Flash Fiction Friday has a challenge this week involving a computer as a character. I call this "What A Man Does".
My father started working with computers when they took up whole rooms, clanking, whirring beasts that read data off of magnetic tape and had to be constantly monitored. "Computers never make mistakes. They do exactly and precisely what they are told. People, on the other hand, are often faulty," he used to say. That was the way he was. He was always more comfortable with the yes/no, if/then world of digital computing than the messy, uncertain world of human beings. It made him frustrating to live with, but people can't help being the way they are, so in the end, I didn't fault him for it.
Growing up in such a house, it would be understandable if I had become a Luddite, a rebel against all things silicon and logical, a computerphobe who insisted on the ancient verities of bank tellers, paper books, and silver coins. I did insist upon a few of the old ways, but I used a computer as well as the next person, opting for a middle ground between outright hatred and total immersion. Like most people, I didn't follow exactly the path that was laid out for me. Given a choice between 0 and 1, I chose to slide in around 0.24.
So I met developments in artificial intelligence with some skepticism. I stuck to my handwritten letters and paper checks longer than most people, but I wasn't unaware of what was going on in the wider world. When they announced that Japanese researchers had passed the Turing test, I smiled and wondered what my long dead father would think of that. When I read about Asimov's Laws being encoded on a chip, and about motion becoming more and more precise, and about advances in computing power enabling more and more intelligent machines, I wondered where we were headed, but never really gave it a second thought.
I wasn't that old, but I certainly had lost a few ticks on the fastball when Sophia, my son's elegant young wife, fluttered her eyelashes at me and asked me to please allow him to place a digital assistant in my home. I grumbled and groaned, but just like every other pretty girl I've ever met, she eventually got her way. They unboxed it bright and early on a Monday morning, assured me that its learning software would pick up on my routines almost instantly. All I had to do was talk to it, and it would do the rest. It was about 6 feet tall, clad in average looking clothes and shoes with a realistic looking skin underneath, and a pleasant, though fake, plastic face. I named it Data, after a character on a long forgotten TV show.
It was the perfect butler. It remembered where I left my glasses, reminded me to take my pills, told me about anniversaries I had forgotten, and most of all, it just stayed quiet when I wanted to read a book. As much as I had resisted, I secretly was glad Sophia had insisted I give in. On a Thursday morning, I swung my feet onto the floor after a particularly vivid dream. I sat there, getting my bearings, when I felt Data come into the room. I knew it was scanning my vital signs, waiting for instructions. The one rule I had made clear to it was that, generally speaking, I didn't want it to speak until I spoke to it first. I reached for my glasses and looked outside. It was raining and grey.
"What do I have scheduled today, Data?," I said.
"Your heart rate is elevated," it said calmly. The voice was pitched evenly, with perfect cadence and diction. The only way you could tell it was human was that it was so perfect. "Are you feeling well?"
"I'm fine," I said. "I had a bad dream."
"Would you like to talk about it?"
"No," I said firmly. It was about Lisa, the first girl I ever loved, and the one I let get away, all those years ago. She was in danger, and I had to get through some sort of glass wall to get to her. "What's on the list today?," I repeated.
"It is your grandson Joseph's 4th birthday," he said. "I have already arranged for a gift to be shipped to him, but Sophia suggests a call might be appropriate. I have scheduled it for after he has completed soccer practice. You have an overdue book, "The Letters of Eudora Welty," from the public library. I could return it for you. You will be charged a $2.50 fine. Your doctor would like a blood sample, but that can be done at any time today."
"That's fine, all except the library book. I'll take that back."
"It's not necessary," the robot began. "Sophia-"
"No, I'll do it," I said a little too roughly. "Sophia may love my son, but she doesn't understand a lot about men. Sometimes I have to do things myself. It's what men do."
"Other men allow-," it began again.
"No, no," I said. "It's not a statistical argument. It's a feel thing. I don't feel alive if I don't have things to do. I'm thankful that you're here, and you're very helpful. But I need to feel useful. My wife has been gone almost 25 years now, and I still need to have things to do every day. Men have to do things, not have them done for them. It helps me feel functional, like life is worth living."
"When will you return?," it asked.
"When I feel like it," I said, taking the pile of clothes it had gathered and walking into the bathroom. The day I can't run my own errands is the day you put me in the ground, I thought.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Lance's 100 Word Song Challenge: "Polly Pocket"
My brother from another mother Lance, whose blog can beat up my blog, and probably yours too, has started a 100 Word Challenge, each week based on a song. This week's song is "Take Me To The Pilot" by Elton John, a favorite of mine, and the story is called "Polly Pocket".
When he looked down, he had these bangs, black with red highlights, that hung in front of his face. I wanted to touch them. I wanted to peel him open, like the Polly Pockets I used to play with, and see what his heart said. Loving him was hard work- he was outgoing and fun one day, cynical and withdrawn the next. He was every love song ever written, and he was the lead in every romantic movie scene I had ever seen.
"What's wrong? I wish you would talk to me," I said cheerfully.
"I know," he said.
When he looked down, he had these bangs, black with red highlights, that hung in front of his face. I wanted to touch them. I wanted to peel him open, like the Polly Pockets I used to play with, and see what his heart said. Loving him was hard work- he was outgoing and fun one day, cynical and withdrawn the next. He was every love song ever written, and he was the lead in every romantic movie scene I had ever seen.
"What's wrong? I wish you would talk to me," I said cheerfully.
"I know," he said.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Indie Ink Writing Challenge: New York Minute
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, The Last Astronaut challenged me with "...he replied: "what took you so long?"" and I challenged trencher with "'I just feel it as it goes. I do whatever I feel is right for me at the time.' -Johnny Cash"
[Author's Note: I don't know why I feel like I have to do this, but this story is a little NSFW. There is a bad word in it, and it implies that married people have sex. Be warned. This is also the third in a series of response pieces. My piece starts it off here, and my pal Runaway Sentence wrote a companion piece/follow up here. This is, I guess, the third piece, although it doesn't necessarily require that you read the first two.}
Her weight on top of me was pleasantly familiar. It never gets old, her hard pelvic ridge finding that perfect resting place, that familiar feeling of skin pressing against skin, her warm hairless thighs, taut from hours in the gym, pressing against the roughness of my short brown hair. Without my noticing, she had stripped out of her bedclothes, so I shifted around to match her nakedness.
It was comforting, knowing the smells, the curves and hard ridges and soft belly skin that I knew as well as my own. It was a communion, the simple need to be close to her, that feeling that you couldn't be close enough, that feeling that even if I could climb inside her skin, it wouldn't be enough.
"What took you so long?," I said. I looked up at her face, watching the surprise register, shading into anger.
"What took me so long?," she said incredulously.
"Well, I've been laying here," I said smiling. "I know you find me irresistible, so it was only a matter of time-"
Her face broke into a smile. "Oh DO shut up!," she said. "You're so obnoxious!"
"But you love me."
"Yes. Sometimes against my better judgement," she said, smiling wider now, a less wholesome, more mischievous one. "But I do."
I arched my back slightly, pressing against her in a way that spoke volumes. "Do you want to?"
She smiled that smile again. "I can. Do you?"
"I always do," I said. It was true. She wasn't 19 any more. Neither was I. But two kids and twenty years on, I still wanted her like a horny teenager. "But that's not what I asked you."
"I'm tired, honey. You know that. I'm pleased that you want to. Thrilled that you still look at me the same way you did when we were in college. But we can't act that way anymore. You have to work tomorrow, even if you are going to quit. I have a meeting with Nate's teacher, and I have to bring snack to Matthew's."
"Plus you have work to do."
"That too, yeah. But I can," she said, moving her hips against me suggestively.
"I don't want to force you," I said.
"You're not forcing," she said. "I'm volunteering. I know you like it, and I don't mind. I like giving you pleasure."
"But you don't want to."
She leaned back, her weight now more on my thighs. "Honestly, Michael? No. I'm tired. And I want to go to sleep. But like I said, I don't mind. We've started something, so I don't mind if you finish it."
"It's not worth it if you're not into it," I said. "If that's all it's for, I can do that by myself. You're not an object for my amusement."
"Jesus Christ," she said. I felt the eroticism drain out of the moment like water from a leaky squirt gun. "It's sex, not a hostage crisis. This drives me crazy. Sometimes you have to do something, not just think about it and ruminate forever. Michael, you've always put women on a pedestal. Me especially. And believe me, 98% of the time, it's great." She drew her legs up, folding her arms across her breasts. I stared at the way her calf muscles bunched up. "This is the other 2%. I'm a grown woman. I know when you met me, I was a scared little girl. And you've always tried to protect me. And like I said, it's nice."
"I feel like it's my job," I said.
"I know you do," she said. Her voice was edging into a hiss, the tone she adopted when the kids were home. If we were alone, she would be rattling the windows. "And that's your father's influence, and I understand it. But I'm a grownup. I can do things for you, I can make sacrifices, I can voluntarily do something for you that isn't a hundred percent my idea. I can even carry two children for you."
"And I appreciate it."
"That's just it," she said a little louder. "I know. I know. I know you appreciate the sacrifices I've made. Just like I appreciate the ones you have made for me. For us. I know how hard you work, how much you do, how much you gave up. At times, do I regret it? Do I wish I had my 20 year old body again? Do I wish I was still a barista at Starbucks, flirting with coworkers and giving blowjobs in the parking lot? Of course I do. It's part of being human. But I can't go back. Nobody can. And on balance, are the sacrifices worth it? Yes. Jesus, yes. I don't regret marrying you. I don't regret having the boys. And sometimes, you have to let me sacrifice for you, and don't hit me with your bullshit guilt trips."
She got up, snatching her bed clothes with one hand and a pillow with the other. She managed to open the door angrily, leaving it open behind her. I heard her footfalls down the stairs, and the distant tinny sound of the television coming on downstairs. I stared at the darkness, listening to the noises of the house. It was never clear whether or not I should pursue her at moments like this. Sometimes, she craved her own space, and other times, she would be sitting there lonely and scared, wanting me to talk her down. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. I wondered, like in the old Don Henley song, if someone was going to emergency, or to jail.
[Author's Note: I don't know why I feel like I have to do this, but this story is a little NSFW. There is a bad word in it, and it implies that married people have sex. Be warned. This is also the third in a series of response pieces. My piece starts it off here, and my pal Runaway Sentence wrote a companion piece/follow up here. This is, I guess, the third piece, although it doesn't necessarily require that you read the first two.}
Her weight on top of me was pleasantly familiar. It never gets old, her hard pelvic ridge finding that perfect resting place, that familiar feeling of skin pressing against skin, her warm hairless thighs, taut from hours in the gym, pressing against the roughness of my short brown hair. Without my noticing, she had stripped out of her bedclothes, so I shifted around to match her nakedness.
It was comforting, knowing the smells, the curves and hard ridges and soft belly skin that I knew as well as my own. It was a communion, the simple need to be close to her, that feeling that you couldn't be close enough, that feeling that even if I could climb inside her skin, it wouldn't be enough.
"What took you so long?," I said. I looked up at her face, watching the surprise register, shading into anger.
"What took me so long?," she said incredulously.
"Well, I've been laying here," I said smiling. "I know you find me irresistible, so it was only a matter of time-"
Her face broke into a smile. "Oh DO shut up!," she said. "You're so obnoxious!"
"But you love me."
"Yes. Sometimes against my better judgement," she said, smiling wider now, a less wholesome, more mischievous one. "But I do."
I arched my back slightly, pressing against her in a way that spoke volumes. "Do you want to?"
She smiled that smile again. "I can. Do you?"
"I always do," I said. It was true. She wasn't 19 any more. Neither was I. But two kids and twenty years on, I still wanted her like a horny teenager. "But that's not what I asked you."
"I'm tired, honey. You know that. I'm pleased that you want to. Thrilled that you still look at me the same way you did when we were in college. But we can't act that way anymore. You have to work tomorrow, even if you are going to quit. I have a meeting with Nate's teacher, and I have to bring snack to Matthew's."
"Plus you have work to do."
"That too, yeah. But I can," she said, moving her hips against me suggestively.
"I don't want to force you," I said.
"You're not forcing," she said. "I'm volunteering. I know you like it, and I don't mind. I like giving you pleasure."
"But you don't want to."
She leaned back, her weight now more on my thighs. "Honestly, Michael? No. I'm tired. And I want to go to sleep. But like I said, I don't mind. We've started something, so I don't mind if you finish it."
