Saturday, September 23, 2006

After Hours

If you close the door
The night could last forever
Leave the sunshine out
And say hello to never

All the people are dancing
And they're having such fun
I wish it could happen to me

But if you close the door
I'd never have to see the day again

If you close the door
The night could last forever
Leave the wine glass out
And drink a toast to never

Oh, someday I know
Someone will look into my eyes
And say hello
You're my very special one

But if you close the door
I'd never have to see the day again

Dark party bars, shiny cadillac cars
And the people on subways and trains
Looking gray in the rain, as they stand disarrayed
Oh, but people look well in the dark

And if you close the door
The night could last forever
Leave the sunshine out
And say hello to never

All the people are dancing
And they're having such fun
I wish it could happen to me

Cause if you close the door
I'd never have to see the day again
I'd never have to see the day again, once more
I'd never have to see the day again.

Words for this Curve Ball were provided by Lou Reed. If you haven't heard of Lou, there's very little hope for you.

Sadly, the chance of there being further updates is very slim indeed, so I'd just like to say thank you to everybody that contributed. It was fun while it lasted. posted at 5:01 PM 11 Comments ---------------------------------

Sunday, September 10, 2006

Misty Mountain Night

Stacie sat in the sunroom of her secluded mountain cabin in her old, worn out wing-backed chair with her legs tucked up under her, smoking what was left of Lee's cigarettes and staring out at the mist. As the smoke she blew toward the ceiling swirled around the rafters and the unused fan, so the mist outside swirled around plants and shrubs, pushing against the windows as though trying to get in.

Stacie stubbed out the cigarette. She stood and walked on trembling legs toward the glass. As she neared the window, the mist seemed to collect itself, then press against the glass as if it could reach through to the woman inside. She touched the glass, and the mist jumped back briefly before growing ever thicker, finally settling itself into the semblance of a person, standing before her with its hand matching hers on the other side of the glass.

She looked past the form to where what was left of her boyfriend, Lee, lay on the stone walkway that led from the Suburban to the door of the sunroom, scant feet from safety. Her eyes welled with tears as she thought of their last words to one another.

"Your sweet tooth is going to kill you one day, Lee," she had gently chided him as he headed out to get the box containing his candy bars and cookies. The rest of the supplies were already inside.

"You can't expect me to be stuck up here for three days without my goodies. Besides, a little sugar never hurt nobody," he'd replied with a wink.

Of course, he couldn't have known that the mist, rolling in seemingly out of nowhere, would attack him as it had. It had descended on him as he left the truck, soaking into his flesh and eating him from the inside out. As fast as the mist worked, Lee had still almost made it to the door, his screams echoing off the glass, candy scattering as he dropped the box. Thankfully, the mist now concealed most of the damage.

Stacie backed away from the glass. She turned and picked up her coffee mug and the crumpled pack of cigarettes, then made her way into the kitchen for a refill and a fresh pack. She came back through the door a minute later and sat down, tucking her knees under her chin and lighting another of Lee's cigarettes.

She checked the time on her watch, a gift from Lee, and turned on the small battery-operated radio to catch the late night opera broadcast from Denver. Sunrise was still hours away. When the sun came, the killing mist would retreat back to wherever it came from.

Just like it always did.

Words for this Curve Ball were provided by Katt Dunsmore. Katt is a Communications Officer for a North Carolina law enforcement agency and is also a writer and book illustrator. Her stories appear in Crime and Suspense Magazine, Flashing in the Gutters, and she has stories scheduled to appear in Flashshots (September 1, 2006) Silver Moon Magazine (September, 2006 issue), and Mouth Full of Bullets (premiere issue, September 2006). Katt is an illustrator for Koboca Publishing (please see the publisher's website for more information on her work). Her long list of current projects includes 'The EX-Factor', an anthology written with a group of talented writers, to be released Friday, October 13th, 2006, by Koboca Publishing. The image once again comes courtesy of Jayne d'Arcy, who is the founder of 3rd Eye Writers group. Jayne is a writer, an artist, and a perpetual dabbler in web design.

