Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge lost its mojo for a bit, but is once again rising. This week's word is "Storm", and my entry is called "Storm Front"
Katie pulled her covers over her shoulders, tucking them under her chin. She wanted to pull them higher, but she always got hot and panicky when her mouth was covered. Outside, the rain poured down, pushed by the wind against her window with an intense rattle. She listened carefully, wanting to hear nothing. Mommy wasn't yelling any more, so that was good. She didn't hear the door shut or the car start, so Daddy was still here. Katie couldn't hear anything bad, which was good: but the waiting was as bad as the good parts were good.
Friday, September 02, 2011
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
100 Word Challenge: Fitting Room
Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge, like Elton John, is still standing. The word is "Depth" and my story is called "Fitting Room".
"You can't wear it because it sends the wrong message."
"What does that mean?," Delia asked me, hands on her tiny hips, eyes sparkling with anger.
"It means your clothes send messages about what kind of person you are. You don't want anyone to misunderstand you."
"I don't think these clothes send a message. Except 'pretty'." She smiled at her reflection.
I was out of my depth here. "It has to do with what other people think. Boys."
"I dont care what boys think," she said stridently. "Why can't I have it?"
"Because you can't."
"You can't wear it because it sends the wrong message."
"What does that mean?," Delia asked me, hands on her tiny hips, eyes sparkling with anger.
"It means your clothes send messages about what kind of person you are. You don't want anyone to misunderstand you."
"I don't think these clothes send a message. Except 'pretty'." She smiled at her reflection.
I was out of my depth here. "It has to do with what other people think. Boys."
"I dont care what boys think," she said stridently. "Why can't I have it?"
"Because you can't."
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Terrible Minds Challenge: Man Out Of Time
Chuck Wendig, the IBF and WBC welterweight diaper changing champion of the world, issues a Flash Fiction challenge this week about notable figures from history. My contribution involves two and is called "Visitors at Appomattox".
General Robert E. Lee looked across the table at General Ulysses S Grant. "It is entirely mysterious to me," the Southerner began, "why the Lord should see fit to make creatures such as these, who walk as men but speak a pidgin tongue, and are of such an entirely odd hue."
His opposite number puffed his cigar twice. "Quite so, General Lee. Quite so."
The two armies, combatants over half the country for four long years, had finally drawn their fighting to a close, the exhausted South finally ending the hostilities at the feet of the better equipped North. The two sides were in the midst of that surrender in Appomattox Court House, Virginia, when a brilliant silver disk, the length of several rail cars and twice as high, settled to the ground in an open field, crushing a pile of Southern rifles that had been stacked there.
Almost immediately, a group of perhaps seventy five creatures emerged from the strange vehicle. They were of a light orange color, carrying clubs that were curious looking, but spiky and menacing enough to make their intended use clear. There did not seem to be women or children in the group, but who could tell? Their sparkling skin left no hint as to gender or race. They looked like no man anyone present had ever encountered.
The Union Army did what any military organization did when confronted with something unusual- they pointed their guns at it. With practiced efficiency, the men in blue set up pickets to guard the visitors, then rolling cannon into place as soon as they could, surrounding the strange craft with their own scary array of war implements.
General Grant continued, "But whatever, or whomever, they are, they are here and we must deal with them."
Lee straightened up in his chair and said, "It has been suggested to me that your forces might consent to rearming some of my men until...this quite unusual event...is dealt with, as you say."
Grant took another long drag on his cigar. "With all due respect, General Lee, my men have been trying to kill your men, and being killed in return, for many months now. I can scarcely imagine they will look kindly upon being asked to stand beside a man who was trying to shoot them yesterday."
Lee looked hurt. "Indeed, General Grant. And the same applies to my men. But surely we are all Americans...all humans...now. And surely we can overlook our petty differences until we can ascertain whether or not these...things...have hostile intent?"
Grant thought for a moment, taking the cigar out of his mouth to sip from the cup in front of him. To his disappointment, it continued to be only coffee. "I will consent to one hundred men, General Lee, under your direct command. Loyal men, who will obey you to the last. And I will hold you personally responsible for their behavior-"
The Union chief was interrupted by an explosion. Both men rushed to the window. One of the beings was holding his club leveled at the Union lines, and where a cannon once stood, there was now a hole lined with blackened grass and soil. The two men scrambled out the door to order their men into position. Grant paused, calling over an aide.
As the popping of rifle and the booming of cannon began to be heard along the perimeter of the field, Grant pulled the younger man close. "Send word to Washington. Surrender of Southern forces complete, stop. Reinforcements needed urgently, stop. New threat of unknown origin, stop. General Grant, stop. Now off with you, boy. Send that quick before we're all dead!"
General Robert E. Lee looked across the table at General Ulysses S Grant. "It is entirely mysterious to me," the Southerner began, "why the Lord should see fit to make creatures such as these, who walk as men but speak a pidgin tongue, and are of such an entirely odd hue."
His opposite number puffed his cigar twice. "Quite so, General Lee. Quite so."
The two armies, combatants over half the country for four long years, had finally drawn their fighting to a close, the exhausted South finally ending the hostilities at the feet of the better equipped North. The two sides were in the midst of that surrender in Appomattox Court House, Virginia, when a brilliant silver disk, the length of several rail cars and twice as high, settled to the ground in an open field, crushing a pile of Southern rifles that had been stacked there.
Almost immediately, a group of perhaps seventy five creatures emerged from the strange vehicle. They were of a light orange color, carrying clubs that were curious looking, but spiky and menacing enough to make their intended use clear. There did not seem to be women or children in the group, but who could tell? Their sparkling skin left no hint as to gender or race. They looked like no man anyone present had ever encountered.
The Union Army did what any military organization did when confronted with something unusual- they pointed their guns at it. With practiced efficiency, the men in blue set up pickets to guard the visitors, then rolling cannon into place as soon as they could, surrounding the strange craft with their own scary array of war implements.
General Grant continued, "But whatever, or whomever, they are, they are here and we must deal with them."
Lee straightened up in his chair and said, "It has been suggested to me that your forces might consent to rearming some of my men until...this quite unusual event...is dealt with, as you say."
Grant took another long drag on his cigar. "With all due respect, General Lee, my men have been trying to kill your men, and being killed in return, for many months now. I can scarcely imagine they will look kindly upon being asked to stand beside a man who was trying to shoot them yesterday."
Lee looked hurt. "Indeed, General Grant. And the same applies to my men. But surely we are all Americans...all humans...now. And surely we can overlook our petty differences until we can ascertain whether or not these...things...have hostile intent?"
Grant thought for a moment, taking the cigar out of his mouth to sip from the cup in front of him. To his disappointment, it continued to be only coffee. "I will consent to one hundred men, General Lee, under your direct command. Loyal men, who will obey you to the last. And I will hold you personally responsible for their behavior-"
The Union chief was interrupted by an explosion. Both men rushed to the window. One of the beings was holding his club leveled at the Union lines, and where a cannon once stood, there was now a hole lined with blackened grass and soil. The two men scrambled out the door to order their men into position. Grant paused, calling over an aide.
As the popping of rifle and the booming of cannon began to be heard along the perimeter of the field, Grant pulled the younger man close. "Send word to Washington. Surrender of Southern forces complete, stop. Reinforcements needed urgently, stop. New threat of unknown origin, stop. General Grant, stop. Now off with you, boy. Send that quick before we're all dead!"
Indie Ink Writing Challenge: July 1, 1863
The Indie Ink Writing Challenge comes to me this week from Karla, who tells me about fear on a summer's day. My challenge went out to Octoberesque. I call this "July 1, 1863".
