The Bridge Part Three

Jake was stunned to hear the voice clearly call out at him from the shadows, but rather than the fear he felt he was supposed to experience at times like these, a dark rage instead greeted him and filled his body. Rage at his roommates/land lords; rage at his friend who was not answering his lonely phone call; rage at his ex-girlfriend, and rage at the nameless voice crying out in the night.

“Who gives a fuck!” Jake screamed with cold anger at the place from where he had heard the voice originate, and kept his pace steady and on target towards The Bridge.  “That’s who.”

The movement in the shadows stopped, taken aback by both the presence and personality of another human being this far away from any real source of civilization.

Jake was not a small man, standing nearly two meters in height and over 100kg in weight, so when he decided to walk with determination, he did not care who was in his way.

Moving at a pace of objective, he passed by the patch of shadows from where the aggressive voice had called without pause, but kept senses he rarely used focussed on the spot. This was not the right place or the right time to be trusting.

 He had lived far too long in Edmonton not to suspect a negative, and from experience dangerous, situation.

The full spectrum of his senses was on high alert, with ancient instincts long suppressed now guiding his pace and path, the part of his brain that he used for interviews, conversations, and thoughts about the exploration of space, was not being allotted any power at all. At that exact moment, only The Bridge, the voice from the shadows, and various things that nature could provide a weapon were granted access to the room of higher thought.

He was nearing The Bridge, and he knew that he had at least two men following him, roughly 250 metres behind, not silent in their movement at all. Crossing the road, he walked until he took a step off the asphalt and onto the bank of the river. The road carried on to his direct right, where it started to divert to the right, away from the bank, before sharply returning towards the river, wherein fact it crossed it by using The Bridge.

Jake listened to the water trickle over rocks as the Class 1 rapids made their presence known, setting the soothing sounds as a permanent soundract that made this spot so very appealing.

The bridge itself started 10 metres from the bank of the river, making for an excellent shelter from the elements, but more importantly, a place to relax, throw rocks, and smoke cigarettes.

There was a nice setup underneath, where fires could be enjoyed, or just casual sitting, but it was a beautiful bridge, in a beautiful location in the middle of NE Alberta.

“Hey!” screamed the voice from earlier, “what are you doing in our house!?!”

The Bridge Part Two

The road was lifted up by a bit of a slope, but nothing third-gear-floored couldn’t handle, and with gaining speed, Jake quickly neared the top of the hill. At about 100 metres from the top, he took his foot off the gas, hit the clutch, then shifted into neutral, and coasted up the remainder of the hill.

This led to the perfect speed when he got to the top because there was a small little area on the right hand side of the road that for about 10 meters made an extra lane just when the hill started to drop in elevation as it headed down the other side, and the road resumed its tight squeeze at the shoulders.

Shifting into second, he let the gentle murmur of his transmission whine for a second or two, allowing his speed to drop further, before bringing her to first; neutral; break; stop; engine off; back into first; relax.

Taking out a cigarette from the centre console, he flipped it in his mouth, lit it, hit the button on his seatbelt, reached for his cell-phone, and dialed a number.

With full-bar service, the phone connected right away, and the hopeful buzz of a ringing phone greeted his ear.

One ring. Two ring. Three rings. Four.

Answering machine.

"We're sorry, but the mailbox belonging to..." the female generic telephone voice started to say as he clicked the end call button.

His friend was at home. He knew this. He knew he would be up too. Likely has something better to watch on TV.

'Fuck,' he thought, as he scrolled through his contact list.

There was no one on his list he wanted to talk to, but maybe....

Scrolling down to the name of an ex-girlfriend, he breathed out softly as he hit the call button.

The phone rang for not even a second before a sing-song voice answered with an exaggerated out-of-breath, "hello!?!"

  

"Jars!" he said with a happy and booming voice, "how the hell are you."

"I'm having sex," said the voice, deliberately sounding annoyed, "you know the thing you don't want to do with me anymore."

"Damn it Jars, I'm just lonely and wanted to talk, I don't give a fuck about your love-life."

There was a silence on the other end of the line, where seconds before heavy breathing dominated, now silence reigned supreme."

"Jake," the voice responded with a school-teacher lecturing tone, "you lost access to that part of me when you rejected me for that bullshit job of yours!"

"I was leaving for four months!" A mortified Jake replied. "You said you didn't want to wait. I broke up with you so you could have your freedom. Never mind, forget about it."

"Jake! I didn't mean tha..." the voice went silent as soon as he hit the end call button.

'Bitch,' he thought as he let his body fall backwards, slamming into his seat with a solid thump.