The next update will be next weekend, and will almost certainly feature a piece written by your friendly neighbourhood editor, as I now have no submissions currently waiting in the wings. We still need contributors of all kinds, so if you've yet to make your presence felt on the CBC or want to add a second or even a third story, the e-mail address is in the sidebar.

The CBC MySpace page can now be found here. Pimp it and link to it. Merci. posted at 10:18 AM 5 Comments ---------------------------------

Thursday, September 07, 2006

Moving On

I met Cassie on my first day at school. My mother had walked me to the gate and waved me in, shooing me away when I tried to cling to her legs, until I stood saucer eyed, thumb in mouth, amongst a gaggle of similarly bewildered children. A couple were already crying, tears and snot coursing down their faces as they tried to cope with being alone for perhaps the very first time. As I looked around, wondering if the little girl in the tartan pinafore really would pee herself (she did, and continued to on a regular basis all the way through the infants’ school) a bony elbow inserted itself between my ribs.

‘Hello. I’m Cassie.’

I looked round to see a small blonde pixie grinning from ear to ear. I took my thumb out of my mouth. ‘I’m Tracey.’

‘Oh well, never mind.’ She nodded at the other kids. ‘Bunch of softies, eh?’

She was right and I was one of them. Not Cassie, though. She was full of confidence, right from the start. She knew beyond doubt that whatever happened she was right and others were wrong, never suffered so much as a moment of doubt on that score.

It was back on that first day that she started what became a feature of the time we spent in classrooms together; she drew a face on her hand, just a circle with eyes, a mouth and a scribble of hair, and yet it was undoubtedly Angela, the amazing piddling girl. I hid my face and choked back the giggles while she elbowed me and whispered ‘shut up!’ between sniggers of her own.

Why she picked me to be her friend I’ll never know, but she did and we stuck together all the way through our education. At least once a day I’d get an elbow in my ribs and see her hand pushed in front of my face with a drawing or a message on it, always at someone else’s expense. Angela was a freak, Helen was a witch, Joanne was a big fat cow… it went on and on.

At first I found it funny. Infants and juniors, it was just the two of us, we were inseparable. Then, as we got older, I found it childish. I wanted to make new friends, but Cassie didn’t see the point. She didn’t want to change, she took the huff if I talked to anyone else. Finally, when we were at sixth form college, I just found it sad. I was daydreaming about my university applications, newly completed and unknown to Cassie, wondering where I’d end up, who I’d meet, when sure enough, I felt that bony elbow in my ribs. I looked at the hand she held out for me to read. ‘Everyone else is wrong and mad.’ But they weren’t. Cassie was, and it was time for me to move on.

Words for this Curve Ball were provided by Julie Wright. Julie is a published business writer whose fiction appears in Bullet magazine and on Flashing in the Gutters. She lives by the seaside in the north east of England, which is mint! The image comes courtesy of Jason Ward, who I'm going to get to write a Curve Ball about Furbies.

The next update will be Sunday (I promise). posted at 2:28 PM 1 Comments ---------------------------------

CBC In 'Not Dead' Shocker

I know, I know. Life hectic, update soon. Don't give up on me yet. posted at 12:20 AM 4 Comments ---------------------------------

Thursday, August 17, 2006

Flight 409

Seat 36A

I can't help but think of the Twilight Zone. You know - the episode with Captain Kirk before he was the Captain. I know that thing hanging from the engine isn't a gremlin; but it has me worried. If we crash, death won't be the worst thing that happens. I have a secret: my boyfriend lives down there. If we crash, my parents will find out about him. They still think I'm straight.

Damn, I'm babbling. It's just that when I'm nervous, I say the first thing that comes to mind.

I really think I should tell someone about that thing waving from under the wing.

Seat 25A

I wish Mom had given me some other DVDs for this thing. How many times can I watch Toy Story? The plane lady told me I'm stuck here for like 4 hours. That's a really long time; maybe 2 or 3 movies long. She won't let me watch cool stuff like Spiderman, even though I'm 7 years old now. I'm not a baby anymore!