Molly Chandler pulled her dress on quickly, hopping out of bed and pulling the fabric over her head. If she was going to make it out to see the boys play a game of base this afternoon, she had to get her chores done early. First was the hole in the seat of James' blue pants- her younger brother was always splitting seams and dirtying knees, and with Father off with the army, she had to do Mother's work, because Mother had to do Father's.
It was hot. Molly felt sticky as soon as she awoke, her nightclothes had clung to her tiny frame as she slept. Putting on the dress which had hung overnight felt good for a moment, the new fabric cool and smooth. She neglected her underthings, an omission Mother was always after her about, saying that a lady didn't do such things. "But I'm not a lady," Molly always wanted to say- "I'm a girl!" But Molly wouldn't dare talk back to Mother, and she secretly suspected Mother was right.
Molly came down the stairs barefoot, feeling the cool of the air on the lower level, focused on her tasks and about to pick up the needle and thread when she heard a crack of thunder. So much for the game, she thought- but then there was another, and another, and yet another. That was no storm- but the game was called off just the same. The air felt funny, the smells of summer now stagnant, smoky, mechanical, wrong. Molly had been looking forward to the game all week, but somehow knew it wasn't going to happen at the same time.
Molly knew about the war, of course- her father had finally relented and marched with the bluecoats, despite the fact he was the only support for Mother, Molly, and James. She heard snatches of talk at dinner, taking dirty plates away from the table, and she was able to read enough to follow what was happening. Johnny Reb was nearby, she knew that much, but she couldn't imagine they could find anything of interest in her little house.
The noise was becoming constant now, volleys of snaps from shoulder weapons, with larger, booming explosions that were cannon. Mother came into the room with Molly, her face drained of color. "Where's your brother?"
"I don't know, Mother. I just got up and I-"
"Go look for him!," she ordered sternly. "But don't you leave this house!" That would make for a short search, Molly thought-there were only 6 rooms he could be in, and she was sitting in one of them.
Obediently, she got up to begin the search when someone knocked on their front door. Mother hissed at her, "Don't you move!", then went above the door for their ancient musket. Used for scaring prowlers more than actual hunting, it was unloaded.
She opened the door to a tall, barefoot man with a long, dirty beard. He smelled like smoke and sweat, and both his shirt and his pants were torn and stained with grease and mud. Mother held the gun in front of her chest protectively. "What unit are you with," she ordered him sternly. "This is a Union house, and I-"
Mother stopped as the man sort of swayed in front of her. "The Twenty Sixth North...," he managed to get out as he began to pitch forward. The smell hit Molly shortly after it hit her mother- some of those stains were not dirt.
Mother half caught the man, guiding him down to their floor. "Mol-," her mother said with an eerie calm. "Go to my closet and get those white towels, then go into my room and find a red box under my bed." Molly didn't move. "Quickly, girl, now!"
Molly got the items and returned to her mother's side.
"Mother, he's a reb-," Molly began, when her mother cut her off.
"He's a human being, child. Now, fetch me some water, as much as you can. Hurry!" The man was breathing, but it was a horrid, uneven sound, like he would stop at any moment. Mother had removed the rags across the man's chest, and Molly could now see the way his side had been turned from ribs, flesh and skin into a red, gristly mess.
She brought the water, and her mother had wiped some of the blood off the man's side, with one of the towels covering where his skin should be. "Your Aunt Nancy was in a battlefield hospital last summer," Mother said. "Hold that towel in place there while I fetch her," she continued, and was out the door before Molly could react. Molly reached out, trying to hold the clean end of the towel that was pressed into the man's side.
"Excuse me, miss?," the man croaked.
"Y-Yes?," Molly said.
"Could you get me a bit of water?," the man said. Molly went back into the kitchen to get a glass, dipping it into the bucket and holding it to the man's lips. He slurped at it, some spilling into his beard and on his neck.
"Thank you, miss," he said, his voice a little stronger. The man looked into her eyes, and Molly involuntarily turned her gaze aside. "You're a right pretty young lady, miss. You remind me strongly of my daughter Cornelia. I miss her so terribly, I--," the man said, stopping to cough violently. "I never wanted this to happen," he said.
"My father is a Union-" she began.
"I know, miss. Your mother said. It's very kind of you to tend to me like this."
Molly looked at the man. His eyes were kind and wise, and she now saw the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes when he tried to smile. His face immediately scrunched up with pain.
"Miss, could I request one more thing?"
"Yes," Molly said. What was keeping Mother, she thought.
"It's been so long since I held my Cordelia's hand. Would you just hold a soldier's hand for a minute, please, miss?"
Molly placed her trim fingers into the man's palm, coarsened by work and sweat. He tightened his fingers around her with incredible gentleness. "Thank you, miss-," the man said, then began coughing again. His breathing sounded rougher, more shallow, the puffs coming more quickly. Mother and Aunt Nancy came through the door, Nancy holding a leather pouch, out of breath from running. Nancy stepped over the man's legs, crouching by his head. The man's eyes were fluttering.
"You did all you could, Marie." Mother, still standing, nodded her assent.
With a shudder, the man's breathing ceased. Molly felt the man's fingers release hers.
Molly Chandler pulled her dress on quickly, hopping out of bed and pulling the fabric over her head. If she was going to make it out to see the boys play a game of base this afternoon, she had to get her chores done early. First was the hole in the seat of James' blue pants- her younger brother was always splitting seams and dirtying knees, and with Father off with the army, she had to do Mother's work, because Mother had to do Father's.
It was hot. Molly felt sticky as soon as she awoke, her nightclothes had clung to her tiny frame as she slept. Putting on the dress which had hung overnight felt good for a moment, the new fabric cool and smooth. She neglected her underthings, an omission Mother was always after her about, saying that a lady didn't do such things. "But I'm not a lady," Molly always wanted to say- "I'm a girl!" But Molly wouldn't dare talk back to Mother, and she secretly suspected Mother was right.
Molly came down the stairs barefoot, feeling the cool of the air on the lower level, focused on her tasks and about to pick up the needle and thread when she heard a crack of thunder. So much for the game, she thought- but then there was another, and another, and yet another. That was no storm- but the game was called off just the same. The air felt funny, the smells of summer now stagnant, smoky, mechanical, wrong. Molly had been looking forward to the game all week, but somehow knew it wasn't going to happen at the same time.
Molly knew about the war, of course- her father had finally relented and marched with the bluecoats, despite the fact he was the only support for Mother, Molly, and James. She heard snatches of talk at dinner, taking dirty plates away from the table, and she was able to read enough to follow what was happening. Johnny Reb was nearby, she knew that much, but she couldn't imagine they could find anything of interest in her little house.
The noise was becoming constant now, volleys of snaps from shoulder weapons, with larger, booming explosions that were cannon. Mother came into the room with Molly, her face drained of color. "Where's your brother?"
"I don't know, Mother. I just got up and I-"
"Go look for him!," she ordered sternly. "But don't you leave this house!" That would make for a short search, Molly thought-there were only 6 rooms he could be in, and she was sitting in one of them.
Obediently, she got up to begin the search when someone knocked on their front door. Mother hissed at her, "Don't you move!", then went above the door for their ancient musket. Used for scaring prowlers more than actual hunting, it was unloaded.
She opened the door to a tall, barefoot man with a long, dirty beard. He smelled like smoke and sweat, and both his shirt and his pants were torn and stained with grease and mud. Mother held the gun in front of her chest protectively. "What unit are you with," she ordered him sternly. "This is a Union house, and I-"
Mother stopped as the man sort of swayed in front of her. "The Twenty Sixth North...," he managed to get out as he began to pitch forward. The smell hit Molly shortly after it hit her mother- some of those stains were not dirt.