"It's not worth it if you're not into it," I said. "If that's all it's for, I can do that by myself. You're not an object for my amusement."
"Jesus Christ," she said. I felt the eroticism drain out of the moment like water from a leaky squirt gun. "It's sex, not a hostage crisis. This drives me crazy. Sometimes you have to do something, not just think about it and ruminate forever. Michael, you've always put women on a pedestal. Me especially. And believe me, 98% of the time, it's great." She drew her legs up, folding her arms across her breasts. I stared at the way her calf muscles bunched up. "This is the other 2%. I'm a grown woman. I know when you met me, I was a scared little girl. And you've always tried to protect me. And like I said, it's nice."
"I feel like it's my job," I said.
"I know you do," she said. Her voice was edging into a hiss, the tone she adopted when the kids were home. If we were alone, she would be rattling the windows. "And that's your father's influence, and I understand it. But I'm a grownup. I can do things for you, I can make sacrifices, I can voluntarily do something for you that isn't a hundred percent my idea. I can even carry two children for you."
"And I appreciate it."
"That's just it," she said a little louder. "I know. I know. I know you appreciate the sacrifices I've made. Just like I appreciate the ones you have made for me. For us. I know how hard you work, how much you do, how much you gave up. At times, do I regret it? Do I wish I had my 20 year old body again? Do I wish I was still a barista at Starbucks, flirting with coworkers and giving blowjobs in the parking lot? Of course I do. It's part of being human. But I can't go back. Nobody can. And on balance, are the sacrifices worth it? Yes. Jesus, yes. I don't regret marrying you. I don't regret having the boys. And sometimes, you have to let me sacrifice for you, and don't hit me with your bullshit guilt trips."
She got up, snatching her bed clothes with one hand and a pillow with the other. She managed to open the door angrily, leaving it open behind her. I heard her footfalls down the stairs, and the distant tinny sound of the television coming on downstairs. I stared at the darkness, listening to the noises of the house. It was never clear whether or not I should pursue her at moments like this. Sometimes, she craved her own space, and other times, she would be sitting there lonely and scared, wanting me to talk her down. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. I wondered, like in the old Don Henley song, if someone was going to emergency, or to jail.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
LitStack Flash Fiction Challenge: "My Turn"
The fine folks at LitStack have posted a flash fiction challenge, 500 words or less based on the above picture. My entry is called "My Turn".
I read once about police work that it was a lot of boredom and paperwork, with occasional breaks of terror. That was what it was like. I was one of three rotating teams, 8 hours at a time, who monitored the airflow, keeping our little corner of the world powered up and temperate. I wound up with Carlos, a taciturn little man who muttered all the time, and Marina, a tall haughty woman who held on to her Russian accent, as partners. We had conflicts, of course- anyone trapped together does. But nothing we couldn't discuss like adults.
The most dangerous part was climbing down into the bowels of the place to scrape and clean the vast grates. Like umpires, we rotated, so I knew I was up next. When the digital readout crept below 89%, we all knew what had to be done. Marina picked up the phone to call it in, and Carlos engaged the safety locks. There were three switches that had to be thrown, two at the same time, to start things back up again. They placed the switches far apart so they could never be accidentally thrown. If they were, the superheated air would leave nothing but a memory behind- I'd be a carbon deposit that some other poor sap has to scrub off in a month.
"You're up," Carlos said softly.
"Don't remind me," I said, getting up to stretch out. Carlos threw two of the three switches that stopped the airflow. There was a thunk and a rumble as the building switched to battery power.
"You're serious about what you said?," Carlos began.
My stomach knotted. "Look, man, I...,"
"All you have to do is keep quiet. I'll cut you in on it. Promise."
"Cheating is cheating," I said. "I'm not going to prison when your scheme falls apart." Padding timesheets was a imprisonable offense.
"They'll never know," he insisted.
"Do what you want," I said. "Just keep me out of it." I pulled on the heavy, hard boots, zipping up the mandatory coverall.
I went out into the hall, waiting for the elevator to signal that the chamber was safe to enter. I hit the button when the light turned green, then waited as it took me down below. Carlos had proposed that we begin swiping each other's ID, allowing us an afternoon off while the computer thought we were there. I had begged off, insisting I would put in my time, which made me less than popular with the other two.
I removed the tools from the wall rack, then walked into the chamber, which loomed far above my head, a series of closely spaced bars to remove impurities and debris from the air. I heard something I had never heard before, the unmistakable, gut watering rumble of the great furnace coming to life again behind me. "Those SOBs...," was all I had time to think.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Flash Fiction Friday: "Don't Tell"
Flash Fiction Friday this week involves the keeping of secrets, and I call my story "Don't Tell".
I didn't know where to stand. I never knew where to stand. I had to be here, but I wasn't really a part of what was going on. I hardly knew anyone here. The house was full of people in dark clothes, murmuring. I walked into the kitchen, where I could see her brother talking to a thin, pretty girl with long legs in the opposite corner. My shoes made sounds on the hardwood, which made me tiptoe.
"If she had told us...," Kathryn's mother was saying in the other room. Her voice was ragged, like she had been screaming. She probably had been.
"I know, honey," my mother said. She had that soothing tone she used when she was talking to a kid. I couldn't see her, but I could picture her face. Ever since she had gotten the news, she had the same expression, all the time. It was a smile, but a thin, tight one, like she would pop if you stuck her with a pin.
"Is it true what they said?," the thin girl asked Kathryn's brother, her voice high and soft. "That she was..."
"Yeah," he said gruffly. "She was."
"Wow," the thin girl said, suddenly noticing me standing there. She sounded a little too excited, with an edge of "thank God it wasn't me."
"I'm going to go outside," she said quickly, exiting onto the porch. I watched her light a cigarette in the cold air. I didn't know how to stand, shifting my weight first one way, then another. I saw people looking at me, then looking away quickly. They didn't know what to say, which was OK, because I didn't know what to say either.
I guess I was "Kathryn's friend", but that was stretching it a little. I have moved more times than I can count, so I was used to being the new kid, but it felt like hitting the jackpot when we moved in to Edgewater Estates and found out that three doors down was a girl who was going into the same grade I was, and was also new in town. Kathryn and I found ourselves together more often than not by the end of the summer, making common cause in our mutual boredom and outcast status. Then I was a little hurt, but not exactly shocked, when school started and Kathryn started running in slightly different circles. It was okay, really, because we had been so close that a little distance was actually welcome, allowing me to try and branch out.
Two weeks ago, she had called as soon as I set foot inside my door. She told me I had to come over to her house that instant, and she couldn't tell me why. I made my way up to her bedroom, where she was sitting on her bed, cross legged. She didn't say anything, just held out a tan rectangle towards me. It looked like a thick pen, or maybe a thermometer, but when I got closer, I saw what it was, and when I took it from her and looked at the little window with the two lines on it, I nearly dropped it.
She made me swear not to tell anyone. I had heard the old lecture that there are some secrets you don't keep, that if someone is in danger, you tell, and risk the friendship to save the friend. I don't know why I didn't tell my mom immediately, except that it's always easier not to talk than to say something. I didn't want to lose my only ally, and Kathryn swore she was going to tell, she was just going to tell it her way. And it was her news to tell. I felt like she had a right to tell who she wanted, when she wanted. And I had to admit that I liked being in the know. When you're the new kid, you never know anything, and it was nice to finally be on the inside.
It happened so fast after that. First Kathryn said she was going to tell, and then she suddenly wasn't in school. Rumors flew around the school like angry wasps. Then her picture was on the news, the pretty woman with the tight dress and big hair telling us that anyone with any information should call the police. I was trapped. Any decision to tell would be followed by "why didn't you tell us before?", so I didn't, and then came my mother, shaking, picking me up after school, the plastic smile on her face. She sat with me on our rented couch and told me Kathryn was gone, and some boy named Dean was down at the police station, and then my mother crying like I had never heard her before, not the wine induced tears after she thought I was asleep, but more deep, wracking spasms of tears that coursed out of her like she might not ever stop. She wound up with her head in my lap, her snot and drool soaking into my jeans, wailing into the afternoon and way past dinner.
I looked at the food, pasta and sandwiches and casseroles no one was eating. Kathryn's brother went outside where the girl was. A little kid came into the room. He looked enough like Kathryn I figured he had to be related. He went up to the table and reached for a cookie. He looked me over, up and down, his hand near the platter. I guess I checked out OK, because he took it, taking an enormous bite. He chewed, still looking at me.
"Don't tell," he said seriously.
"I won't," I told him.
I didn't know where to stand. I never knew where to stand. I had to be here, but I wasn't really a part of what was going on. I hardly knew anyone here. The house was full of people in dark clothes, murmuring. I walked into the kitchen, where I could see her brother talking to a thin, pretty girl with long legs in the opposite corner. My shoes made sounds on the hardwood, which made me tiptoe.
"If she had told us...," Kathryn's mother was saying in the other room. Her voice was ragged, like she had been screaming. She probably had been.
"I know, honey," my mother said. She had that soothing tone she used when she was talking to a kid. I couldn't see her, but I could picture her face. Ever since she had gotten the news, she had the same expression, all the time. It was a smile, but a thin, tight one, like she would pop if you stuck her with a pin.
"Is it true what they said?," the thin girl asked Kathryn's brother, her voice high and soft. "That she was..."
"Yeah," he said gruffly. "She was."
"Wow," the thin girl said, suddenly noticing me standing there. She sounded a little too excited, with an edge of "thank God it wasn't me."
"I'm going to go outside," she said quickly, exiting onto the porch. I watched her light a cigarette in the cold air. I didn't know how to stand, shifting my weight first one way, then another. I saw people looking at me, then looking away quickly. They didn't know what to say, which was OK, because I didn't know what to say either.
I guess I was "Kathryn's friend", but that was stretching it a little. I have moved more times than I can count, so I was used to being the new kid, but it felt like hitting the jackpot when we moved in to Edgewater Estates and found out that three doors down was a girl who was going into the same grade I was, and was also new in town. Kathryn and I found ourselves together more often than not by the end of the summer, making common cause in our mutual boredom and outcast status. Then I was a little hurt, but not exactly shocked, when school started and Kathryn started running in slightly different circles. It was okay, really, because we had been so close that a little distance was actually welcome, allowing me to try and branch out.
Two weeks ago, she had called as soon as I set foot inside my door. She told me I had to come over to her house that instant, and she couldn't tell me why. I made my way up to her bedroom, where she was sitting on her bed, cross legged. She didn't say anything, just held out a tan rectangle towards me. It looked like a thick pen, or maybe a thermometer, but when I got closer, I saw what it was, and when I took it from her and looked at the little window with the two lines on it, I nearly dropped it.
She made me swear not to tell anyone. I had heard the old lecture that there are some secrets you don't keep, that if someone is in danger, you tell, and risk the friendship to save the friend. I don't know why I didn't tell my mom immediately, except that it's always easier not to talk than to say something. I didn't want to lose my only ally, and Kathryn swore she was going to tell, she was just going to tell it her way. And it was her news to tell. I felt like she had a right to tell who she wanted, when she wanted. And I had to admit that I liked being in the know. When you're the new kid, you never know anything, and it was nice to finally be on the inside.
It happened so fast after that. First Kathryn said she was going to tell, and then she suddenly wasn't in school. Rumors flew around the school like angry wasps. Then her picture was on the news, the pretty woman with the tight dress and big hair telling us that anyone with any information should call the police. I was trapped. Any decision to tell would be followed by "why didn't you tell us before?", so I didn't, and then came my mother, shaking, picking me up after school, the plastic smile on her face. She sat with me on our rented couch and told me Kathryn was gone, and some boy named Dean was down at the police station, and then my mother crying like I had never heard her before, not the wine induced tears after she thought I was asleep, but more deep, wracking spasms of tears that coursed out of her like she might not ever stop. She wound up with her head in my lap, her snot and drool soaking into my jeans, wailing into the afternoon and way past dinner.
I looked at the food, pasta and sandwiches and casseroles no one was eating. Kathryn's brother went outside where the girl was. A little kid came into the room. He looked enough like Kathryn I figured he had to be related. He went up to the table and reached for a cookie. He looked me over, up and down, his hand near the platter. I guess I checked out OK, because he took it, taking an enormous bite. He chewed, still looking at me.
"Don't tell," he said seriously.
"I won't," I told him.
