slid it across the side of the ugly oval only to scratch the surface. I pulled the blade out, pressed it back in where I started, harder this time, sawing back and forth on layers of skin until blood rose to the surface rolling over the top of my forearm. Waves of intense pain now flooded my brain from all directions, tears welled in my eyes as I held my breath and dug deeper still, making sure I would cut off the whole thing.

        I exhaled careful not to scream out in agony. Through my teeth I repeated, “Keep going.” while my inner monologue shouted demands to “cease and desist” at once. I held my arm steady with the blade stuck inside, took another deep breath then pulled back on the blade across my flesh, in the straightest line I could manage, until it reached the curved bottom of the oval shaped eye sore.

I pulled the blade from the wound. Watched as the red blood cells ran down to the tip of my elbow where they married into small droplets before falling to the ground. An arrhythmic drumroll played against the newspaper underneath me. I forced my breath out speaking, “She will love me now.”

        In one swift gesture I land the blade back in my arm, scrape at the line again cutting deeper through the skin. PAIN! Roared again in my brain begging me to stop, but the skin is cut. “There is no turning back now.” I try to tell it. It doesn't listen, yet retaliates with a shot of tormenting misery through my body in response.

        I stopped to retrieve the bottle of vodka sitting next to me. I took a quick pull off the end, poured another slow shot over my arm to clean my new cut. I could now see the blade has slashed deep enough to create a small opening. I sat the bottle down, slid the blade underneath and returned to work cutting out around the edge.

        I pushed down hard. Twisted up, cut straight, up again, around the oval curve. The maneuver was difficult, “What's the worst that could happen?” one thought asked. “I slip and slash across my arm cutting a major vein and bleed to death.” Although, that would take time, enough time to call an ambulance, but then they would reattach the skin making this effort pointless. “Stay focused.” I said.

I retrieved the vodka again, took a swig for myself then showered my arm with the burning alcohol washing away the oozing blood. The cut was a success. I could now lift up the flap to see underneath. “Half way done.” Adrenaline raced through me when I gripped the blade. It was time to cut around the other curve. This would give me a clear shot at the straight line on the other side.

        Again I dug in, twisted up, cut straight, curved around, pushed down as hard as I could to get it all. The mole began lifting up as the seam between it and the arm tore open. I got a better look at the attached skin just before a waterfall of blood flew down my arm speeding up the drum roll towards the anticipated conclusion. I rested the blade on my arm then grabbed the bottle, poured more vodka over the wound. My brain again commanding, “Enough!” between my temples. Memories projected in and out as if I was seeing my life flash before my eyes. Rejection, humiliation and jealousy are the major themes stabbing around up there.

        I opened my eyes to see the mole. I took hold of the blade and laid it under the skin. The mole flipped over. I readjusted my position. The mole flopped back. It was now too floppy to stay tight enough to cut through it. I could of used a third arm to lift it up. But my pain was too embarrassing to share, my actions too disturbing to put on display. I tried to hold it up between my middle and ring finger, but this gave me no room to move my blade. I l bent my head down and bit it with my teeth.

I pulled tight on the mole till the edges ripped a little. PAIN! Fired through my arm. I pulled a little harder trying to tear it off. It wouldn't tear. Blood pooled out of the open wound forming a lake of hell where the mole refused to let go. “Do it!” rang out like a bell. Summoning the power of a samurai I sliced once digging in the blade, twice cutting at the skin, three times crossing down the middle, then a fourth time where the blade met the last piece of attached skin. It peeled off.

        It was now free from my arm, me from it rested between my teeth. I breathed a sigh of relief. The mole dangling in my mouth flew to the back of my throat making me choke. Cough! I reached for the vodka, pulled it to my lips and swallowed a shot. I felt the mole wash down with it.

        I collapsed to the floor, hugging the vodka. I stared through the window at the dark purple sky illuminated by the moonlight. A lone cloud drifting in the sky moving so slow it didn't feel like it was moving at all. I took a deep breath in and on the way out felt a shockwave of suffering skin tissue scream from my arm.

        I poured another shot over my arm cleaning off the blood. Picked up the towel laid out on my bed and pressed it to my arm. I held it there, putting pressure to stop the bleeding like they do in the movies. I lifted it up to see a smeared mess of deep red blood hardening around the outside. Off the desk I grabbed the bandage I pulled from my roommates first-aid kit, fiddled with the white tabs until I was able to pull one back. Laid it over the center of the hole and stuck it down.

         Coming off the adrenaline high, pain was now free play havoc on my nervous system, but wasn't painful at all anymore. With each sting a renewed pleasure. The mole was gone. I lifted the vodka to my lips and took a celebratory drink from the bottle, then another. Sat back up on the newspaper, lifted the bottle again, this time pouring a shot of alcohol over my left tricep. I picked up the blade, squeezed the sharp steel in my fist and spoke “One more to go.”