Mother half caught the man, guiding him down to their floor. "Mol-," her mother said with an eerie calm. "Go to my closet and get those white towels, then go into my room and find a red box under my bed." Molly didn't move. "Quickly, girl, now!"
Molly got the items and returned to her mother's side.
"Mother, he's a reb-," Molly began, when her mother cut her off.
"He's a human being, child. Now, fetch me some water, as much as you can. Hurry!" The man was breathing, but it was a horrid, uneven sound, like he would stop at any moment. Mother had removed the rags across the man's chest, and Molly could now see the way his side had been turned from ribs, flesh and skin into a red, gristly mess.
She brought the water, and her mother had wiped some of the blood off the man's side, with one of the towels covering where his skin should be. "Your Aunt Nancy was in a battlefield hospital last summer," Mother said. "Hold that towel in place there while I fetch her," she continued, and was out the door before Molly could react. Molly reached out, trying to hold the clean end of the towel that was pressed into the man's side.
"Excuse me, miss?," the man croaked.
"Y-Yes?," Molly said.
"Could you get me a bit of water?," the man said. Molly went back into the kitchen to get a glass, dipping it into the bucket and holding it to the man's lips. He slurped at it, some spilling into his beard and on his neck.
"Thank you, miss," he said, his voice a little stronger. The man looked into her eyes, and Molly involuntarily turned her gaze aside. "You're a right pretty young lady, miss. You remind me strongly of my daughter Cornelia. I miss her so terribly, I--," the man said, stopping to cough violently. "I never wanted this to happen," he said.
"My father is a Union-" she began.
"I know, miss. Your mother said. It's very kind of you to tend to me like this."
Molly looked at the man. His eyes were kind and wise, and she now saw the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes when he tried to smile. His face immediately scrunched up with pain.
"Miss, could I request one more thing?"
"Yes," Molly said. What was keeping Mother, she thought.
"It's been so long since I held my Cordelia's hand. Would you just hold a soldier's hand for a minute, please, miss?"
Molly placed her trim fingers into the man's palm, coarsened by work and sweat. He tightened his fingers around her with incredible gentleness. "Thank you, miss-," the man said, then began coughing again. His breathing sounded rougher, more shallow, the puffs coming more quickly. Mother and Aunt Nancy came through the door, Nancy holding a leather pouch, out of breath from running. Nancy stepped over the man's legs, crouching by his head. The man's eyes were fluttering.
"You did all you could, Marie." Mother, still standing, nodded her assent.
With a shudder, the man's breathing ceased. Molly felt the man's fingers release hers.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Indie Ink Writing Challenge: Ride The Lightning
The Indie Ink Writing Challenge actually went on for a whole week without me, one of many organizations that find they can do without me. My challenge goes out to my homeboy Lance, whose blog can beat up my blog, while I am receiving a challenge from Billy Flynn, who razzle dazzles me with the prompt "Death smiles at us all. All a man can do is smile back." This is called "Ride The Lightning".
Everything I liked was on the tray- pepperoni pizza, macaroni and cheese, Coke, and coffee ice cream. I dove into it pretty hard, eating mindlessly until I felt the pleasant ache of fullness. Now I was sitting back, toying with the scraps, just waiting. It was all waiting now.
Wait for lunch, wait for dinner, wait for them to bring my mail. Wait, wait, wait. I used to hate it, raging at anyone who would listen when I couldn't get my papers. Screaming, fighting, sobbing at night when the loneliness consumed me. They made you wait because they could, like bullies always do.
I looked around my room. Stacks of letters, paperbacks, my posters, pens and papers. I wondered idly what would happen to all of this, after. I wondered what would happen after, in general. It was something you had to consider- it was too big and compelling not to think of, even as you knew you couldn't work it out.
They assembled outside my door, and I heard the harsh buzz and the deep thunk of the machinery being opened. TJ was there, along with Sully and Father Kelly and the Warden.
"Charles Kent?"
I looked at them without getting up. "TJ," I said softly, "you know it's me."
"I do, CK," he said. "But there are rules about this." He was quiet for a moment. "It's time, CK. We'll drag you out if we have to, but you don't want that."
"No," I said, "I don't." I didn't move.
"You know I didn't, TJ. Right? You believe me?"
"It doesn't matter any more, CK."
"I know. I know it doesn't matter, I know it's all over, and I know it's too late. But you believe me, don't you?"
"Honestly?"
How else? "Yeah."
"I do, CK." TJ had known me for almost 8 years, long after I had stopped being angry about it. TJ probably heard a lot of guys saying they didn't do it, but I had the advantage of actually telling the truth. I didn't do it, despite what everyone thought, and despite what the conventional wisdom said.
"It's time," the Warden said.
"OK," I said, looking down at the scraps of food on my plate. I stood up. I felt nothing. I had raged against fate, asking why and how to a deafening silence from the universe. It didn't matter what I thought, or what anyone thought, now. It was like I was watching myself in a movie. "I'm coming," I said, and smiled. Obedient to the last.
I had long since quit trying to convince anyone else. I knew, and that would have to be enough. I walked out into the hall, and they led the way towards the chamber.
"Would you like to hear a prayer?," Father Kelly asked.
"No thanks, father. Everything has been said." We walked down the hall together. I still couldn't feel anything. I smiled again. There was a certain justice to this, I thought. If they really believed me, they were going to have to live with it, not me.
Everything I liked was on the tray- pepperoni pizza, macaroni and cheese, Coke, and coffee ice cream. I dove into it pretty hard, eating mindlessly until I felt the pleasant ache of fullness. Now I was sitting back, toying with the scraps, just waiting. It was all waiting now.
Wait for lunch, wait for dinner, wait for them to bring my mail. Wait, wait, wait. I used to hate it, raging at anyone who would listen when I couldn't get my papers. Screaming, fighting, sobbing at night when the loneliness consumed me. They made you wait because they could, like bullies always do.
I looked around my room. Stacks of letters, paperbacks, my posters, pens and papers. I wondered idly what would happen to all of this, after. I wondered what would happen after, in general. It was something you had to consider- it was too big and compelling not to think of, even as you knew you couldn't work it out.
They assembled outside my door, and I heard the harsh buzz and the deep thunk of the machinery being opened. TJ was there, along with Sully and Father Kelly and the Warden.
"Charles Kent?"
I looked at them without getting up. "TJ," I said softly, "you know it's me."
"I do, CK," he said. "But there are rules about this." He was quiet for a moment. "It's time, CK. We'll drag you out if we have to, but you don't want that."
"No," I said, "I don't." I didn't move.
"You know I didn't, TJ. Right? You believe me?"
"It doesn't matter any more, CK."
"I know. I know it doesn't matter, I know it's all over, and I know it's too late. But you believe me, don't you?"
"Honestly?"
How else? "Yeah."
"I do, CK." TJ had known me for almost 8 years, long after I had stopped being angry about it. TJ probably heard a lot of guys saying they didn't do it, but I had the advantage of actually telling the truth. I didn't do it, despite what everyone thought, and despite what the conventional wisdom said.
"It's time," the Warden said.
"OK," I said, looking down at the scraps of food on my plate. I stood up. I felt nothing. I had raged against fate, asking why and how to a deafening silence from the universe. It didn't matter what I thought, or what anyone thought, now. It was like I was watching myself in a movie. "I'm coming," I said, and smiled. Obedient to the last.
I had long since quit trying to convince anyone else. I knew, and that would have to be enough. I walked out into the hall, and they led the way towards the chamber.
"Would you like to hear a prayer?," Father Kelly asked.