Lily Childs Feardom 100 Word Challenge: "Dunkirk"
Searching for a new 100 Word Challenge, I came across Lily Childs' Feardom, where she offers three key words on which to build a story. The words are ruby, blade, and evacuate, and my story is called "Dunkirk".
So this is where it all ends. The loft of a old barn, already starting to collapse from the fire. The sky glowed ruby red with flame. The order to evacuate sent everyone into a panic, scrambling for spots on any ship headed anywhere. The noose was tightening, the artillery explosions closer and closer. I carried in my head information that could doom others, so when escape became impossible, I had to do it. I knew enough German to know they were demanding my surrender, pounding on the door. I drew the blade against the side of my neck.
So this is where it all ends. The loft of a old barn, already starting to collapse from the fire. The sky glowed ruby red with flame. The order to evacuate sent everyone into a panic, scrambling for spots on any ship headed anywhere. The noose was tightening, the artillery explosions closer and closer. I carried in my head information that could doom others, so when escape became impossible, I had to do it. I knew enough German to know they were demanding my surrender, pounding on the door. I drew the blade against the side of my neck.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Indie Ink Writing Challenge: Did You Mean It?
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Diane challenged me with "I'm tired of being what you want me to be" and I challenged runaway sentence with "No artist should feel guilty. If you start a painting and you don't like it, you don't finish it- Truman Capote".
Her shoe made an incredibly loud sound when it hit the floor. She was sitting on our bed, looking down, her auburn hair in her face. Her ankle was across her other knee, and she was flexing and stretching her bare foot , rubbing the bottom with her knuckle. I couldn't see her expression clearly, but it looked and sounded like a grimace. Her other foot, still teetering in a strappy shoe, was on the floor. She switched legs and undid the other one, letting it fall next to its mate. For such a delicate looking construction, they made a thunk that sounded more like a work boot when they hit our bedroom floor. She rubbed the other foot the same way. I couldn't help peeking, like a naughty schoolboy, to see if I could glimpse her underwear.
"You did really well tonight," I said, unknotting my tie. I fired up the TV, which was playing ESPN silently, and started scanning the crawl for the West Coast baseball scores. She was sitting, looking down at her feet, her hair hanging loose. Her bright red toenails stood out clearly against the brown wood. I hung my tie, then slid my jacket off and onto a hanger. We had attended a charity event, awkward small talk and conversation about vacation homes amid the swells at a private golf club. It was one of those things where you had to be seen- the money people had to know you were still around.
She stood up, stretching her back out, gesturing towards the back of her neck. I knew what that meant, stepping behind her to guide the tiny black zipper down to the small of her back. She peeled the dress down off of her shoulders, then stepped out of it, placing it on its own hanger. I looked at her up and down, the black silk slip clinging to her curves, the deeper black of her bra and panties showing clearly. She looked great for someone with three kids, but that wasn't even it. She looked great, period.
I know she hates nights like this. It was all artifice and fake snobbery. She compared herself to trophy wives half her age, feeling like she had to measure up to their impossible thinness. There was hardly anyone, outside of the serving staff, our age. Nobody was up nights with a vomiting child, no one who understood the helpless crying heartbreak of the only girl not invited to the sleepover. It wasn't our friends, but it was our circle, professionally speaking. If I was going to come to them asking for funding or exploring a partnership, I had to be a face they knew. So it was into the uncomfortable clothes, and out in the night to talk to people you didn't like for reasons you didn't really understand.
She slipped the silk up and over her head, folding it carefully and placing it on a chair. Without speaking, she took my jacket down and placed it on the chair. I guess it probably is time to get those cleaned. She reached her arms back and undid her bra. I watched the tiny, sad shift as gravity took its toll on her breasts. She slid her underwear off, then walked naked to our dresser, pulling out a pair of cotton pants with bears on them, along with a t shirt from a 5K she ran while four months pregnant. I wanted to tell her she was beautiful, that I was proud of her, that I was sure she did my fledgling company good tonight, but everything I wanted to say sounded patronizing and wrong in my head.
"I know this isn't your kind of thing," I said. I noticed that Seattle had won, and I paused, waiting for the screen to flip. My pitcher, however, had not gotten the win, so the game didn't help my fantasy baseball team. Damn, I thought. Another chance to gain ground lost. I watched her tug the pants on, then pull the shirt down over herself. It was enormous and billowy on her post baby form. I wanted to touch her, but I was afraid to. There were times when she didn't want anything but silence, and I felt like this was one of those times. Maybe.
"But I appreciate the fact that you did it," I continued, unable to bear the silence. She walked across the room and into the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind her. I unbuttoned my shirt, watching the highlights play silently. A Boston outfielder went high against a wall, turning a Toronto double into an out, then the screen cut to the same outfielder slugging a ball where no one could catch it, high and deep into the left field stands. They showed the score, Boston pulling out a 7-3 win, then switched to a New York game, the big city titans slamming hits all over the place against a parade of helpless Kansas City pitchers. Starting a business felt like that sometimes- no matter what pitch you throw, someone is slamming it back at you twice as fast.
I heard the water run, and then the swish swish sound of tooth brushing. What was she thinking? I know she recognized the utility of these affairs, but I also knew how much she hated doing them. I felt guilty about it, hating how I pulled her away from her preferred Sunday night, sweatpants and thick socks and a book of poetry, into this world of illusion and makeup and the appearance of achievement. I wanted to ask her what was wrong, but I would get "nothing", and that meant everything. I took my shirt off, and then my pants and socks, climbing into my own sleep attire. It made me think of the heedless nights we spent as newlyweds, climbing into bed naked and clinging to each other for warmth as we both climbed the corporate ladder. We were now more like ships in the night, passing only enough information to keep from colliding in the dark.
She came out, her face scrubbed of makeup and devoid of expression. I followed her lead, performing my ablutions into the silence of an empty room. Somewhere else in the house, a child rolled over and a bed creaked in response. I heard the whispering thud of one of our cats moving in response to the sudden noise. I should feel pride, putting in all this effort to sustain this little family, this tiny nugget of home in a sea of other people's problems. I washed my own face, and brushed my own teeth. I came out to the flashing shadows of ESPN playing over my wife's form. She had pulled the blanket up tight, which I knew meant she was done with me, with all of us, for the night. Nothing short of tears would get her up now.
I watched the screen, a coach tearfully resigning after a recruiting scandal. There was a touch of cruelty to it, the baying press corps demanding answers. You never know how hard it is to be someone else, what challenges they faced, what secret reasons they had for their misdeeds. My wife was curled up tight, on her left side, facing away from the door, away from my side of the bed. I wanted to tell her I appreciated her efforts in putting up with this nonsense, but I knew what she would say. Probably a simple, "I know," or a curt, "Go to sleep," or an aggressive, "So what? I still have to go to the stupid things." I looked down at her as the changing images bathed her in different colors of light. I didn't say anything, listening for the relaxing shift of her breathing that meant she was asleep.
"I'm sorry," I wanted to say to her sleeping form. I'm sorry I took the quiet girl with the funky glasses and took her away into a world where she didn't belong. I'm sorry I made you into someone you're not. I'm sorry my world casts a shadow into yours. I'm sorry that I made you fake it. I'm sorry that, like a coach trying to recruit a player, you have to say things you know aren't true. I know she signed up for it, I know she promised that whatever came with it, she'd swallow it as long as it meant she would be with me. I know she said that when she said she'd marry me.
I pulled the covers back, turned off the TV, and climbed into bed. I laid down on my left side, looking at the nape of her neck and the curve of her hip under the blanket. "I wonder if you meant it," I whispered to myself.
Her shoe made an incredibly loud sound when it hit the floor. She was sitting on our bed, looking down, her auburn hair in her face. Her ankle was across her other knee, and she was flexing and stretching her bare foot , rubbing the bottom with her knuckle. I couldn't see her expression clearly, but it looked and sounded like a grimace. Her other foot, still teetering in a strappy shoe, was on the floor. She switched legs and undid the other one, letting it fall next to its mate. For such a delicate looking construction, they made a thunk that sounded more like a work boot when they hit our bedroom floor. She rubbed the other foot the same way. I couldn't help peeking, like a naughty schoolboy, to see if I could glimpse her underwear.
"You did really well tonight," I said, unknotting my tie. I fired up the TV, which was playing ESPN silently, and started scanning the crawl for the West Coast baseball scores. She was sitting, looking down at her feet, her hair hanging loose. Her bright red toenails stood out clearly against the brown wood. I hung my tie, then slid my jacket off and onto a hanger. We had attended a charity event, awkward small talk and conversation about vacation homes amid the swells at a private golf club. It was one of those things where you had to be seen- the money people had to know you were still around.
She stood up, stretching her back out, gesturing towards the back of her neck. I knew what that meant, stepping behind her to guide the tiny black zipper down to the small of her back. She peeled the dress down off of her shoulders, then stepped out of it, placing it on its own hanger. I looked at her up and down, the black silk slip clinging to her curves, the deeper black of her bra and panties showing clearly. She looked great for someone with three kids, but that wasn't even it. She looked great, period.
I know she hates nights like this. It was all artifice and fake snobbery. She compared herself to trophy wives half her age, feeling like she had to measure up to their impossible thinness. There was hardly anyone, outside of the serving staff, our age. Nobody was up nights with a vomiting child, no one who understood the helpless crying heartbreak of the only girl not invited to the sleepover. It wasn't our friends, but it was our circle, professionally speaking. If I was going to come to them asking for funding or exploring a partnership, I had to be a face they knew. So it was into the uncomfortable clothes, and out in the night to talk to people you didn't like for reasons you didn't really understand.
She slipped the silk up and over her head, folding it carefully and placing it on a chair. Without speaking, she took my jacket down and placed it on the chair. I guess it probably is time to get those cleaned. She reached her arms back and undid her bra. I watched the tiny, sad shift as gravity took its toll on her breasts. She slid her underwear off, then walked naked to our dresser, pulling out a pair of cotton pants with bears on them, along with a t shirt from a 5K she ran while four months pregnant. I wanted to tell her she was beautiful, that I was proud of her, that I was sure she did my fledgling company good tonight, but everything I wanted to say sounded patronizing and wrong in my head.
"I know this isn't your kind of thing," I said. I noticed that Seattle had won, and I paused, waiting for the screen to flip. My pitcher, however, had not gotten the win, so the game didn't help my fantasy baseball team. Damn, I thought. Another chance to gain ground lost. I watched her tug the pants on, then pull the shirt down over herself. It was enormous and billowy on her post baby form. I wanted to touch her, but I was afraid to. There were times when she didn't want anything but silence, and I felt like this was one of those times. Maybe.
"But I appreciate the fact that you did it," I continued, unable to bear the silence. She walked across the room and into the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind her. I unbuttoned my shirt, watching the highlights play silently. A Boston outfielder went high against a wall, turning a Toronto double into an out, then the screen cut to the same outfielder slugging a ball where no one could catch it, high and deep into the left field stands. They showed the score, Boston pulling out a 7-3 win, then switched to a New York game, the big city titans slamming hits all over the place against a parade of helpless Kansas City pitchers. Starting a business felt like that sometimes- no matter what pitch you throw, someone is slamming it back at you twice as fast.
I heard the water run, and then the swish swish sound of tooth brushing. What was she thinking? I know she recognized the utility of these affairs, but I also knew how much she hated doing them. I felt guilty about it, hating how I pulled her away from her preferred Sunday night, sweatpants and thick socks and a book of poetry, into this world of illusion and makeup and the appearance of achievement. I wanted to ask her what was wrong, but I would get "nothing", and that meant everything. I took my shirt off, and then my pants and socks, climbing into my own sleep attire. It made me think of the heedless nights we spent as newlyweds, climbing into bed naked and clinging to each other for warmth as we both climbed the corporate ladder. We were now more like ships in the night, passing only enough information to keep from colliding in the dark.
She came out, her face scrubbed of makeup and devoid of expression. I followed her lead, performing my ablutions into the silence of an empty room. Somewhere else in the house, a child rolled over and a bed creaked in response. I heard the whispering thud of one of our cats moving in response to the sudden noise. I should feel pride, putting in all this effort to sustain this little family, this tiny nugget of home in a sea of other people's problems. I washed my own face, and brushed my own teeth. I came out to the flashing shadows of ESPN playing over my wife's form. She had pulled the blanket up tight, which I knew meant she was done with me, with all of us, for the night. Nothing short of tears would get her up now.