I'm flying to visit my dad. Mom says it's his 'visitation' and I have to be nice to Sherry. I don't like her. She makes my tummy feel funny.

I do miss Dad sometimes. I just wish I had friends there.

I have a secret: I don't like flying alone. I wish I had my Batman doll with me. Don't tell my Dad I said that, okay? He thinks I'm too big to sleep with it. So I couldn't bring it. If you look out the window, it looks like my doll is waving from the bottom of that thing on the wing.

Maybe I should tell the plane lady.


Seat 11A

What can I tell you about myself? I'm the safe reliable type; you know - blend into the scenery. Invisible.

It's not that I'm hideous or anything; I'm not a virgin. But, I don't have boyfriends. I have boy friends.

My life is pretty dull. Both my parents are alive and well, and still married. No childhood trauma. Boring. Even the business trip was boring. Totally forgettable.

But I think I could be remembered from now on. I could make everyone on this flight famous.

I have a secret: I left a package on the engine. You can see it dangling. It's amazing how far you can wander in an airport when you're invisible.

I wonder if my package will fall off, or fall in.

Words for this Curve Ball were provided by David Siegel Bernstein. David lives in Elkins Park, Pennsylvania. To support his writing addiction (and excessively extravagant lifestyle - or at least his fantasy of such) he consults as a labor economist. His writing has appeared in literary journals and genre publications both in print and on the web. His nonfiction articles have been published in academic journals and newsletters. The image was provided by Jayne d'Arcy, who is the founder of 3rd Eye Writers group. Jayne is a writer, an artist, and a perpetual dabbler in web design. posted at 4:52 PM 4 Comments ---------------------------------

Monday, August 14, 2006

Update

Howdy. Once again, I find myself apologising for the lack of updates. There are stories on the way from Julie Wright and David Siegel Bernstein, both of whom have been delayed by my uber-slow editing rather than any sloth on their part.

As always, The CBC is in need of contributors, so go forth and spread the motherfucking word.

Fresh wordage in this location by Wednesday.

Edit: Or possibly Thursday. Friday at the latest. posted at 8:35 PM 1 Comments ---------------------------------

Thursday, August 03, 2006

Going The Cycle

Ethan and Heather watched as the two below approached from across the parking lot. The knoll they stood on was just high enough to allow them to monitor their progress in the deepening twilight. "What do you think this place is?" asked Heather. Ethan shrugged. They had both asked the question a hundred times.

"It could be hell. Or Purgatory. But..." He stopped.

Heather's eyes grew round. "But what?"

"But...I'm afraid this might be heaven."

Heather shivered. "You never told me that before."

"You've never asked." She had, but she hadn't. She didn't know why this time was different. "It probably all has to do with that." He nodded to the portal on the far side of the lot, the side they couldn't get back to, "and with them." He jerked his thumb back over his shoulder, where a hundred Ethans and a hundred Heathers stood, gaping, slack-jawed, and in various stages of starvation. A hundred pairs of themselves, shuffling around, too stupid to feed themselves. The oldest pairs had already died, rotting right where they had fallen. This was a dead zone, and there was no escaping it.

The progress of the others had slowed, but in a moment they would come to the emptiest section of the lot.

"Think they'll make it?" Heather inquired.

Ethan shook his head. "Probably not. But still, they have to try. They always do."

The other two took their first hesitant steps into the open space.

"Here it comes," Ethan murmured, "the moment of truth." Heather nodded slowly. She never enjoyed watching this next part. She had seen it a hundred times; she would see it just this once.

Ethan heard the hum a second before the lights kicked on. "The lights know. They always know. There's no escaping them."

The glare of the floodlights atop their high perches blinded the Ethan and Heather in the parking lot. The next moment they were writhing in agony, their screams dead before they left their lips. They were lifted up and flung violently to land with a crunch a few feet away from where Ethan and Heather watched from their knoll.