"No thanks, father. Everything has been said." We walked down the hall together. I still couldn't feel anything. I smiled again. There was a certain justice to this, I thought. If they really believed me, they were going to have to live with it, not me.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
New Stuff! Here, There, and Everywhere!
Matt Potter, who just barely missed becoming the fifth Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, has published another story of mine, "Bus Window Warning". It is the third of three stories that came to me in a dream, or something. I don't really know.
On another note entirely, Chuck Wendig, new father and author and exhausted, semi awake humanoid, initiates another week of Flash Fiction madness with a Sub Genre Tango, giving contestants like me a list of subgenres and the challenge to mix two of them into a Flash Fiction story. I don't know how successful I was, but I'm calling this a Southern Gothic/Sword and Sorcery mashup, and it's called "Mission".
I watched Camellia walk away from me. There was a flask with a cork in it, half full with amber liquid, sitting on top of a cabinet that came up to her tiny waist. The dress looked too tight, her flesh pulling it taut where the fabric was trying to preserve her silouhette. It looked uncomfortable. Camellia uncorked the flask, pouring some into a dirty glass.
"Why?," she said, choking out the words. "Why now?"
"You know why," I said. The Confederation was making inroads again, taking our border villages, forcing us back into the larger towns. The call had went out for veterans to return to the colors, push the invaders back. We needed to protect our way of life, they told us. I went because I knew how to handle myself. I went because there was occasionally food to be had. I went because it was the only way a kid from nowhere could make a name for himself. I also went because they would find me if I didn't.
"But, Bar-" she said, corrupting my name. She knew I wanted to be called Bartholomew.
"But nothing, Camellia. You know I have to go. They'll come looking for me if I don't."
"I hate the fighting," she said, her bare shoulders trembling. "I hate it."
"We all hate the fighting," I said. "Especially the ones who fight."
"So why do you do it?," she said, whipping around to face me. Her red face was wet with tears. The dress was taut where it tried to keep her body restrained. "Why are you going to leave me? I just found you, and now you have to go? Why now?"
"Now is when it's happening," I said, not even believing it as I said it. I had graduated from stealing apples from the kitchen to sneaking into her bedroom at night. She always promised me she would reveal me to the family, but I always slunk back out the window in the morning.
"You can't leave me now," she said. "Not now." She had poured herself a glass, and she took a long swallow.
"Camellia, you know I must." She was breathing deep, heaving breaths, like she had run from the fields into the sitting room. I watched the fabric of the dress pulling tight across her tiny belly when she breathed in. I thought about the carnage, the charnel house of battle I was about to face, and wondered why I could see that now, standing at peace in front of her. Yet when I was in the fray, hacking and slashing and smelling the explosions and hearing the cries, I would picture the way the moonlight would capture her bare, sweet smelling peach skin as she slept.
"Bar, you must understand something. You have to come back to me. You have to."
"Will you tell your father about us? While I'm gone?"
"You know how he feels. He's obsessed with our bloodline. He wants me to marry of noble blood- one of those half breed dimwits he presents to me, all full of bravado. He wants me to take one of them and make another generation playing dress up in these giant houses with no one living in them. I can't tell him about you- as soon as he knows who your father is, he'll set the dogs on you."
I felt my sword at my hip. I could picture running the old man through, the shocked look on his face when blood and entrails splashed on his feet.
"Can't you talk to him?"
She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Bar, come back to me. I promise, when you come back, things will be different."
I had heard that before. "Truly, Camellia?"
"Truly."
It was three days' ride to the frontier, unless the losses continued, in which case the front lines would find me.
"I have to go."
"Do you know how long you will be?," Camellia said. She drew herself up to her full height, pulling in another deep breath. The dress was still taut below her ribs.
"Until it's over." I wondered if she wanted a final embrace. I had spent the night holding her, but she may want a final, lingering hug. I didn't want to leave, but I knew what I had to face, and I felt almost itchy to leave and get it started.
"Come back, Bar."
"I will," I told her, and, with a final, lingering glance at her, I left. Fighting to keep food on your plate was one thing. Fighting for her, to come back to her and rejoin her bed, that required a different sort of skill. I used to fight to live. Now I fight not to die.
On another note entirely, Chuck Wendig, new father and author and exhausted, semi awake humanoid, initiates another week of Flash Fiction madness with a Sub Genre Tango, giving contestants like me a list of subgenres and the challenge to mix two of them into a Flash Fiction story. I don't know how successful I was, but I'm calling this a Southern Gothic/Sword and Sorcery mashup, and it's called "Mission".
I watched Camellia walk away from me. There was a flask with a cork in it, half full with amber liquid, sitting on top of a cabinet that came up to her tiny waist. The dress looked too tight, her flesh pulling it taut where the fabric was trying to preserve her silouhette. It looked uncomfortable. Camellia uncorked the flask, pouring some into a dirty glass.
"Why?," she said, choking out the words. "Why now?"
"You know why," I said. The Confederation was making inroads again, taking our border villages, forcing us back into the larger towns. The call had went out for veterans to return to the colors, push the invaders back. We needed to protect our way of life, they told us. I went because I knew how to handle myself. I went because there was occasionally food to be had. I went because it was the only way a kid from nowhere could make a name for himself. I also went because they would find me if I didn't.
"But, Bar-" she said, corrupting my name. She knew I wanted to be called Bartholomew.
"But nothing, Camellia. You know I have to go. They'll come looking for me if I don't."
"I hate the fighting," she said, her bare shoulders trembling. "I hate it."
"We all hate the fighting," I said. "Especially the ones who fight."
"So why do you do it?," she said, whipping around to face me. Her red face was wet with tears. The dress was taut where it tried to keep her body restrained. "Why are you going to leave me? I just found you, and now you have to go? Why now?"
"Now is when it's happening," I said, not even believing it as I said it. I had graduated from stealing apples from the kitchen to sneaking into her bedroom at night. She always promised me she would reveal me to the family, but I always slunk back out the window in the morning.
"You can't leave me now," she said. "Not now." She had poured herself a glass, and she took a long swallow.
"Camellia, you know I must." She was breathing deep, heaving breaths, like she had run from the fields into the sitting room. I watched the fabric of the dress pulling tight across her tiny belly when she breathed in. I thought about the carnage, the charnel house of battle I was about to face, and wondered why I could see that now, standing at peace in front of her. Yet when I was in the fray, hacking and slashing and smelling the explosions and hearing the cries, I would picture the way the moonlight would capture her bare, sweet smelling peach skin as she slept.
"Bar, you must understand something. You have to come back to me. You have to."
"Will you tell your father about us? While I'm gone?"
"You know how he feels. He's obsessed with our bloodline. He wants me to marry of noble blood- one of those half breed dimwits he presents to me, all full of bravado. He wants me to take one of them and make another generation playing dress up in these giant houses with no one living in them. I can't tell him about you- as soon as he knows who your father is, he'll set the dogs on you."
I felt my sword at my hip. I could picture running the old man through, the shocked look on his face when blood and entrails splashed on his feet.
"Can't you talk to him?"
She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Bar, come back to me. I promise, when you come back, things will be different."
I had heard that before. "Truly, Camellia?"
"Truly."
It was three days' ride to the frontier, unless the losses continued, in which case the front lines would find me.
"I have to go."
"Do you know how long you will be?," Camellia said. She drew herself up to her full height, pulling in another deep breath. The dress was still taut below her ribs.
"Until it's over." I wondered if she wanted a final embrace. I had spent the night holding her, but she may want a final, lingering hug. I didn't want to leave, but I knew what I had to face, and I felt almost itchy to leave and get it started.
"Come back, Bar."