I watched the screen, a coach tearfully resigning after a recruiting scandal. There was a touch of cruelty to it, the baying press corps demanding answers. You never know how hard it is to be someone else, what challenges they faced, what secret reasons they had for their misdeeds. My wife was curled up tight, on her left side, facing away from the door, away from my side of the bed. I wanted to tell her I appreciated her efforts in putting up with this nonsense, but I knew what she would say. Probably a simple, "I know," or a curt, "Go to sleep," or an aggressive, "So what? I still have to go to the stupid things." I looked down at her as the changing images bathed her in different colors of light. I didn't say anything, listening for the relaxing shift of her breathing that meant she was asleep.
"I'm sorry," I wanted to say to her sleeping form. I'm sorry I took the quiet girl with the funky glasses and took her away into a world where she didn't belong. I'm sorry I made you into someone you're not. I'm sorry my world casts a shadow into yours. I'm sorry that I made you fake it. I'm sorry that, like a coach trying to recruit a player, you have to say things you know aren't true. I know she signed up for it, I know she promised that whatever came with it, she'd swallow it as long as it meant she would be with me. I know she said that when she said she'd marry me.
I pulled the covers back, turned off the TV, and climbed into bed. I laid down on my left side, looking at the nape of her neck and the curve of her hip under the blanket. "I wonder if you meant it," I whispered to myself.
Terrible Minds Challenge: "Cornered"
Chuck Wendig, creator of flash fiction challenges and human life, has issued a three sentence flash fiction challenge to go with Bear71, a Sundance New Frontier documentary about, well, a bear. My story is called "Cornered".
I felt more than I saw my two companions on either side of me as we closed in on it, trapping it against the white rotting hulk of a fallen tree. It was trembling, its eyes focusing on each of us in turn as it registered the fact that we had all the angles covered and there was no escape. Hunger gnawed at the base of my skull as I imagined the way it would taste when we finally closed the gap and ended the chase.
I felt more than I saw my two companions on either side of me as we closed in on it, trapping it against the white rotting hulk of a fallen tree. It was trembling, its eyes focusing on each of us in turn as it registered the fact that we had all the angles covered and there was no escape. Hunger gnawed at the base of my skull as I imagined the way it would taste when we finally closed the gap and ended the chase.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Three Hundred Dollar Shoes (Indie Ink Writing Challenge)
When I was a girl, my father used to drive me and my sisters up to my grandfather's house every Sunday. Looking back on it now, I think he just wanted to get the heck away from my mother, but of course, that wasn't at all clear to us then. We were kind of left to our own devices once we got there. Dad helped Grandpa with various tasks around the house, Sara and Claire would usually play with dolls, or color in front of the TV, while I usually went walking. Grandfather's house was on the side of a hill, with a small, defiant creek running down a gorge on one side which separated his property from the state land on the other side.
I found the creek very soothing, watching the burbling water sweep leaves and chunks of wood and other debris downstream away from me. I would throw small sticks in, watching them take off down the hill, or I would take bark and rocks and actually try to dam up the rushing stream. With my shoes and socks carefully out of reach, I would wade in, building away, trying to stop time, block progress. Once in a while I would get enough obstacles in the way that, for a brief shining moment, it would hold, the water pooling above me, the stream slowing to a trickle, or even, for a second, stopping entirely.
But no matter what engineering tricks I tried, eventually a tiny imperfection would emerge. A stick used to brace it would bend, or a slab of bark would fall over, or the rocks I so carefully stacked in the cold water would shift, revealing a tiny pin hole that got bigger and bigger until the water beat me again, rushing past, restored to its former path, no longer a pool but a straight, rushing line, soaking the hem of my jean shorts as I watched in fascination. I kept trying, but I never defeated it.
I had been thinking about that stream all week. It wasn't very deep, but it was indefatigable- it just kept on going, and going. It wasn't the force of any individual drop, but instead the combined pressure of all the water that found a way past any blockage my preteen mind could dream up. That was the way my life was starting to feel- it wasn't any individual problem or issue, but the weight of all of them, work and school and marriage and kids and friends and family, that was starting to make me feel like a dam holding back forces beyond my control.
This morning, it began with Brenna's clothing related tantrum, then the middle one's leaving the homework on her desk again, requiring a sudden reversal and return to the house, making me late again. It was the way Steven's eyes wandered up and down my unemployed sister's body as she came over to watch the youngest, home sick from school. It was the bulging in box, clearly indicating that no one had picked up any slack for me on my vacation. It was the constant interruptions, bringing me well past lunch before I could call a single task finished. It was the long discussion of the latest starlet in the news that derailed any thoughts of work being done by my colleagues as the afternoon dragged on. It was the fact that Steven hardly touched me, and the way I admitted to myself that it was better that way, since I was too tired to do anything about it. It was the email kindly informing me that my checking account was overdrawn, and the notice from my online MBA class that my project was unacceptable and had to be resubmitted. It was my mother's criticisms she tells to my sister, but not to me, and my friend Sherry insisting I am flirting with her husband. It was feeling dead inside, like an extra in a zombie movie, just eating and excreting. My eyes started to swim, so I closed them briefly. All I could see was red.
I could feel myself beginning to flush, and my head started to pound. I felt the scary edges of panic, and I suddenly needed, intensely, to be alone. I could feel tears coming, and I straightened up from my desk. I will be damned if I show these people any weakness, I thought as I saw Jacob, the rotund, lecherous head of my section, gesturing to me over the top of our cubicles. He was beckoning me closer, indicating his office. He had already outlined the mountain of work I had to catch up on. I found it hard to believe anything could be gained by him going over it again with me in private. Unless he wanted to watch me cross my legs in his chair.
"Come here, Beck, I need to talk with you."
I held up one finger, indicating I needed a minute.
"Now, Becky," he said, trying to sound stern and managerial, I guess. It came out sounding like your father giving you one final warning before you get a spanking.
"Give me a moment," I said weakly. I could hear the tears at the edge of my tone. Goddammit, not now. I pushed my chair back with one calf, setting my face in stone, like when I was in high school and a boy had turned me down.
"This can't wait," he said, sounding sterner, and coming closer, edging his way down the row towards me. I could hear the tinny buzz of my cell phone going off in my purse, and the ping of another email in my inbox.
What happened next was kind of like the stream finally finding the weak spot in the jerry rigged dams of my youth. It had been building all day, all month- all year, really. I finally reached my capacity, my maximum tolerance for everything. I had been taking tae kwan do classes for almost 6 months in the vain hope that some exercise would both trim my widening hips and change my attitude some, so I suppose that kind of explained it. It was unlike anything I've ever done before, and certainly something I'll never do again. It happened so fast I even surprised myself.
What happened was a gutteral, banshee yell of, "NO!", as loud and strong and powerful as I could make it, a single syllable edging into hysteria at the edges. In a flash, I threw a punch, a simple, short quick right hand jab, just like they taught me. It was a good one, too- powerful and crisp, right through the center of my computer's monitor, which promptly shattered into a billion tiny little shards of glass. I looked down at it strangely, as if I wasn't sure whose hand that was, buried in the electronic innards, with the rivulets of blood running down the forearm. I remember listening to the silence. You could hear the fax machine whirring in the corner, and the fan on the copier blowing, but no one stirred. I could hear my sobbing echoing wierdly in the emptiness. Jacob was frozen in midstride, staring at me with a look of shock and horror on his fat face. Despite the awkward silence, I felt a tiny sliver of relief as the emotions rushed out of me.
It all blurred after that. Someone called 911, and the police came, and then an ambulance. They led me away into the hall, still dripping blood, finally putting me on a stretcher when I admitted feeling faint. I was taken to the hospital, a female cop with her hair in a tight bun following me every step of the way. They left me in what looked like a standard partition, except unlike most ERs, they checked on me about every fifteen minutes or so. Eventually they got enough of the glass out so they could put me into a hospital gown, piling my blood stained suit on a chair in the room with me. Every time I asked about calling my husband, or talking to my kids, or when I could go home, they assured me, with broad, fake smiles, that they would take care of it. I could see my shoes on the floor underneath my clothes, one tipped over on its side, a blot of blood now darkening to almost purple on the toe. I sat there on the gurney, fluids and antibiotics flowing into my veins, men and women in various shades of blue and pink and red and brown scrubs popping their heads in to look at me, then leaving again.
That stain better some out, I thought. Those shoes cost me almost three hundred dollars.
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Kurt challenged me with "If it keeps on raining, the levee's gonna break," and I challenged Lisa with "If you don't know, man, then there's no pain, that's how I express it-John Lennon".
I found the creek very soothing, watching the burbling water sweep leaves and chunks of wood and other debris downstream away from me. I would throw small sticks in, watching them take off down the hill, or I would take bark and rocks and actually try to dam up the rushing stream. With my shoes and socks carefully out of reach, I would wade in, building away, trying to stop time, block progress. Once in a while I would get enough obstacles in the way that, for a brief shining moment, it would hold, the water pooling above me, the stream slowing to a trickle, or even, for a second, stopping entirely.
But no matter what engineering tricks I tried, eventually a tiny imperfection would emerge. A stick used to brace it would bend, or a slab of bark would fall over, or the rocks I so carefully stacked in the cold water would shift, revealing a tiny pin hole that got bigger and bigger until the water beat me again, rushing past, restored to its former path, no longer a pool but a straight, rushing line, soaking the hem of my jean shorts as I watched in fascination. I kept trying, but I never defeated it.
I had been thinking about that stream all week. It wasn't very deep, but it was indefatigable- it just kept on going, and going. It wasn't the force of any individual drop, but instead the combined pressure of all the water that found a way past any blockage my preteen mind could dream up. That was the way my life was starting to feel- it wasn't any individual problem or issue, but the weight of all of them, work and school and marriage and kids and friends and family, that was starting to make me feel like a dam holding back forces beyond my control.
This morning, it began with Brenna's clothing related tantrum, then the middle one's leaving the homework on her desk again, requiring a sudden reversal and return to the house, making me late again. It was the way Steven's eyes wandered up and down my unemployed sister's body as she came over to watch the youngest, home sick from school. It was the bulging in box, clearly indicating that no one had picked up any slack for me on my vacation. It was the constant interruptions, bringing me well past lunch before I could call a single task finished. It was the long discussion of the latest starlet in the news that derailed any thoughts of work being done by my colleagues as the afternoon dragged on. It was the fact that Steven hardly touched me, and the way I admitted to myself that it was better that way, since I was too tired to do anything about it. It was the email kindly informing me that my checking account was overdrawn, and the notice from my online MBA class that my project was unacceptable and had to be resubmitted. It was my mother's criticisms she tells to my sister, but not to me, and my friend Sherry insisting I am flirting with her husband. It was feeling dead inside, like an extra in a zombie movie, just eating and excreting. My eyes started to swim, so I closed them briefly. All I could see was red.
I could feel myself beginning to flush, and my head started to pound. I felt the scary edges of panic, and I suddenly needed, intensely, to be alone. I could feel tears coming, and I straightened up from my desk. I will be damned if I show these people any weakness, I thought as I saw Jacob, the rotund, lecherous head of my section, gesturing to me over the top of our cubicles. He was beckoning me closer, indicating his office. He had already outlined the mountain of work I had to catch up on. I found it hard to believe anything could be gained by him going over it again with me in private. Unless he wanted to watch me cross my legs in his chair.
"Come here, Beck, I need to talk with you."
I held up one finger, indicating I needed a minute.
"Now, Becky," he said, trying to sound stern and managerial, I guess. It came out sounding like your father giving you one final warning before you get a spanking.
"Give me a moment," I said weakly. I could hear the tears at the edge of my tone. Goddammit, not now. I pushed my chair back with one calf, setting my face in stone, like when I was in high school and a boy had turned me down.
"This can't wait," he said, sounding sterner, and coming closer, edging his way down the row towards me. I could hear the tinny buzz of my cell phone going off in my purse, and the ping of another email in my inbox.
What happened next was kind of like the stream finally finding the weak spot in the jerry rigged dams of my youth. It had been building all day, all month- all year, really. I finally reached my capacity, my maximum tolerance for everything. I had been taking tae kwan do classes for almost 6 months in the vain hope that some exercise would both trim my widening hips and change my attitude some, so I suppose that kind of explained it. It was unlike anything I've ever done before, and certainly something I'll never do again. It happened so fast I even surprised myself.