He was so bored, so lonely, and so far away from anyone and everything he cared about.

Grabbing the keys, he opened his door, stepped out, slammed the door and instinctively hit the the button on his key chain to set the alarm. Thrusting his hands in his pockets, he started down the hill. 

The bridge was maybe half a click down the hill, and there were flowers in the area that smelled very sweet at night, so he decided to walk.

Tall trees lined the stretch of road to his right that seemed to pop higher as the hill dropped at a steeper and steeper angle.

There was a stretch of darkness hidden in the shadows that caught his eye as he walked down towards The Bridge.

A rustle could be heard, and a short time later, shapes could be made out moving in the panicked pattern of two bodies going from rest to a standing and then moving position.

"Who the hell is there!"A voice cried from the dark...


CJFR 14 Aug 12

The Bridge Part One

The engine turned over with enthusiasm, despite having been putt-putting around the better part of NE Alberta all day in the strong sunny warmth of a late July summer day. 

It was well into the evening hours when John started the car, put her into gear, and slowly drove away from the certain confrontation waiting behind a locked door and window in the laundry area of the house, where a stressed out newlywed was angrily sorting her socks on a countertop, which just so happened to be outside the room he was renting and now, consequently, was avoiding.

He was having problems with his roommates, who happened to be his land lords, who happened to be 21 and 22 years-of-age respectfully, and happened to have just gotten married two weeks earlier.

They owned the house, there was no disputing that.

 He had been renting a room since the first day of May, watching a very young couple live in a very expensive house they had moved into just a short time before he did try to cope and just deal with all these new changes in their lives.

 Renting a room in the basement of this house of madness was interesting to say the least for John.

 Unrealistic expectations from both rental parties prevented there ever being a happy eye-to-eye on the reality of the living arrangement. Serious financial stress of the roommates/ land lords compounded with just being married and having an outsider dwell periodically in their house would often lead to terrible confrontations for John from his angry-at-everything-but-can't-show-this-attitude-outside-their-house roommates/land lords.

John was a cub reporter, two years into his degree in journalism, working for the first paper that would hire him, which happened to be the Bonnyville Nouvelle, located in the middle of exactly nowhere for a young social city dweller to play in.

The driveway of the young couple’s house was long and winding, bordered by large trees planted to help break strong winds from intruding on delicate agriculture and restful living areas, all with the bonus of blocking out nearly all the natural light of the sky. Despite the cloudless night, and the stars being those of the country sky, only about 15 per cent of the stars were on display, making it a dark ride. Factor in the mood John was feeling, and it was a very dark ride indeed.

Coming up to the end of the driveway, which backed onto an old country road, John slowed to look for traffic and wildlife; especially wildlife.

‘The Bridge,’ he thought, as he accelerated into a left turn, forcing his little 2.4l engine to rev a little extra as he tried to get his car to bite into the loose rock road. He needed something to do. It was maybe 10pm, and he wasn't due at the office until 10 a.m. the next morning.

Shaking his head at the silliness and unproductively of the situation thrust upon him, John turned up the volume, bumping his little 10” sub, causing the rear-view mirror to shake.

Accepting the fact he would not be typing up any of the interviews tonight, the reasoning to relax and chill was the only logical path to follow. And with a silent smirk, and a shrug of the shoulders in spirit, he tried to leave the darkness of his living situation back in the shadows of the trees.

There was a break in the darkness ahead, causing John to look a few hundred metres in front of his car as a Good'ol boy truck raced down the "main road" of the area.

Coming to a rolling stop at the road, John did a quick on-off with his blinker and turned right, acceclerating efficiently enough that he was in 5th gear and cruising within seconds.

With enough speed to ensure no catching up with the Good'ol boys down the way, he followed them down the same country road that would take him over the Beaver River, and eventually onto Bonnyville.

 He wasn’t interested in Bonnyville.

 Not tonight.

Tomorrow, for sure, but tonight the bridge that crosses the river was the sole and lone point of interest.

There were a few good reasons to go there.

The phone reception at the top of the valley leading to the river allowed for clear lonely long distance phone calls on his cell phone to random creatures of the night living in the city whom he called friends.

The other reason was because the area was beautiful, and underneath the bridge there was already a set up  for fires near strategically laid logs around a circle of stones.

A good place to smoke cigarettes too.

John was getting excited about this. He had a place to go now. Dear God, did he seriously feel annoyed, irritated, and frustrated with his roommates/land lords at this current moment of time; in fact all the moments dealing with them leading up to now were certifiably, clinically and completely comically insane.