"I will," I told her, and, with a final, lingering glance at her, I left. Fighting to keep food on your plate was one thing. Fighting for her, to come back to her and rejoin her bed, that required a different sort of skill. I used to fight to live. Now I fight not to die.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Flash Fiction Friday: "Sweep The Street"
The Flash Fiction Friday team wants us to write about "Unrest" this week. My story is called "Sweep The Street"
I was tired. I yawned, trying to cover it quickly. I stood in line with the others, shoulder to shoulder. I knew there were more behind me, along with the looming bulk of an Army transport behind them. We had the armor, and we had the weapons, and we had the hard plastic shields to protect us, and we had the force of law. We were the society made flesh, the rules personified in a line of identically clad men and women, cleaning the streets of disorder and chaos. We were in charge.
But I still felt tired and vulnerable. The people in front of us looked scared, but there were a lot of them. I had been yanked out of a sound sleep to fall in for special duty.
It all started simply enough. You didn't have to be a sociologist to know that poor people, with nothing to do all day, no jobs and no prospects of any jobs, were going to get mad. It was usually against each other- one no hoper robbing or beating or killing another one. That was sad, but easy enough to deal with- you caught the one who did it a day or a week later, put him away, and that was that. You couldn't prevent it, so you caught and punished and went on.
This time it was different. There was a job training fair- an abandoned store with some laptops set up and some cute, earnest twentysomethings in polo shirts and khakis and nametags that said "Rayanne" and "Isabella" to do their duty by helping put resumes in order and give the impression there was some hope. The girls, fresh from degrees in social work at prestigious schools that Daddy paid for with four hours of work at his hedge fund, smiled wide and tried hard and looked very pretty and well bred.
But the people who drifted in, looking at these new grads with their pressed pants and shiny black shoes, knew better. They knew the game had been rigged since before they were born. They knew that the winners were going to keep winning, that there wasn't any way to move up, that nobody cared one whit about them or their problems. They didn't know who George Orwell was, most of them, but they would have agreed with him that the future was just more boots stepping on their face, over and over again.
One of the local tough guys, a guy in a basketball jersey everybody called Red, actually sauntered into the storefront and began talking up one of the girls. Once his clumsy romantic overture was turned aside, he got down to business, and his voice started rising. She tried to calm him down, but he got more agitated, finally slapping her once, hard, across her face. The police were called, and he started fighting with them. A crowd gathered, and rocks started raining down from the surrounding rooftops.
Things sped out of control, windows getting broken, fires starting to burn with firefighters refusing to come and combat them, and the crowd getting louder and angrier. People began chanting, and young kids started using the crowds as an excuse for mischief. Motorists were getting rocks thrown at them, and someone in the power structure hit the panic button. So we were assembled, the plan being to sweep straight down Burton Street to where another force waited on Shaughnessy Boulevard- pinching the crowd between us, cuffing and taking away those who wouldn't disperse.
I heard the command to move, remembering my training- stay together, move like you're blocking for a running back. Don't get ahead of your partner, which could let a protester get between us. Don't swing your truncheon until you are provoked. I saw an egg arc over our heads, splattering against the green metal of the Army truck. Just keep moving, just keep moving, I thought, thinking about the fish from the Pixar movie, saying, "Just keep swimming, just keep swimming..."
I understand what they're mad about. A year ago, I would have been one of them- I only got into the Academy myself when a sex scandal threw out about half the freshman class. You hear that all you have to do is work hard, and you'll be a success, and then you do work hard, and you can't afford college, and you wind up slinging burgers part time for minimum wage. They tell us our country is the wealthiest in the world, and you quickly realize that that wealth isn't spread around very well. Sure, there's equality of opportunity- but it's hard to make that argument when your dad is in jail and your school is falling apart and there's nothing on the table for dinner.
But we can't live like this- in the war of all against all, nobody wins. There have to be rules, and a structure. I took an oath to uphold this structure, and uphold it I will. We marched forward, watching people retreat before us, backing off from the row of hard plastic shields. I stayed in line with my brothers, angry at the forces that brought the people into the streets, and angry at the same people who retreated before our show of force. We marched, step by even step, pushing people before us, enforcing the rules of a system that discarded people like refuse from a fast food drive thru. I was tired.
I was tired. I yawned, trying to cover it quickly. I stood in line with the others, shoulder to shoulder. I knew there were more behind me, along with the looming bulk of an Army transport behind them. We had the armor, and we had the weapons, and we had the hard plastic shields to protect us, and we had the force of law. We were the society made flesh, the rules personified in a line of identically clad men and women, cleaning the streets of disorder and chaos. We were in charge.
But I still felt tired and vulnerable. The people in front of us looked scared, but there were a lot of them. I had been yanked out of a sound sleep to fall in for special duty.
It all started simply enough. You didn't have to be a sociologist to know that poor people, with nothing to do all day, no jobs and no prospects of any jobs, were going to get mad. It was usually against each other- one no hoper robbing or beating or killing another one. That was sad, but easy enough to deal with- you caught the one who did it a day or a week later, put him away, and that was that. You couldn't prevent it, so you caught and punished and went on.
This time it was different. There was a job training fair- an abandoned store with some laptops set up and some cute, earnest twentysomethings in polo shirts and khakis and nametags that said "Rayanne" and "Isabella" to do their duty by helping put resumes in order and give the impression there was some hope. The girls, fresh from degrees in social work at prestigious schools that Daddy paid for with four hours of work at his hedge fund, smiled wide and tried hard and looked very pretty and well bred.
But the people who drifted in, looking at these new grads with their pressed pants and shiny black shoes, knew better. They knew the game had been rigged since before they were born. They knew that the winners were going to keep winning, that there wasn't any way to move up, that nobody cared one whit about them or their problems. They didn't know who George Orwell was, most of them, but they would have agreed with him that the future was just more boots stepping on their face, over and over again.
One of the local tough guys, a guy in a basketball jersey everybody called Red, actually sauntered into the storefront and began talking up one of the girls. Once his clumsy romantic overture was turned aside, he got down to business, and his voice started rising. She tried to calm him down, but he got more agitated, finally slapping her once, hard, across her face. The police were called, and he started fighting with them. A crowd gathered, and rocks started raining down from the surrounding rooftops.
Things sped out of control, windows getting broken, fires starting to burn with firefighters refusing to come and combat them, and the crowd getting louder and angrier. People began chanting, and young kids started using the crowds as an excuse for mischief. Motorists were getting rocks thrown at them, and someone in the power structure hit the panic button. So we were assembled, the plan being to sweep straight down Burton Street to where another force waited on Shaughnessy Boulevard- pinching the crowd between us, cuffing and taking away those who wouldn't disperse.
I heard the command to move, remembering my training- stay together, move like you're blocking for a running back. Don't get ahead of your partner, which could let a protester get between us. Don't swing your truncheon until you are provoked. I saw an egg arc over our heads, splattering against the green metal of the Army truck. Just keep moving, just keep moving, I thought, thinking about the fish from the Pixar movie, saying, "Just keep swimming, just keep swimming..."
I understand what they're mad about. A year ago, I would have been one of them- I only got into the Academy myself when a sex scandal threw out about half the freshman class. You hear that all you have to do is work hard, and you'll be a success, and then you do work hard, and you can't afford college, and you wind up slinging burgers part time for minimum wage. They tell us our country is the wealthiest in the world, and you quickly realize that that wealth isn't spread around very well. Sure, there's equality of opportunity- but it's hard to make that argument when your dad is in jail and your school is falling apart and there's nothing on the table for dinner.