What happened was a gutteral, banshee yell of, "NO!", as loud and strong and powerful as I could make it, a single syllable edging into hysteria at the edges. In a flash, I threw a punch, a simple, short quick right hand jab, just like they taught me. It was a good one, too- powerful and crisp, right through the center of my computer's monitor, which promptly shattered into a billion tiny little shards of glass. I looked down at it strangely, as if I wasn't sure whose hand that was, buried in the electronic innards, with the rivulets of blood running down the forearm. I remember listening to the silence. You could hear the fax machine whirring in the corner, and the fan on the copier blowing, but no one stirred. I could hear my sobbing echoing wierdly in the emptiness. Jacob was frozen in midstride, staring at me with a look of shock and horror on his fat face. Despite the awkward silence, I felt a tiny sliver of relief as the emotions rushed out of me.
It all blurred after that. Someone called 911, and the police came, and then an ambulance. They led me away into the hall, still dripping blood, finally putting me on a stretcher when I admitted feeling faint. I was taken to the hospital, a female cop with her hair in a tight bun following me every step of the way. They left me in what looked like a standard partition, except unlike most ERs, they checked on me about every fifteen minutes or so. Eventually they got enough of the glass out so they could put me into a hospital gown, piling my blood stained suit on a chair in the room with me. Every time I asked about calling my husband, or talking to my kids, or when I could go home, they assured me, with broad, fake smiles, that they would take care of it. I could see my shoes on the floor underneath my clothes, one tipped over on its side, a blot of blood now darkening to almost purple on the toe. I sat there on the gurney, fluids and antibiotics flowing into my veins, men and women in various shades of blue and pink and red and brown scrubs popping their heads in to look at me, then leaving again.
That stain better some out, I thought. Those shoes cost me almost three hundred dollars.
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Kurt challenged me with "If it keeps on raining, the levee's gonna break," and I challenged Lisa with "If you don't know, man, then there's no pain, that's how I express it-John Lennon".
Friday, January 06, 2012
Terrible Minds Challenge: "Message In A Bottle"
Chuck Wendig had thrown down the gauntlet again, asking his loyal minions to write a 500 word story using the title of the next song to come up on your IPod as the title. Mine was "Message In A Bottle" by the Police. The inspiration is actually from another Police song, interestingly. 10 points if you know which one.
I was sitting there and deliberately tearing the labels of my beer bottles, carefully isolating the letters and leaving them face up in front of me on the bar top. There weren't that many letters on a beer label that were big enough to read. But then again, I had consumed more than one. It was a clear enough example of instability that the bartenders hovered close, ready for me to do something dramatic, like swing a punch at someone. I didn't do that, just kept tearing and ripping, arranging my little alphabet on the bar surface.
I love words and letters. Always have. Like every English teacher I know, I have a virtual drawer full of stories and novels, finished and not, submitted and rejected works of genius and folly. I read voraciously, pun incessantly, play Words With Friends. Fonts fascinate me. Whenever backed into a corner by lies I have told or actions I have taken unwisely, I have been able to use some fast talking and clever wordplay to get out of danger, generally speaking. Until last month, I reminded myself.
It was unforgivable, and yet I did it anyway. It was, ironically enough, not even a crime. She was two weeks past her eighteenth birthday, and, since all grades had been submitted, we in theory didn't even have a teacher-student relationship any more. It was creepy, sure. It crossed all sorts of boundaries, pedagogical and moral and ethical. It raised questions, that was the main thing- and once the media got a hold of it, thanks to one of her jealous little friends, all they cared about was containing the damage and making it go away. They paid me a decent sum, along with an ironclad confidentiality agreement, not to fight my dismissal from the Hampshire Hills School.
I guess I was too dazed by the spotlight to fully intuit what I was doing to myself, because I soon realized I was utterly unemployable. When you type my name into Google, the first several pages are references to "Hampshire Hills' Humbert ". I appreciated the way that it took my starting a sex scandal to get Nabokov's novel some attention. I was no Humbert, of course- my nymphet was a woman, legally and otherwise. But as with everything else this summer, it didn't matter what I said, or what the truth was- I was judged before I could clear my throat.
I didn't know how much longer I could drink away the hush money. I knew I had had too much, though- the edges of the letters in front of me were starting to swim. I was, in the words of Paul Simon, a one trick pony- all I knew how to do, all I cared about and loved and lived for, was literature and words and letters and sentences and showing people how to appreciate them.
I looked down at the letters on the bar. "GONE," they spelled.
I was sitting there and deliberately tearing the labels of my beer bottles, carefully isolating the letters and leaving them face up in front of me on the bar top. There weren't that many letters on a beer label that were big enough to read. But then again, I had consumed more than one. It was a clear enough example of instability that the bartenders hovered close, ready for me to do something dramatic, like swing a punch at someone. I didn't do that, just kept tearing and ripping, arranging my little alphabet on the bar surface.
I love words and letters. Always have. Like every English teacher I know, I have a virtual drawer full of stories and novels, finished and not, submitted and rejected works of genius and folly. I read voraciously, pun incessantly, play Words With Friends. Fonts fascinate me. Whenever backed into a corner by lies I have told or actions I have taken unwisely, I have been able to use some fast talking and clever wordplay to get out of danger, generally speaking. Until last month, I reminded myself.
It was unforgivable, and yet I did it anyway. It was, ironically enough, not even a crime. She was two weeks past her eighteenth birthday, and, since all grades had been submitted, we in theory didn't even have a teacher-student relationship any more. It was creepy, sure. It crossed all sorts of boundaries, pedagogical and moral and ethical. It raised questions, that was the main thing- and once the media got a hold of it, thanks to one of her jealous little friends, all they cared about was containing the damage and making it go away. They paid me a decent sum, along with an ironclad confidentiality agreement, not to fight my dismissal from the Hampshire Hills School.
I guess I was too dazed by the spotlight to fully intuit what I was doing to myself, because I soon realized I was utterly unemployable. When you type my name into Google, the first several pages are references to "Hampshire Hills' Humbert ". I appreciated the way that it took my starting a sex scandal to get Nabokov's novel some attention. I was no Humbert, of course- my nymphet was a woman, legally and otherwise. But as with everything else this summer, it didn't matter what I said, or what the truth was- I was judged before I could clear my throat.
I didn't know how much longer I could drink away the hush money. I knew I had had too much, though- the edges of the letters in front of me were starting to swim. I was, in the words of Paul Simon, a one trick pony- all I knew how to do, all I cared about and loved and lived for, was literature and words and letters and sentences and showing people how to appreciate them.
I looked down at the letters on the bar. "GONE," they spelled.
Thursday, January 05, 2012
Terrible Minds Challenge: "August 21"
Chuck Wendig, everyone's favorite biped, is up with another flash fiction challenge, 1000 words or less with a theme, once again, of the subgenre mashup. This piece is intended to mix bodice ripper and spy story, and is called "August 21".
21 August 1863
Baltimore, Maryland
Beloved Cordelia,
My dear sister! How I long to hear your voice around the dinner table, reciting our prayers and joking with Uncle Paul about his wooden leg! I came North only reluctantly, as I told you so many times, to engage in the task asked of me, not out of any disfavor towards you or my beloved Mississippi. God has favored me in my endeavors, and I can only hope that the information I have gathered can help end this senseless war and bring independence to our Confederacy.
Please see on the back side of this page the indications I have been given about the intentions of the Yankee armies. When I was knee high to a grasshopper, you and Mother both told me that women were by far the stronger sex, and my life experience has never shown me the contrary. These Yankee boys are so weak, like ripe apples- tough on the outside but so soft and vulnerable just underneath. Sister of mine, those tricks you used on boys to get them to act as you desired work as well on Yankee men as they do on our Southern brothers. Show a flash of decolletage, some rose oil applied strategically, a bit of leg, and help relieve them of their bodily burden, and a man will tell you anything. In the period after the act of love, when they are done sweating and grunting, men grow so weary, which makes them receptive to whatever questions I pose. (I remember you trying to explain to me the ways of women and men, and blushing so furiously you looked like a rose! I now understand of which you were trying to tell me- understand far too well, I fear.)
I'm sure you are aware that, if these letters are intercepted by Yankee officials, it will be a simple matter to track them to me and have me hung for treason. I am not ashamed of what I have done. If the advantages gained from my letters allow General Lee to throw the invader from our sacred soil, then no deed I have done, from lying on my back underneath these wretches, or even a date with the noose, will have been in vain. As I always remind you, give the numbers and details I have learned to Major Boothroyd of the Home Guards. I have it on good authority he knows how to circulate the facts to the right parties so that our brave fighting men and our noble generals can use it to their advantage. I can only hope that something I have learned will help a Southern boy return to home and hearth, instead of being buried underneath Yankee boots.
Baltimore is hot today, and the Lord has seen fit to favor us with a thunderstorm as night falls, which has cooled the air off marvelously. Tell me of doings in town! Peter Collier's sister Nelly told me that darling Ruth took ill. Has my niece returned to health? Are the shortages still as bad as you described in your last missive? Have you been receiving any gentleman callers? Nelly wrote to tell me that Michael Swansee has been pitching woo at you. I know you miss your darling David since his loss after Manassas. But dear sister, woman and man are meant to be together- put aside your grief and woe, and let Michael mend your heart. Ruth and Felicity need a father in the house, and Michael is a good man. Please consider my words carefully- as your younger sister, I dare not lecture you. But my concern is for your health and safety, and of your little darlings. (I hesitate to add the other comforts a man can bring to a woman- details I now know much of, but modesty forbids my explaining them fully.)
Don't worry about me, dear Cordelia. The Lord will reign in all things, large and small, and if my acts are sinful, they are only in the service of defeating a much greater evil, that of living under the heel of Yankee domination. I have faith that Almighty God knows why I engage in these acts, and His will shall be done, without heed to the concerns of mortals. I always post my letters secretly, and with all the other pages I have included, the true meaning of this one sheet will be obscured, I trust. I promise I shall write again when September dawns- if you have not seen word from me by the end of that month, some cruel fate has befallen me.
Kiss the girls for me, and pray that my duties here will be foreshortened by the end of this awful war.
Your loving sister,
Annalee
21 August 1863
Baltimore, Maryland
Beloved Cordelia,
My dear sister! How I long to hear your voice around the dinner table, reciting our prayers and joking with Uncle Paul about his wooden leg! I came North only reluctantly, as I told you so many times, to engage in the task asked of me, not out of any disfavor towards you or my beloved Mississippi. God has favored me in my endeavors, and I can only hope that the information I have gathered can help end this senseless war and bring independence to our Confederacy.
Please see on the back side of this page the indications I have been given about the intentions of the Yankee armies. When I was knee high to a grasshopper, you and Mother both told me that women were by far the stronger sex, and my life experience has never shown me the contrary. These Yankee boys are so weak, like ripe apples- tough on the outside but so soft and vulnerable just underneath. Sister of mine, those tricks you used on boys to get them to act as you desired work as well on Yankee men as they do on our Southern brothers. Show a flash of decolletage, some rose oil applied strategically, a bit of leg, and help relieve them of their bodily burden, and a man will tell you anything. In the period after the act of love, when they are done sweating and grunting, men grow so weary, which makes them receptive to whatever questions I pose. (I remember you trying to explain to me the ways of women and men, and blushing so furiously you looked like a rose! I now understand of which you were trying to tell me- understand far too well, I fear.)
I'm sure you are aware that, if these letters are intercepted by Yankee officials, it will be a simple matter to track them to me and have me hung for treason. I am not ashamed of what I have done. If the advantages gained from my letters allow General Lee to throw the invader from our sacred soil, then no deed I have done, from lying on my back underneath these wretches, or even a date with the noose, will have been in vain. As I always remind you, give the numbers and details I have learned to Major Boothroyd of the Home Guards. I have it on good authority he knows how to circulate the facts to the right parties so that our brave fighting men and our noble generals can use it to their advantage. I can only hope that something I have learned will help a Southern boy return to home and hearth, instead of being buried underneath Yankee boots.
Baltimore is hot today, and the Lord has seen fit to favor us with a thunderstorm as night falls, which has cooled the air off marvelously. Tell me of doings in town! Peter Collier's sister Nelly told me that darling Ruth took ill. Has my niece returned to health? Are the shortages still as bad as you described in your last missive? Have you been receiving any gentleman callers? Nelly wrote to tell me that Michael Swansee has been pitching woo at you. I know you miss your darling David since his loss after Manassas. But dear sister, woman and man are meant to be together- put aside your grief and woe, and let Michael mend your heart. Ruth and Felicity need a father in the house, and Michael is a good man. Please consider my words carefully- as your younger sister, I dare not lecture you. But my concern is for your health and safety, and of your little darlings. (I hesitate to add the other comforts a man can bring to a woman- details I now know much of, but modesty forbids my explaining them fully.)