The Ethan and Heather on the ground looked up to see copies of themselves rushing toward them. "It gets better," Heather heard herself say, "but not much." The eyes of the two on the ground grew round with horror as memories they had never possessed came rushing back to them.

Just then all four heard the portal's whine and looked as one to see Ethan and Heather fall out of it. As they did so, the Ethan and Heather standing over the Ethan and Heather on the ground became like the other hundred pairs of themselves - gaping, slack-jawed, and stupid.

Heather moaned. "Oh, God. 101, and no end in sight."

Words for this Curve Ball were provided by Jim Stitzel. Jim writes about writing (and other things) at Writer's Blog and fancies himself an accomplished wrestler of urban mud pygmies. He also runs the newly founded Flashes of Speculation. The image comes courtesy of absentee photographer Jason Ward. More of Jason's weird and wonderful imagery can be found at Miasma And Orgy. posted at 2:41 PM 3 Comments ---------------------------------

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

Room 1350

Janice had removed her silk jacket and thrown it onto the bed. She watched as it slid off the side and onto the floor, leaving behind a key. Her thoughts went immediately to the dance floor in the ballroom of the hotel. His mask, like everyone else's, had hidden his features but not his dark eyes. When his hand had reached beneath her jacket to caress her...

Janice shook her head to break the spell. The key glittered in the moonlight that spilled through the latticed doorway leading out onto the balcony. She picked it up, suprised to find it still warm; from her body heat, or his? Just as she tapped the key against her lower lip thoughtfully, her cell phone rang. Tossing the key on the bed, she snatched up the phone, flipped it open and snapped, "What?"

It had been hours since Don had left her at the party. He'd gone off the deep end once again, and instead of coddling his mood swings like she usually did, Janice had ignored his fit and stayed. Now she cut him off mid-sentence, barely listening to his whining. "Look, Don, you left me. I don't understand what set you off this time and right now I just don't give a damn. I don't feel like talking to you and analyzing my reactions to your... your neuroses. So, go back to bed and leave me alone." She flipped the cellphone shut. It was the first time she'd ever hung up on him.

That soft light winking against metal drew her eyes back to the key. She picked it up, noticing as she did that the number 1350 was carved into it; the thirteenth suite on the fifth floor of the old Balthazar Hotel. She tossed the cellphone onto the bed and left the room. Just as she shut the door, her cellphone rang again.


A police woman was consoling the blonde-haired young man outside the suite. Inside, cops and the coroner's team swarmed all over the interior. The man wiped at his tears. "I just didn't feel comfortable at the party," he wept. "Usually she understood, but this time..." he sniffled, "...I guess I was stifling her. I couldn't stay there and so I left."

"You mustn't blame yourself, Mr. Porter." The police woman patted his shoulder. She grasped him by the upper arm and gently drew him aside as a stretcher was pushed through the doorway. Porter let out a terrible wail and fell to his knees, trying to wrap his arms around the shape beneath the sheet. "Mr. Porter! Please!" snapped the police woman. She was none too gentle as she yanked the man away from the body and to his feet.

There was a chiming sound as something metal fell to the marbled floor of the corridor. It had fallen from under the sheet covering Porter's wife, Janice. Another cop, his hands gloved, carefully picked up the key and examined it. His face paled visibly as he handed it to the chief cororner. The man was about to take it, when the cop muttered, "Room 1350, doc."

All activity ceased. The only movement was that of Donald Porter, his tear-stained face glancing rapidly from cop to cop until settling on the coroner's weather-beaten features. Dr. Jason Wills gingerly took the key from the cop and without taking care to put it into an evidence bag, tucked it into his pocket. "I'll put it with the others," he said.

Words For This Curve Ball were provided by Jayne d'Arcy, who is the founder of 3rd Eye Writers group (which can be found here but will very soon relocate here). Jayne is a writer, an artist, and a perpetual dabbler in web design. The image was once again provided by young Jason Ward, who holds the world record for speed-peeling bananas. posted at 6:19 PM 2 Comments ---------------------------------