But we can't live like this- in the war of all against all, nobody wins. There have to be rules, and a structure. I took an oath to uphold this structure, and uphold it I will. We marched forward, watching people retreat before us, backing off from the row of hard plastic shields. I stayed in line with my brothers, angry at the forces that brought the people into the streets, and angry at the same people who retreated before our show of force. We marched, step by even step, pushing people before us, enforcing the rules of a system that discarded people like refuse from a fast food drive thru. I was tired.
Terrible Minds Challenge: Ballad of a Well Known Gun
Chuck Wendig has thrown down another flash fiction gauntlet, something about guns, and I will take it up, semi successfully, with this story, "Ballad of a Well Known Gun".
Everyone was so polite, that was the thing. If someone would just break character, stand up from their desk and just yell at me, "Listen, you broke-ass motherfucker. You're too poor to get this miracle drug that might save your wife's life. So just sit down, and shut up, and call hospice, because the love of your life, the only person you've ever really cared about besides yourself, is about to die, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it!", if someone said that, maybe throwing a pen for emphasis, that would make the whole thing easier to take. But nobody ever did that, it was always, "We're very sorry," and "We wish we could help," and "Maybe you could consider," but it was always something we had already considered. Too poor for government help, too rich for anyone else to help. We went through the regular treatment, and then still the shaking heads, the "I'm sorry," the "things aren't improving the way we had hoped," all the bullshit euphemisms they use. They told us about this new pill, but that was a series of more stone walls, more gentle apologies- you're too sick for the trial, there's no room, we can't get you in, we wish we could help. "You can pay for it yourself," they say, but they have no idea how much it is. It's like window shopping at the Jaguar dealer- what's the point, when you know you can't afford it. The failure gnawed at me when I sat on the end of our bed, legs aching from hours on my feet. I felt like less of a man, because my darling Mary needed something, and I couldn't provide it. It killed me. She would try to comfort me, Mary would- running her hand down my arm, telling me it would be OK, that we would find a way, that she would be OK. I knew she was lying, and she knew she was lying, but she just kept saying it, like saying it again would make it true. I was losing Mary, and it terrified me, and it made me angry.
So I decided I would do it. I would find a place, and I would call and ask them if they had any of the drug, and then I'd take Daddy's old shotgun, the menacing one that still gleamed with gun oil from the last time he cleaned it right before he died, and I'd march in there, wearing a Raiders cap and one of Mary's nylons over my face, and I'd just march right up to the druggist, some fat guy with a beard, and I'd tell him to hand the stuff over. It was simple. I would wait until 8:45, almost closing time, when people are tired, slow, and sloppy. I stood there looking at the calming walnut grain of my father's shotgun in the closet. It belonged above the fireplace at a mountain lodge. From the time I was 8, he made sure I knew how to clean it and load it, removing any mystery and romance from it so I would think about it just like it was any other tool. I looked down at it, the polished wood, the metal where the mechanism was, then the long, smooth barrels. A precision instrument, one that could knock down a bird, or a deer. It probably couldn't stop a bear, but it might give it something to think about. It went against everything I was taught, using this beautiful, precision instrument to instill fear. My father always taught me, no matter how sure you were that it was empty, that you never point it at another person for any reason. It was meant for animals, or targets, or just for decoration- not as a threat. It was too smooth, too elegant to be used for something so base and ugly. It wasn't loaded, but nobody else would know that. I wouldn't hurt anyone. All they would know was that I was there to rob them, to take something that didn't belong to me because I had a gun and could force them to. I didn't want to do it. But if there was any other way to keep Mary alive, I would. The gun was in the closet, the reflected street light shining off the barrels, resting there like a threat and a promise. I sighed. Sometimes you just have to do what you have to do.
Everyone was so polite, that was the thing. If someone would just break character, stand up from their desk and just yell at me, "Listen, you broke-ass motherfucker. You're too poor to get this miracle drug that might save your wife's life. So just sit down, and shut up, and call hospice, because the love of your life, the only person you've ever really cared about besides yourself, is about to die, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it!", if someone said that, maybe throwing a pen for emphasis, that would make the whole thing easier to take. But nobody ever did that, it was always, "We're very sorry," and "We wish we could help," and "Maybe you could consider," but it was always something we had already considered. Too poor for government help, too rich for anyone else to help. We went through the regular treatment, and then still the shaking heads, the "I'm sorry," the "things aren't improving the way we had hoped," all the bullshit euphemisms they use. They told us about this new pill, but that was a series of more stone walls, more gentle apologies- you're too sick for the trial, there's no room, we can't get you in, we wish we could help. "You can pay for it yourself," they say, but they have no idea how much it is. It's like window shopping at the Jaguar dealer- what's the point, when you know you can't afford it. The failure gnawed at me when I sat on the end of our bed, legs aching from hours on my feet. I felt like less of a man, because my darling Mary needed something, and I couldn't provide it. It killed me. She would try to comfort me, Mary would- running her hand down my arm, telling me it would be OK, that we would find a way, that she would be OK. I knew she was lying, and she knew she was lying, but she just kept saying it, like saying it again would make it true. I was losing Mary, and it terrified me, and it made me angry.
So I decided I would do it. I would find a place, and I would call and ask them if they had any of the drug, and then I'd take Daddy's old shotgun, the menacing one that still gleamed with gun oil from the last time he cleaned it right before he died, and I'd march in there, wearing a Raiders cap and one of Mary's nylons over my face, and I'd just march right up to the druggist, some fat guy with a beard, and I'd tell him to hand the stuff over. It was simple. I would wait until 8:45, almost closing time, when people are tired, slow, and sloppy. I stood there looking at the calming walnut grain of my father's shotgun in the closet. It belonged above the fireplace at a mountain lodge. From the time I was 8, he made sure I knew how to clean it and load it, removing any mystery and romance from it so I would think about it just like it was any other tool. I looked down at it, the polished wood, the metal where the mechanism was, then the long, smooth barrels. A precision instrument, one that could knock down a bird, or a deer. It probably couldn't stop a bear, but it might give it something to think about. It went against everything I was taught, using this beautiful, precision instrument to instill fear. My father always taught me, no matter how sure you were that it was empty, that you never point it at another person for any reason. It was meant for animals, or targets, or just for decoration- not as a threat. It was too smooth, too elegant to be used for something so base and ugly. It wasn't loaded, but nobody else would know that. I wouldn't hurt anyone. All they would know was that I was there to rob them, to take something that didn't belong to me because I had a gun and could force them to. I didn't want to do it. But if there was any other way to keep Mary alive, I would. The gun was in the closet, the reflected street light shining off the barrels, resting there like a threat and a promise. I sighed. Sometimes you just have to do what you have to do.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
More Slushy Goodness
Matt Potter, minister without portfolio for the Department of Awesome, has published another story of mine, "4:26 AM", in his web magazine Pure Slush. Like the last story of mine he was kind enough to put up, it is a bit of a departure for me, a character that is unlike any I have ever come up with. Feel free to go forth and partake, but fair warning: the story implies that adult humans sometimes have sex.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Flash Fiction Friday: My Little Town
This week, Flash Fiction Friday invites you to write about your hometown. I don't know how close I came, but here's my story, "My Little Town" (Note: As with everything I write, this is a melange of truth and falsehood. While all these people really exist (the men, anyway), the events depicted herein never happened.)
The court was at the end of a strip of long, pure blacktop- new and fresh and almost soft. We weren't allowed to be there- it was absolutely private property, the edge of a parking lot that belonged to a rapidly shrinking tech firm that expanded to our small town a half decade ago in the mistaken belief that trees grow to the sky. Their security guards had evolved into a live and let live attitude towards our presence on their property- they pretended they didn't see us, and we pretended we didn't see them.