Don't worry about me, dear Cordelia. The Lord will reign in all things, large and small, and if my acts are sinful, they are only in the service of defeating a much greater evil, that of living under the heel of Yankee domination. I have faith that Almighty God knows why I engage in these acts, and His will shall be done, without heed to the concerns of mortals. I always post my letters secretly, and with all the other pages I have included, the true meaning of this one sheet will be obscured, I trust. I promise I shall write again when September dawns- if you have not seen word from me by the end of that month, some cruel fate has befallen me.
Kiss the girls for me, and pray that my duties here will be foreshortened by the end of this awful war.
Your loving sister,
Annalee
Wednesday, January 04, 2012
"Money (That's What I Want)" (Flash Fiction Friday)
The First Flash Fiction Friday of 2012 involves a countdown, and has to include the words three, night, wire, sweat, and run. My entry is called "Money (That's What I Want)"
I started listening to music when I run as soon as I got a Walkman. When I was transferred to Moscow in the late spring, I made sure that was the first thing I packed in my suitcase, even though wiser heads insisted to me that someone would steal it as soon as they saw me, a 5 foot nothing waif with short brown hair and the strength of limp spaghetti, toting such sophisticated Western gear in the heart of World Communism. But my Walkman and I survived the trip, and soon I was running around Moscow listening to my favorite tapes. The locals stared at first, but eventually the "crazy American girl" became just another part of the endless days.
I was only a typist, taking handwritten notes and typing them up for the file. I didn't know, or care to know, what the abbreviations and code words and vague phrases were. We all knew we were among some CIA types, and we were all carefully instructed that every Soviet citizen would probably assume we were. So we just went about our business as normally as we possibly could, never going out at night alone, hanging around with other Americans.
I had changed into my running clothes, starting some long, slow stretches while deciding which three tapes to bring on my journey. I felt eyes on my back and straightened up quickly.
"Nelson? I need a favor." It was Tom Jenkins, who didn't have any fixed job, but was always drinking coffee in the cafeteria when I came in there. He was paunchy, divorced and bitter, and had made a half hearted pass at me when I first started at this post.
"What is it, Tom?" I played it cool. I didn't mind helping him, even if it was awkward. If I had to pick up something in a shop, I could take it slow, a welcome respite from typing up more memos.
"You run through Scruffy Park, right?" That was our institutional name for the small grassy area across the street from the consulate.
"Yup."
"You know that bench on the south side, near the rock that looks like Snoopy?," he asked.
"The one with the wire fence in front of it?"
"That's the one. Do you run by there?"
"I can. I go all different ways."
"Do you usually?"
"Like I said," I said, sounding impatient. "Sometimes I do. I vary my paths. I probably run by it twice a day, depending on which way I go."
"OK," he said softly. "I don't normally do this, but I need to be somewhere, right now, so I need you to do this for me." He held up a cylinder that looked like a tube of lipstick, with a wire sticking out of the top. "Look around the base of the bench, on the ground. Tie your shoe, stretch, change tapes, whatever you need to do. If you see something that looks like this, grab it and bring it back here. Stick it in your sock or something. If anyone notices you, or says anything, or if things seem suspicious, pull the wire out." He yanked on the wire, and I heard a hiss. A tiny curlicue of smoke left the side of the device and curled up towards the ceiling. "Then throw it away."
"What's in it?"
"Can't tell you."
"What happens when you pull the wire?"
"Can't tell you."
"Am I being a spy?"
"Can't tell you."
"And I'm supposed to do this for you why?"
"I need you to. We need you to. I can't tell you why, but this is important." He looked a little pitiful. I was nervous, but I couldn't resist the temptation to play secret agent for a moment. Plus having a favor I could call in wouldn't hurt. I agreed, and timed my route so I would be at the right place at the right time.
I had a good layer of sweat going when I rounded the last corner before the bench. There wasn't anyone else nearby, so I figured it would be safe to make the pickup. I had chosen "With The Beatles", knowing that I would come to the end of it 33 minutes into my run, knowing I would have to stop and change tapes, and I could scan the bench area when I did so. I had three minutes, about the length of the last song, "(Money) That's What I Want", to cover the quarter mile before the bench.
I half chuckled at the thought, as I headed down the last straightaway. Three minutes. A song about money, performed by young men who would go on to become some of the richest men who ever lived, pounding through my ears as I ran through the center of the workers' paradise, where wealth was supposedly abolished. I marvelled at the young, hungry John Lennon vocal- someone who lived in the lap of luxury in New York City, yet once was as utopian as the best Soviet dreamer.
Two minutes to go, as the next verse began. What was I actually doing? I wasn't a spy, I was a typist. Thirsting after the adventure got me to say yes without really thinking about it. What if they were watching the bench? I really don't know anything, so it's not like I can spill any secrets. The worst case scenario is I get sent home in disgrace and wind up typing for Vogue or something. It would still be scary, even while I know nothing bad would really happen- no torture, no lasers pointed at my crotch like in Goldfinger.
One minute. The piano came back in as the young Beatles brought the R+B standard home. I was getting near the bench. If they had dropped something nearby, it had to be a little while ago. I heard the song end as I began scanning the base of the bench. There were a few leaves and some scraps of paper. There was some encrusted dirt where the bench was bolted into the sidewalk, and a hunk of metal which may have been a screw at one point. I looked for the telltale plastic cylinder as I stopped, fumbling in my pocket for a second cassette. Was that it, by the back corner? It looked well used, beaten and scratched, and there was indeed a wire at the top. I walked around to the back of the bench, doing tiny stretches and leans, trying to keep my muscles loose in the still cold spring air.
In an instant of inspiration, I dropped the cassette, the new solo George Harrison album that Marcy had mailed to me, at my feet. As I bent to pick it up, I palmed the canister, which was cold to the touch. I changed tapes, jogging in place while I whipped my head around. Nobody in sight. Was I being a spy? Was there some secret document in here? Or was this all a ruse? I wouldn't put it past Tom to prank the new girl.
It seemed clear. No sirens, no policemen yelling, no commotion of any kind. It was a short jog back to the embassy, leaving the parcel on Tom's desk, then a quick, hot shower and back to my desk. My mind whirled at the possibilities. Had I just won the Cold War? Or was Tom just communicating with a secret Russian girlfriend? I started back towards the corner, looking at a tired looking gray taxi at the corner, its engine running, a Marine guard staring at it impassively. I pulled my ID out from my pocket, feeling the smooth plastic of my secret container. The guards all knew our faces, but we showed the ID anyway, just in case anyone ever checked. I was almost there, ¾ of the way across the street. Home sweet home, I thought, wondering what kind of a story this would back back in Virginia at Thanksgiving. They'll never believe me, I thought- little Ellie, engaged in spycraft, just like James Bond. I looked at the guard's face. It was one of the cuter ones, a blond who seldom spoke. I tried to give him a smile, knowing that my sweaty, sloppy ponytail was not exactly pinup material. I had almost made the gate, hoping all the salad wasn't gone from the cafeteria.
I saw the taxi leaving the sidewalk on my right, and I was steps away from safety. Was this it? Were they going to whack me with the car as an "accident"? Would I be a silly footnote in a buried CIA file? Was this the end? The cute guard was moving to open the gate for me. I was almost to the sidewalk. I could feel the cylinder jostling in my pocket as I moved. I passed inside the gate, safe from danger, real or imagined, and wondered what I was involved in now.
I started listening to music when I run as soon as I got a Walkman. When I was transferred to Moscow in the late spring, I made sure that was the first thing I packed in my suitcase, even though wiser heads insisted to me that someone would steal it as soon as they saw me, a 5 foot nothing waif with short brown hair and the strength of limp spaghetti, toting such sophisticated Western gear in the heart of World Communism. But my Walkman and I survived the trip, and soon I was running around Moscow listening to my favorite tapes. The locals stared at first, but eventually the "crazy American girl" became just another part of the endless days.
I was only a typist, taking handwritten notes and typing them up for the file. I didn't know, or care to know, what the abbreviations and code words and vague phrases were. We all knew we were among some CIA types, and we were all carefully instructed that every Soviet citizen would probably assume we were. So we just went about our business as normally as we possibly could, never going out at night alone, hanging around with other Americans.
I had changed into my running clothes, starting some long, slow stretches while deciding which three tapes to bring on my journey. I felt eyes on my back and straightened up quickly.
"Nelson? I need a favor." It was Tom Jenkins, who didn't have any fixed job, but was always drinking coffee in the cafeteria when I came in there. He was paunchy, divorced and bitter, and had made a half hearted pass at me when I first started at this post.
"What is it, Tom?" I played it cool. I didn't mind helping him, even if it was awkward. If I had to pick up something in a shop, I could take it slow, a welcome respite from typing up more memos.
"You run through Scruffy Park, right?" That was our institutional name for the small grassy area across the street from the consulate.
"Yup."
"You know that bench on the south side, near the rock that looks like Snoopy?," he asked.
"The one with the wire fence in front of it?"
"That's the one. Do you run by there?"
"I can. I go all different ways."
"Do you usually?"
"Like I said," I said, sounding impatient. "Sometimes I do. I vary my paths. I probably run by it twice a day, depending on which way I go."
"OK," he said softly. "I don't normally do this, but I need to be somewhere, right now, so I need you to do this for me." He held up a cylinder that looked like a tube of lipstick, with a wire sticking out of the top. "Look around the base of the bench, on the ground. Tie your shoe, stretch, change tapes, whatever you need to do. If you see something that looks like this, grab it and bring it back here. Stick it in your sock or something. If anyone notices you, or says anything, or if things seem suspicious, pull the wire out." He yanked on the wire, and I heard a hiss. A tiny curlicue of smoke left the side of the device and curled up towards the ceiling. "Then throw it away."
"What's in it?"
"Can't tell you."
"What happens when you pull the wire?"
"Can't tell you."
"Am I being a spy?"
"Can't tell you."
"And I'm supposed to do this for you why?"
"I need you to. We need you to. I can't tell you why, but this is important." He looked a little pitiful. I was nervous, but I couldn't resist the temptation to play secret agent for a moment. Plus having a favor I could call in wouldn't hurt. I agreed, and timed my route so I would be at the right place at the right time.
I had a good layer of sweat going when I rounded the last corner before the bench. There wasn't anyone else nearby, so I figured it would be safe to make the pickup. I had chosen "With The Beatles", knowing that I would come to the end of it 33 minutes into my run, knowing I would have to stop and change tapes, and I could scan the bench area when I did so. I had three minutes, about the length of the last song, "(Money) That's What I Want", to cover the quarter mile before the bench.
I half chuckled at the thought, as I headed down the last straightaway. Three minutes. A song about money, performed by young men who would go on to become some of the richest men who ever lived, pounding through my ears as I ran through the center of the workers' paradise, where wealth was supposedly abolished. I marvelled at the young, hungry John Lennon vocal- someone who lived in the lap of luxury in New York City, yet once was as utopian as the best Soviet dreamer.
Two minutes to go, as the next verse began. What was I actually doing? I wasn't a spy, I was a typist. Thirsting after the adventure got me to say yes without really thinking about it. What if they were watching the bench? I really don't know anything, so it's not like I can spill any secrets. The worst case scenario is I get sent home in disgrace and wind up typing for Vogue or something. It would still be scary, even while I know nothing bad would really happen- no torture, no lasers pointed at my crotch like in Goldfinger.
One minute. The piano came back in as the young Beatles brought the R+B standard home. I was getting near the bench. If they had dropped something nearby, it had to be a little while ago. I heard the song end as I began scanning the base of the bench. There were a few leaves and some scraps of paper. There was some encrusted dirt where the bench was bolted into the sidewalk, and a hunk of metal which may have been a screw at one point. I looked for the telltale plastic cylinder as I stopped, fumbling in my pocket for a second cassette. Was that it, by the back corner? It looked well used, beaten and scratched, and there was indeed a wire at the top. I walked around to the back of the bench, doing tiny stretches and leans, trying to keep my muscles loose in the still cold spring air.
In an instant of inspiration, I dropped the cassette, the new solo George Harrison album that Marcy had mailed to me, at my feet. As I bent to pick it up, I palmed the canister, which was cold to the touch. I changed tapes, jogging in place while I whipped my head around. Nobody in sight. Was I being a spy? Was there some secret document in here? Or was this all a ruse? I wouldn't put it past Tom to prank the new girl.