He smiled as he dropped into third gear, enjoying the open stretch of road that showed just how brilliant the stars that most city dwellers forgot actually were and guided the car around a sudden hill that drifted left and up up up.

He smiled for a few reasons: the first being he loved to shift gears going into hills that were heading in a direction that was not a straight line, good driving; more importantly, however, was because he was nearing the Bridge.

 CJFR 10 Aug 12

Happy

The beach looked familiar. He just couldn’t remember. Was this Cavendish beach? Wasn’t this where he proposed to her? Had he proposed to her. This was the spot. How many drinks did the locals buy him yesterday when he told them his plan to propose to her today. Too many drinks.

The waves were calm, and mini icebergs floated slowly by, numbered in the thousands within 100 metres from shore, creating a perfect floor to the panoramic view of a March morning on a PEI beach coming to life.

He turned to his left and knew she would be there. He was right and she greeted him a cute smile being guided by happy eyes of mysticism.

“Sleepy Bear,” he affectionately said with a sly smile.

“Hey Baby!” she replied with a happy little body jiggle that was barely visible, except to the trained eye, revealing how happy she was.

‘This feels right. This moment is the greatest moment of my life!’ he thought and he put his hand in his pocket, feeling the small little box beneath his fingers, and how the weight of that little ring inside weighed so heavily on his darkest fear of failure, but was lighter than a balloon on his certainty of success.

She reached over and grabbed his hand, and jumping off in a skip, and pulled him down a path way with a gentle tug.

“Guess what I read today?” she asked in a throaty voice.

He did not even bother to respond. He was just happy to hear the sound of her voice.

“The Canadian Government has invented a new missile,” she said with an inquisitive face, “and they plan on making a lot of money selling it because it’s so special.”

He smirked hearing this. He loved her voice, but she never talked about anything to do with weapons. She had always referred to it as boy conversation. He listened more carefully, but was distracted by what the contents of his left hand held.

“The guidance system is what makes it special,” she purred, flipping her head up to make eye contact, knowing that when she flashed her hair it made him crazy.

“It uses a human brain. It seems a number of subjects were tested upon, with great results for the guidance system, but it ended up killing them. The nanobytes, you see, study the brain, managing to duplicate the thought patterns of the human mind into sophisticated computers. What this article was focusing on is how even though the brains from the test were destroyed, their patterns were still used in their missile guidance systems. It seems the nanobytes have to probe and prod a little bit forcibly to the point that no subject survives; however, it was so successful, the Government started abducting people and using them for their missiles. They ended up making a fortune. This article aims to blow that up and expose the Government."

He thought for a second and then replied, “How would a human brain help a missile?”

She grabbed him and kissed him full on the lips, shrieking while she giggled “You do listen!”

‘Fuck,’ he thought.

“The human conscience is separated between the conscious and the unconscious. The conscious mind was found to have perfect integration with the guidance system, that when separated from subconscious mind, it could be better responding to targeting than a computer. The subconscious mind had to be separated you see in order to make it work.”

“Well,” he asked, “what about the subconscious?”

“They found away to divert it. They have a section of the computer in the guidance system designated to helping the energies of the subconscious focus on the happiest memory ever lived that the living brain recalled at the time of its lethal assimilation. That way it prevents it from interfering with the guidance system because while the conscious mind is using its energies to focus on the right target, the subconscious is in the dream-like state of reliving its happiest memory.”

The clouds were darkening, and drops of rain started to fall on him.

“Come on Sleepy Bear,” he said while turning around and grabbing her hand to guide her to the car, “let’s go grab a magazine and just spend the rest of the day in bed.”

“Oh baby, I would love that very much, but that’s not in the cards today.” She whispered while shaking her mouth with her exaggerated pouty mouth.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“You hit your target in less than three seconds.”

Chris Rogers 2012-08-09

My Blog!

I have a new blog! Check it out! I can't say much regarding what will be posted upon it now that it exists, as this post is being ghostwritten for me by Chris Munroe (@munsimunsi on twitter) as a demonstration after he set up my blogger account for me!

Isn't he great for doing that for me? He's just amazing like that.

So helpful.

And not shamelessly self-promotive at all!

Chris Munroe is a spec-fiction author who's flashfiction can be found at munsistories.blogspot.com, by the way.

Anyway, over the coming weeks, I'll be exploring Blogger, seeing what I can do with it, and hopefully posting non-ghost-written content of my very own. However, this post will likely remain at the start of my blog, as Chris Munroe isn't going to teach me how to delete posts!

Which is so great! Talk to you soon!