The six of us were friends, but we were friends in the sense that men are friends, which is to say, not really. We didn't talk about anything other than sports and music, teased each other gently, and walked back into our lives alone. Whether townie, like Tom, Chuck, or Jeff and his brother Dave, or technology boom transplants like my brother and I, we came back to our little town, gathered at the basketball court above the highway, and said the things we couldn't say.
The town was here before any of us- it sent troops to the Battle of Concord during the Revolutionary War. The town was becoming congested, the highway and the new millionaires filling the treelined streets and antique shops and good suburban schools with transplants like my family, heading west to ruin other suburbs after their own are overrun. It is attached to major highways, but you can turn off of them and be in heavily wooded sections where there are no signs because all the natives know where everything is.
We gathered after a series of phone calls, cars pulling up one by one as jobs let out or parents returned home to watch younger siblings. Some brought bottled water or Gatorade, and the older ones, Tom, Jeff and I, strapped on knee braces to protect our already aging bodies. The first arrivals shoot by themselves, arcing jump shots and driving layups to get cool muscles accustomed to the night's exertions.
Basketball is something to do, something for those of us who aren't popular enough to go to parties or date. It beat driving down the same streets, listening to the Eagles or Led Zeppelin, wishing you were brave enough to call a girl. We weren't daring enough to get in any real trouble- no drugs, no violence, very little sex, just young men without purpose, gathering in the twilight, waiting for our real lives to begin.
Some nights we could actually get ten people, actual real life five on five games, but that night it was just the core six, Tom and Chuck pulling in last, the rest of us still lazily shooting. They joined our merry band, warming up quickly, then dividing sides. We didn't need shirts and skins, knowing each other well enough. The game was half court, scoring team keeps possession, gentleman's agreement on fouls.
It started well, both teams tossing in a few long shots, before settling into a battle of attrition. We had been playing all summer, to the point where you knew who wanted to take the shot at the elbow, versus who would try to get by you for a layup. You knew who couldn't dribble to their left, and you knew who would bite on a spin move or a back door cut. We had all played basketball for our town's team, but this reflected more of a lack of interest than any special ability.
The game struggled upwards, as the traffic home from other suburbs died away and it got harder to see. The highway was less a murmur now than a sudden rush and rumble when an eighteen wheeler headed for New Hampshire roared by. At 19-18, fatigue began to affect both sides, shots that usually go in rimming out, layups skittering away instead of dropping through. We made ourselves play on, the game becoming a test of toughness- we would finish no matter how long it took.
I had caught the ball, Tom defending me eagerly. With his height advantage, I would usually pass off when he guarded me, and accordingly, my brother curled and gained a step on his defender, giving him a clear path to the basket and a score that would put us one point away from victory. I felt Tom lag, knowing he saw the gap and was trying to fill it, and took advantage. I sold the bounce pass, getting Tom and my brother's lagging defender to converge, and went up instead, draining a jump shot for a 20-18 advantage. Pumping my fist, I went back behind the three point line to set up for the hopefully final possession.
Suddenly I noticed Stacy. I had heard about Tom and Stacy, seeing them leave the grocery store as I went into it, or seeing them in a movie theater lobby. It wasn't a big deal, and not that unusual, but it was like seeing a dead deer at the side of the road- an inappropriateness violation. She wasn't beautiful by any standards, kind of mousy with an overbite, but, as I was sure he would point out, she was better than the nonexistent girlfriends any of us had.
Tom was walking towards Stacy, who had pulled her car, a forest green Dodge, right up to the court. I had been waiting for the ball to be passed out to me, but now we were all watching Tom, walking away from us, towards her small face and simultaneously thin and pudgy frame. I could see the curve of a pot belly under a Def Leppard t shirt, pointing right at Tom like a gun. He came up to her and bent his head down as they talked.
"I have to go, guys," was all Tom said, his voice thin and high. He moved to get into the Dodge's passenger side. We all felt frozen for a second- a move that should have brought catcalls, Tom's abandoning us for a girl, brought a stunned silence. I had asked everyone about coming to my house after the game (and a much needed shower) to watch Monty Python movies and eat popcorn, my parents being in Manchester for a weekend of square dancing. I was sure Tom, a recent no show, would have gone in for that, but I took his noncommittal answer as the "no" that it clearly was.
I loved Tom- we all loved Tom, in the way we could. He had a wicked sense of humor, was brilliant and wise and could expound on Buddhism and the Higgs boson in the same paragraph. I thought he was settling for Stacy, but never said so, and I felt Tom's loss, suddenly, even as he rode away in Stacy's car. I had the unmistakable impression he was gone, even as we could still follow her brake lights as they disappeared around the corner into the woods.
"I guess you guys win," Jeff, the captain of the other team suggested.
Nobody agreed.
The court was at the end of a strip of long, pure blacktop- new and fresh and almost soft. We weren't allowed to be there- it was absolutely private property, the edge of a parking lot that belonged to a rapidly shrinking tech firm that expanded to our small town a half decade ago in the mistaken belief that trees grow to the sky. Their security guards had evolved into a live and let live attitude towards our presence on their property- they pretended they didn't see us, and we pretended we didn't see them.
The six of us were friends, but we were friends in the sense that men are friends, which is to say, not really. We didn't talk about anything other than sports and music, teased each other gently, and walked back into our lives alone. Whether townie, like Tom, Chuck, or Jeff and his brother Dave, or technology boom transplants like my brother and I, we came back to our little town, gathered at the basketball court above the highway, and said the things we couldn't say.
The town was here before any of us- it sent troops to the Battle of Concord during the Revolutionary War. The town was becoming congested, the highway and the new millionaires filling the treelined streets and antique shops and good suburban schools with transplants like my family, heading west to ruin other suburbs after their own are overrun. It is attached to major highways, but you can turn off of them and be in heavily wooded sections where there are no signs because all the natives know where everything is.
We gathered after a series of phone calls, cars pulling up one by one as jobs let out or parents returned home to watch younger siblings. Some brought bottled water or Gatorade, and the older ones, Tom, Jeff and I, strapped on knee braces to protect our already aging bodies. The first arrivals shoot by themselves, arcing jump shots and driving layups to get cool muscles accustomed to the night's exertions.
Basketball is something to do, something for those of us who aren't popular enough to go to parties or date. It beat driving down the same streets, listening to the Eagles or Led Zeppelin, wishing you were brave enough to call a girl. We weren't daring enough to get in any real trouble- no drugs, no violence, very little sex, just young men without purpose, gathering in the twilight, waiting for our real lives to begin.
Some nights we could actually get ten people, actual real life five on five games, but that night it was just the core six, Tom and Chuck pulling in last, the rest of us still lazily shooting. They joined our merry band, warming up quickly, then dividing sides. We didn't need shirts and skins, knowing each other well enough. The game was half court, scoring team keeps possession, gentleman's agreement on fouls.
It started well, both teams tossing in a few long shots, before settling into a battle of attrition. We had been playing all summer, to the point where you knew who wanted to take the shot at the elbow, versus who would try to get by you for a layup. You knew who couldn't dribble to their left, and you knew who would bite on a spin move or a back door cut. We had all played basketball for our town's team, but this reflected more of a lack of interest than any special ability.
The game struggled upwards, as the traffic home from other suburbs died away and it got harder to see. The highway was less a murmur now than a sudden rush and rumble when an eighteen wheeler headed for New Hampshire roared by. At 19-18, fatigue began to affect both sides, shots that usually go in rimming out, layups skittering away instead of dropping through. We made ourselves play on, the game becoming a test of toughness- we would finish no matter how long it took.