It seemed clear. No sirens, no policemen yelling, no commotion of any kind. It was a short jog back to the embassy, leaving the parcel on Tom's desk, then a quick, hot shower and back to my desk. My mind whirled at the possibilities. Had I just won the Cold War? Or was Tom just communicating with a secret Russian girlfriend? I started back towards the corner, looking at a tired looking gray taxi at the corner, its engine running, a Marine guard staring at it impassively. I pulled my ID out from my pocket, feeling the smooth plastic of my secret container. The guards all knew our faces, but we showed the ID anyway, just in case anyone ever checked. I was almost there, ¾ of the way across the street. Home sweet home, I thought, wondering what kind of a story this would back back in Virginia at Thanksgiving. They'll never believe me, I thought- little Ellie, engaged in spycraft, just like James Bond. I looked at the guard's face. It was one of the cuter ones, a blond who seldom spoke. I tried to give him a smile, knowing that my sweaty, sloppy ponytail was not exactly pinup material. I had almost made the gate, hoping all the salad wasn't gone from the cafeteria.
I saw the taxi leaving the sidewalk on my right, and I was steps away from safety. Was this it? Were they going to whack me with the car as an "accident"? Would I be a silly footnote in a buried CIA file? Was this the end? The cute guard was moving to open the gate for me. I was almost to the sidewalk. I could feel the cylinder jostling in my pocket as I moved. I passed inside the gate, safe from danger, real or imagined, and wondered what I was involved in now.
Sunday, January 01, 2012
Hysteria (Indie Ink Writing Challenge)
I sat towards the back, trying to keep out of everybody's way. I was staring at the way light reflected off of the tip of my shoe. I would bob it slightly, up and down, and watch the reflection change as the angles shifted. It was one of those stupid things I did when I couldn't read or sleep. I really didn't want to listen to what they were saying. In fact, I didn't want to be there at all. But there was a consensus in the air- you had to be there. So I got up, put my most solemn looking dress on, found some shoes to match, and asked my Mom to drive me down here.
There were faces I recognized in the crowd. Lots of teachers, but mostly students, some I knew and others I knew only by sight filled the tiny room, which quickly became stuffy and hot. There wasn't anyone I knew seated near me, only a tall, angular woman who had to be her aunt, along with three small girls, miniature versions of her, sitting in a row with tiny legs kicking softly while the adults droned on. It was just as well there were no friends nearby, because I could think of very little that I wanted to say. The room was tense, like everyone was holding their breath.
The day after it happened, the news had spread like the wind through the school, the emotional outbursts becoming so frequent that they finally abandoned all pretense and just held a giant assembly. They never told us how, exactly, but the consensus was pills, emptying Mom's medicine bottles late one night and never waking up the next morning. The principal, a fat balding man with his voice cracking at the edges, told the whole school what had happened and about the counselors they would have available. Blah blah blah, I thought, welcoming the break from conjugating French verbs and memorizing English kings, but not seeing what the fuss was about.
Rachel was one of those people that just got selected at some point, somehow told she was going to be important. She was more beautiful, more perfect, more poised and confident and smooth than anyone you knew. It was like you went to school with a movie star. Teachers treated her differently, listening to her more closely, almost asking her permission before assigning homework. Boys worshipped her, of course, and the leading question before every dance and prom was "who is Rachel going to pick?" Most girls secretly envied her and resented her influence, but no one would dare take sides against her. She held power silently, without seeming to hold it at all.
I uncrossed my legs and recrossed them, tuning back in to the voices coming from the front of the room. One of her uncles, I think, was describing how kind Rachel was, how generous and loving, to the point that I wanted to gag. She was those things, true- when it benefited her. She would be your best friend until someone said no. Then she would turn on a dime, being vicious and cold, as long as no one was within earshot. She never risked ruining her simon pure reputation.
The last time I saw her, it was one of those rough days. I had my period, plus I was sick, and I had my hair in a sloppy bun, feeling gross and sore and out of place. The day was finally over, and I was walking towards the bus when I saw Rachel gliding by, looking like her feet were barely touching the ground. I didn't count her as a friend, but I circulated in her orbit. Talking with her put as big a knot in my stomach as a cute boy would, constantly on guard for double meanings and hidden digs.
"Your hair looks so cute when it's up!," she said breezily. I wasn't used to compliments as a rule, but it was laughably untrue. I looked like hell, and I knew it, and I craved my bed more than all the money in the world.
"Thanks," I tried to say with the same lightness, but it came out sounding begrudging and mean. I was sure she didn't mean it. Compliments from Rachel had barbs attached- she was emphasizing the difference between you, pointing out that she was ten times prettier than you on your best day. My thoughts boiled as I watched her hips twitch as she walked by. "I wish you were dead," I thought venomously, my voice in my head a loud scream, edging on hysteria.
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Melissa Brodsky challenged me with "your wish becomes somebody's command" and I challenged Dimdom with " 'I just hope to wake up, and it's not a disaster' -Keith Richards".
There were faces I recognized in the crowd. Lots of teachers, but mostly students, some I knew and others I knew only by sight filled the tiny room, which quickly became stuffy and hot. There wasn't anyone I knew seated near me, only a tall, angular woman who had to be her aunt, along with three small girls, miniature versions of her, sitting in a row with tiny legs kicking softly while the adults droned on. It was just as well there were no friends nearby, because I could think of very little that I wanted to say. The room was tense, like everyone was holding their breath.
The day after it happened, the news had spread like the wind through the school, the emotional outbursts becoming so frequent that they finally abandoned all pretense and just held a giant assembly. They never told us how, exactly, but the consensus was pills, emptying Mom's medicine bottles late one night and never waking up the next morning. The principal, a fat balding man with his voice cracking at the edges, told the whole school what had happened and about the counselors they would have available. Blah blah blah, I thought, welcoming the break from conjugating French verbs and memorizing English kings, but not seeing what the fuss was about.
Rachel was one of those people that just got selected at some point, somehow told she was going to be important. She was more beautiful, more perfect, more poised and confident and smooth than anyone you knew. It was like you went to school with a movie star. Teachers treated her differently, listening to her more closely, almost asking her permission before assigning homework. Boys worshipped her, of course, and the leading question before every dance and prom was "who is Rachel going to pick?" Most girls secretly envied her and resented her influence, but no one would dare take sides against her. She held power silently, without seeming to hold it at all.
I uncrossed my legs and recrossed them, tuning back in to the voices coming from the front of the room. One of her uncles, I think, was describing how kind Rachel was, how generous and loving, to the point that I wanted to gag. She was those things, true- when it benefited her. She would be your best friend until someone said no. Then she would turn on a dime, being vicious and cold, as long as no one was within earshot. She never risked ruining her simon pure reputation.
The last time I saw her, it was one of those rough days. I had my period, plus I was sick, and I had my hair in a sloppy bun, feeling gross and sore and out of place. The day was finally over, and I was walking towards the bus when I saw Rachel gliding by, looking like her feet were barely touching the ground. I didn't count her as a friend, but I circulated in her orbit. Talking with her put as big a knot in my stomach as a cute boy would, constantly on guard for double meanings and hidden digs.
"Your hair looks so cute when it's up!," she said breezily. I wasn't used to compliments as a rule, but it was laughably untrue. I looked like hell, and I knew it, and I craved my bed more than all the money in the world.
"Thanks," I tried to say with the same lightness, but it came out sounding begrudging and mean. I was sure she didn't mean it. Compliments from Rachel had barbs attached- she was emphasizing the difference between you, pointing out that she was ten times prettier than you on your best day. My thoughts boiled as I watched her hips twitch as she walked by. "I wish you were dead," I thought venomously, my voice in my head a loud scream, edging on hysteria.
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Melissa Brodsky challenged me with "your wish becomes somebody's command" and I challenged Dimdom with " 'I just hope to wake up, and it's not a disaster' -Keith Richards".
Monday, December 26, 2011
Check, Please! (Indie Ink Writing Challenge)
"I think they need this table," he said.
Their waitress, a round hipped redhead with stray ringlets loose over her ears, was indeed hovering nearby, waiting for tables to clear so she could refill them. The cafe was small, but clean and airy, the gold fixtures and muted tans and browns making it look old fashioned without being stuffy. It was full to bursting here in the middle of the lunch hour.
"Maybe we should go," she said.
Lunch was safe, a way station between meeting and dating. Work obligations beckoned on the other side, leaving a clear time limitation on their evening. It also removed the classic end of date question of whether he would ask about sex. And how she would reply.
"We should," he said, reaching for his wallet.
It was hard to know the etiquette. In an age where she could make more than he does, it was archaic and silly to insist on paying, but he still tried. A man pays, his father used to tell him, in a tone that implied it was ever thus.
"Let me," she said, pulling her purse in front of her body.
Never owe anyone, Aunt Sara told her from the time she played with Barbies and boys were just the schoolmates with shorter hair. And especially never let a man buy you anything. They always want something in return. It was 10 years before she understood that, and 5 more before she started to believe it.
"I can't let you pay," he said, rifling through his bills. "It was my sister's idea."
It was Jane, with her huge glasses and infectious, almost annoying bonhomie, that insisted that the new girl hired in her office would be just perfect for her only unmarried sibling. She badgered the two of them in turn, dismissing their demurrals and denials until they mutually concurred, both of them concluding that she wouldn't stop until they did.
"I can pay my own way," she said softly, fumbling in her bag.
She made sure she had both cash and cards before she left that morning. She was prepared to pay for the whole thing, while she would be insulted if she had to.
"I had a great time," he said, taking out a twenty.
It was interminable, he thought. She didn't eat, and she wouldn't talk, making it impossible for him to know what she thought or how she felt. He was willing to pay for both of them, if only he could get away from her and stop talking about himself.
"Oh, I did, too," she said, drawing out her own bill.
He was fascinating, she thought, with so many funny stories about clients and colleagues. She made all the right moves, letting him talk, fluttering and making the appropriate sounds. She listened, trying not to interject, not wanting to say too much, not wanting to turn him off. That was the rule, right? You let them talk, let them lead and control the conversation. Flatter them, make them feel important. He looked great in a trim gray suit, and she already felt the stirrings. If this was an evening meal, she would be taking him home. Eagerly.
"Let's split it," he said, agreeing quickly.
Please just let this be over, he thought.
"How much is it?," she said.
Three summers waiting tables made her a good tipper. She didn't want to seem over generous, but she wanted the waitress with the green eyes to like her, while at the same time be envious of the funny, charming man across from her. She also remembered the aching legs and feet, the jealousy when a well dressed woman sat down with a man you wanted for yourself.
He held the bill so she could see.
"Forty should do it," he said.
He was already thinking about the office, the meeting that he had that afternoon. He was mentally aligning strategies, marshaling arguments as he waited for her twenty to join his. He was relieved that he wouldn't be obligated to rehash and overinterpret the lunch for a circle of friends the way she probably would.
"Absolutely," she said.
She stood up, watching the lines of his suit fall into place as he stood. She fussed at her hemline, arranging her skirt so it fell evenly. She could feel the tug, the yearning and worry beginning to creep in. Would he call? How soon? Did it go as well as she felt it did? Was this the beginning of something?
"Let's let them clear this away," he said.
Thank God this isn't the beginning of something, he thought. He made eye contact with the waitress, who started to make her way towards them, eyes on the closed leather folder. He appraised her curves in the utilitarian black they wore. No question she would have made a more interesting lunch date.
"Sure!," she said cheerfully.
She followed him as they wended their way towards the front door. Would they walk to their cars together? Where was he parked? She concentrated on her stride for a moment, trying to strike a balance between sexy sway and uptight repression. They came to the front door, and he started to head left, she noted sadly. She was parked two streets down on the right.
"Pleasure meeting you," he said.
He was starting to turn away. He was already weighing approaches, thinking about how to overcome Nancy's objections to the new plans. The lunch was already over in his mind as he wiped away the memory of her ridiculous flirtation. You had to bring something to the table, and she just made him carry the whole lunch. He filled in all the blanks in the conversation, inserting words into the silences while she grinned at him stupidly. He wanted to meet a companion, a whole person with hopes and dreams and aspirations, not a parrot.
"Oh, yes! You, too!," she said. "See you!"
She turned down towards her car, walking carefully and firmly. She wondered if he was looking back at her. She hoped so, but didn't want to turn and see. Friday, she thought. Friday would be the perfect, logical day for him to ask her out again. She started mentally reviewing her options for what to wear Friday night.
"See you," he echoed.
You won't, he thought. He made his way up the street, reaching for his keys in his pocket. What a disaster this was, he thought as he went. What was her name again? Maura? Laura? Something, he thought. Thank heavens I don't have to sit through anything with her ever again.
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Kirsten Doyle challenged me with "Time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so.(Douglas Adams)" and I challenged Crosshaven Harpist with "When you begin each day by describing the look of the same mountain, you are living in the grip of delusion.(Thomas Merton)".
Their waitress, a round hipped redhead with stray ringlets loose over her ears, was indeed hovering nearby, waiting for tables to clear so she could refill them. The cafe was small, but clean and airy, the gold fixtures and muted tans and browns making it look old fashioned without being stuffy. It was full to bursting here in the middle of the lunch hour.
"Maybe we should go," she said.
Lunch was safe, a way station between meeting and dating. Work obligations beckoned on the other side, leaving a clear time limitation on their evening. It also removed the classic end of date question of whether he would ask about sex. And how she would reply.
"We should," he said, reaching for his wallet.
It was hard to know the etiquette. In an age where she could make more than he does, it was archaic and silly to insist on paying, but he still tried. A man pays, his father used to tell him, in a tone that implied it was ever thus.
"Let me," she said, pulling her purse in front of her body.
Never owe anyone, Aunt Sara told her from the time she played with Barbies and boys were just the schoolmates with shorter hair. And especially never let a man buy you anything. They always want something in return. It was 10 years before she understood that, and 5 more before she started to believe it.
"I can't let you pay," he said, rifling through his bills. "It was my sister's idea."
It was Jane, with her huge glasses and infectious, almost annoying bonhomie, that insisted that the new girl hired in her office would be just perfect for her only unmarried sibling. She badgered the two of them in turn, dismissing their demurrals and denials until they mutually concurred, both of them concluding that she wouldn't stop until they did.
"I can pay my own way," she said softly, fumbling in her bag.
She made sure she had both cash and cards before she left that morning. She was prepared to pay for the whole thing, while she would be insulted if she had to.
"I had a great time," he said, taking out a twenty.
It was interminable, he thought. She didn't eat, and she wouldn't talk, making it impossible for him to know what she thought or how she felt. He was willing to pay for both of them, if only he could get away from her and stop talking about himself.
"Oh, I did, too," she said, drawing out her own bill.
He was fascinating, she thought, with so many funny stories about clients and colleagues. She made all the right moves, letting him talk, fluttering and making the appropriate sounds. She listened, trying not to interject, not wanting to say too much, not wanting to turn him off. That was the rule, right? You let them talk, let them lead and control the conversation. Flatter them, make them feel important. He looked great in a trim gray suit, and she already felt the stirrings. If this was an evening meal, she would be taking him home. Eagerly.
"Let's split it," he said, agreeing quickly.
Please just let this be over, he thought.
"How much is it?," she said.
Three summers waiting tables made her a good tipper. She didn't want to seem over generous, but she wanted the waitress with the green eyes to like her, while at the same time be envious of the funny, charming man across from her. She also remembered the aching legs and feet, the jealousy when a well dressed woman sat down with a man you wanted for yourself.
He held the bill so she could see.
"Forty should do it," he said.
He was already thinking about the office, the meeting that he had that afternoon. He was mentally aligning strategies, marshaling arguments as he waited for her twenty to join his. He was relieved that he wouldn't be obligated to rehash and overinterpret the lunch for a circle of friends the way she probably would.
"Absolutely," she said.
She stood up, watching the lines of his suit fall into place as he stood. She fussed at her hemline, arranging her skirt so it fell evenly. She could feel the tug, the yearning and worry beginning to creep in. Would he call? How soon? Did it go as well as she felt it did? Was this the beginning of something?
"Let's let them clear this away," he said.
Thank God this isn't the beginning of something, he thought. He made eye contact with the waitress, who started to make her way towards them, eyes on the closed leather folder. He appraised her curves in the utilitarian black they wore. No question she would have made a more interesting lunch date.
"Sure!," she said cheerfully.
She followed him as they wended their way towards the front door. Would they walk to their cars together? Where was he parked? She concentrated on her stride for a moment, trying to strike a balance between sexy sway and uptight repression. They came to the front door, and he started to head left, she noted sadly. She was parked two streets down on the right.
"Pleasure meeting you," he said.
He was starting to turn away. He was already weighing approaches, thinking about how to overcome Nancy's objections to the new plans. The lunch was already over in his mind as he wiped away the memory of her ridiculous flirtation. You had to bring something to the table, and she just made him carry the whole lunch. He filled in all the blanks in the conversation, inserting words into the silences while she grinned at him stupidly. He wanted to meet a companion, a whole person with hopes and dreams and aspirations, not a parrot.
"Oh, yes! You, too!," she said. "See you!"
She turned down towards her car, walking carefully and firmly. She wondered if he was looking back at her. She hoped so, but didn't want to turn and see. Friday, she thought. Friday would be the perfect, logical day for him to ask her out again. She started mentally reviewing her options for what to wear Friday night.
"See you," he echoed.
You won't, he thought. He made his way up the street, reaching for his keys in his pocket. What a disaster this was, he thought as he went. What was her name again? Maura? Laura? Something, he thought. Thank heavens I don't have to sit through anything with her ever again.
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Kirsten Doyle challenged me with "Time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so.(Douglas Adams)" and I challenged Crosshaven Harpist with "When you begin each day by describing the look of the same mountain, you are living in the grip of delusion.(Thomas Merton)".
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
It's Raining In Baltimore (Flash Fiction Friday Challenge)
For the final Flash Fiction Friday of 2011, the redoubtable Thomas Pluck challenges us to echo the great Tom Waits and create anatomically correct fiction, including a song, weather, the name of a town, and something to eat. Here's my contribution, "It's Raining In Baltimore". (Bonus points if you pick up the OTHER lyric included in the story.)
"It's raining in Baltimore," she said. Bits of her hair were hanging down in front of her face. She was looking down into the display of her phone. It was sitting next to a bowl of chicken soup, which was steaming up her glasses. She didn't pause to wipe them.
"That's poetic," I said.
"That's pathetic," she said. She looked out the window through the fogged up lenses. It was gray and blustery, with spitting, insignificant rain, what my friend Gordon calls "a good day for a murder."
I stirred my coffee aimlessly. She said she didn't feel like eating, but I needed coffee and I figured it would be less odd looking if we both had something.
"We can't keep running like this," she said. "We're going to run out of money."
"I know."
"I don't even have any underwear with me," she said.
"I know."
"I mean, I appreciate this. I do. I don't want you to think I'm not grateful."
"I understand," I said.
"But I can't stop thinking about it. Where are we going? What's the plan?"
"I'm not sure quite yet," I said. My Uncle Barry, the family member most accustomed to calamity, lived outside Salisbury. I didn't know anyone who could handle a crying, disheveled woman appearing at your door in the middle of the day, but he came the closest.
She sipped at the soup delicately. "Why are you doing this?," she asked carefully.
"I couldn't live with myself any more. Knowing you're with him, knowing he treats you like that- I couldn't stand it any longer."
"But he loves me," she said softly, almost in a whisper. The bruise mushrooming around her right eye looked almost green under the fluorescent lights inside the diner. The rain began to fall a little more determinedly, making a murmur of sound against the window.
"He might," I admitted. "Somewhere under there, he might. But the way he treats you, it's mixed up with anger and alcoholism and who knows what. You need to get away from him, and you know he'd find you if you stayed at my place."
"But what if he asks you where I am?"
"I'll tell him I don't know."
"But what if he insists?"
"I'll keep telling him I don't know."
"He can be very convincing," she said, looking down into her soup again.
"So can I," I said, trying to make it sound heroic.
The third time that I heard her in the hall, stumbling and moaning, I told her when I took her in to dress her wounds and listen to her tears that I wasn't going to let him keep doing that. The next time was about 4 hours ago. I grabbed the bag I had packed and took her down to my car. She stopped crying by the time we got to the interstate, but we hadn't really talked until we sat down at this roadside cafe. The waitress was hovering uncertainly, wanting to make sure we paid. I reached into my duffel bag and set a ten dollar bill where she could see it.
"So where are we going?," she asked.
"I'm going to wait a few more hours, then I'm going to call my uncle Barry. He lives in Maryland. He's had 4 kids, so he's used to taking in strays."
"Then what?"
"I don't really know."
"You didn't think this through, did you?"
"Not really," I admitted. "I just couldn't breathe, knowing you were going to go back to him and get treated like that. I can't stand seeing someone so precious be treated so shabbily."
"I'm not precious," she said, looking down. She was quiet for a long time.
"Ready to go?," I suggested. I had sucked down all the coffee I could stand.
"No," she said. "But we'd better leave."
I stood up from the table, nodding at the waitress. The rain was falling lightly again, making spots on the window, turning the streetlights into blurred, fantastic visions.
She was still sitting at the table. "What am I going to do?," she said softly.
"I don't know," I said truthfully. "First we get you someplace safe. We'll figure out Step Two once we nail down Step One."
"That's not very reassuring."
"I know. But sometimes you just have to do the first right thing you see."
"It's raining in Baltimore," she said. Bits of her hair were hanging down in front of her face. She was looking down into the display of her phone. It was sitting next to a bowl of chicken soup, which was steaming up her glasses. She didn't pause to wipe them.
"That's poetic," I said.
"That's pathetic," she said. She looked out the window through the fogged up lenses. It was gray and blustery, with spitting, insignificant rain, what my friend Gordon calls "a good day for a murder."
I stirred my coffee aimlessly. She said she didn't feel like eating, but I needed coffee and I figured it would be less odd looking if we both had something.
"We can't keep running like this," she said. "We're going to run out of money."
"I know."
"I don't even have any underwear with me," she said.
"I know."
"I mean, I appreciate this. I do. I don't want you to think I'm not grateful."
"I understand," I said.
"But I can't stop thinking about it. Where are we going? What's the plan?"
"I'm not sure quite yet," I said. My Uncle Barry, the family member most accustomed to calamity, lived outside Salisbury. I didn't know anyone who could handle a crying, disheveled woman appearing at your door in the middle of the day, but he came the closest.
She sipped at the soup delicately. "Why are you doing this?," she asked carefully.
"I couldn't live with myself any more. Knowing you're with him, knowing he treats you like that- I couldn't stand it any longer."
"But he loves me," she said softly, almost in a whisper. The bruise mushrooming around her right eye looked almost green under the fluorescent lights inside the diner. The rain began to fall a little more determinedly, making a murmur of sound against the window.
"He might," I admitted. "Somewhere under there, he might. But the way he treats you, it's mixed up with anger and alcoholism and who knows what. You need to get away from him, and you know he'd find you if you stayed at my place."
"But what if he asks you where I am?"
"I'll tell him I don't know."
"But what if he insists?"
"I'll keep telling him I don't know."
"He can be very convincing," she said, looking down into her soup again.
"So can I," I said, trying to make it sound heroic.
The third time that I heard her in the hall, stumbling and moaning, I told her when I took her in to dress her wounds and listen to her tears that I wasn't going to let him keep doing that. The next time was about 4 hours ago. I grabbed the bag I had packed and took her down to my car. She stopped crying by the time we got to the interstate, but we hadn't really talked until we sat down at this roadside cafe. The waitress was hovering uncertainly, wanting to make sure we paid. I reached into my duffel bag and set a ten dollar bill where she could see it.
"So where are we going?," she asked.
"I'm going to wait a few more hours, then I'm going to call my uncle Barry. He lives in Maryland. He's had 4 kids, so he's used to taking in strays."
"Then what?"
"I don't really know."
"You didn't think this through, did you?"
"Not really," I admitted. "I just couldn't breathe, knowing you were going to go back to him and get treated like that. I can't stand seeing someone so precious be treated so shabbily."
"I'm not precious," she said, looking down. She was quiet for a long time.
"Ready to go?," I suggested. I had sucked down all the coffee I could stand.
"No," she said. "But we'd better leave."
I stood up from the table, nodding at the waitress. The rain was falling lightly again, making spots on the window, turning the streetlights into blurred, fantastic visions.
She was still sitting at the table. "What am I going to do?," she said softly.
"I don't know," I said truthfully. "First we get you someplace safe. We'll figure out Step Two once we nail down Step One."
"That's not very reassuring."
"I know. But sometimes you just have to do the first right thing you see."
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