I had caught the ball, Tom defending me eagerly. With his height advantage, I would usually pass off when he guarded me, and accordingly, my brother curled and gained a step on his defender, giving him a clear path to the basket and a score that would put us one point away from victory. I felt Tom lag, knowing he saw the gap and was trying to fill it, and took advantage. I sold the bounce pass, getting Tom and my brother's lagging defender to converge, and went up instead, draining a jump shot for a 20-18 advantage. Pumping my fist, I went back behind the three point line to set up for the hopefully final possession.
Suddenly I noticed Stacy. I had heard about Tom and Stacy, seeing them leave the grocery store as I went into it, or seeing them in a movie theater lobby. It wasn't a big deal, and not that unusual, but it was like seeing a dead deer at the side of the road- an inappropriateness violation. She wasn't beautiful by any standards, kind of mousy with an overbite, but, as I was sure he would point out, she was better than the nonexistent girlfriends any of us had.
Tom was walking towards Stacy, who had pulled her car, a forest green Dodge, right up to the court. I had been waiting for the ball to be passed out to me, but now we were all watching Tom, walking away from us, towards her small face and simultaneously thin and pudgy frame. I could see the curve of a pot belly under a Def Leppard t shirt, pointing right at Tom like a gun. He came up to her and bent his head down as they talked.
"I have to go, guys," was all Tom said, his voice thin and high. He moved to get into the Dodge's passenger side. We all felt frozen for a second- a move that should have brought catcalls, Tom's abandoning us for a girl, brought a stunned silence. I had asked everyone about coming to my house after the game (and a much needed shower) to watch Monty Python movies and eat popcorn, my parents being in Manchester for a weekend of square dancing. I was sure Tom, a recent no show, would have gone in for that, but I took his noncommittal answer as the "no" that it clearly was.
I loved Tom- we all loved Tom, in the way we could. He had a wicked sense of humor, was brilliant and wise and could expound on Buddhism and the Higgs boson in the same paragraph. I thought he was settling for Stacy, but never said so, and I felt Tom's loss, suddenly, even as he rode away in Stacy's car. I had the unmistakable impression he was gone, even as we could still follow her brake lights as they disappeared around the corner into the woods.
"I guess you guys win," Jeff, the captain of the other team suggested.
Nobody agreed.
Sunday, August 07, 2011
Indie Ink Writing Challenge: Hotel Illness
The IndieInk Writing Challenge comes from Leslie, and asks me to write about a bikini, an annoying boss, and a fake illness. My challenge goes to Ixy, who I am asking to tell us about being five.
Alexa woke up with nausea already boiling in her gut. It was Monday, which explained part of it. She had begun to really hate her job, which was part of it, too. But this morning, staring at the mute red numbers on her cheap alarm clock, Alexa knew she couldn't face it. Her Monday clothes hung on her armoire, the shadow of her skirt, blouse, and jacket lingering there like a bad smell.
Her job was to make Charles look good. To have the information he needed for him, to do the calculations that made him look brilliant. To look good in a suit, to listen to his rants when things aren't going well, to be seen and not heard. Alexa went to college and worked hard, and she has wound up as a well dressed number cruncher. "Be glad you have a job," Stacy said, and the numbers of her college friends who posted about unemployed spouses or selves seemed to climb every week. It was constant stress- whatever she provided, it wasn't what he needed, or it was too slow, or it wasn't accurate enough.
Alexa knew that was true, but she still felt sick. The idea took hold at the bottom of her brain, and suddenly it was all she thought of. Call in sick. Why not? She knew the big meeting wasn't until Wednesday, and she had plenty of time to use. Temperatures in the upper 80s today, the first really warm day of the spring, combined with no real loss to her absence? A day away from ringing phones, conflicting demands, and unwanted eyes on her as she walked away from his desk.
The idea becomes irresistible the more she thinks about it. A day by the river, sunning herself, reading and watching people? Why not indeed. Alexa dialed into Charles' office, the number that she would usually answer. She reached into her drawer for her black bikini, already picturing the warm sun on her bare legs. She would have to go in tomorrow, but she was already relishing the hours of freedom. She waited for the voice mail to pick up.
"Hello?" Charles usually wasn't in for an hour after she got there. He sounded sleepless, almost manic.
"Ch-Ch-Charles? I didn't think you'd be in yet."
"Well, I haven't been home yet. Something's happened."
Alexa's blood froze. "What? What's happened? Why didn't you call me?"
"I can't say just yet," Charles said.
"I can be there in an hour," Alexa said quickly, her stomach now churning full force.
"No, no. There's not much you can do, right now. What were you calling for?"
Alexa swallowed hard. "I don't feel...I wasn't feeling...,"
"You're sick? No problem, hon. Take the day off. I'll talk to you tomorrow." He hung up quickly. Alexa stared at her phone, the screen reminding her that the call had ended. Her stomach tightened in a spasm. Now, she thought, I do feel sick.
Alexa woke up with nausea already boiling in her gut. It was Monday, which explained part of it. She had begun to really hate her job, which was part of it, too. But this morning, staring at the mute red numbers on her cheap alarm clock, Alexa knew she couldn't face it. Her Monday clothes hung on her armoire, the shadow of her skirt, blouse, and jacket lingering there like a bad smell.
Her job was to make Charles look good. To have the information he needed for him, to do the calculations that made him look brilliant. To look good in a suit, to listen to his rants when things aren't going well, to be seen and not heard. Alexa went to college and worked hard, and she has wound up as a well dressed number cruncher. "Be glad you have a job," Stacy said, and the numbers of her college friends who posted about unemployed spouses or selves seemed to climb every week. It was constant stress- whatever she provided, it wasn't what he needed, or it was too slow, or it wasn't accurate enough.
Alexa knew that was true, but she still felt sick. The idea took hold at the bottom of her brain, and suddenly it was all she thought of. Call in sick. Why not? She knew the big meeting wasn't until Wednesday, and she had plenty of time to use. Temperatures in the upper 80s today, the first really warm day of the spring, combined with no real loss to her absence? A day away from ringing phones, conflicting demands, and unwanted eyes on her as she walked away from his desk.
The idea becomes irresistible the more she thinks about it. A day by the river, sunning herself, reading and watching people? Why not indeed. Alexa dialed into Charles' office, the number that she would usually answer. She reached into her drawer for her black bikini, already picturing the warm sun on her bare legs. She would have to go in tomorrow, but she was already relishing the hours of freedom. She waited for the voice mail to pick up.
"Hello?" Charles usually wasn't in for an hour after she got there. He sounded sleepless, almost manic.
"Ch-Ch-Charles? I didn't think you'd be in yet."
"Well, I haven't been home yet. Something's happened."
Alexa's blood froze. "What? What's happened? Why didn't you call me?"
"I can't say just yet," Charles said.
"I can be there in an hour," Alexa said quickly, her stomach now churning full force.
"No, no. There's not much you can do, right now. What were you calling for?"
Alexa swallowed hard. "I don't feel...I wasn't feeling...,"
"You're sick? No problem, hon. Take the day off. I'll talk to you tomorrow." He hung up quickly. Alexa stared at her phone, the screen reminding her that the call had ended. Her stomach tightened in a spasm. Now, she thought, I do feel sick.
Saturday, August 06, 2011
Standard And Potter
Matt Potter has published another one of my stories over at casa del Pure Slush. It's a little bit of a departure for me.
In today's news, Standard and Poor's has downgraded the debt of the United States, an unprecedented move that has shaken people around the world. It makes me wonder, though. Standard and Poor's are the same people who told us all that bonds backed by fraudulent mortgages were perfectly safe and OK to purchase, helping lead us all into the global economic meltdown we have all been enjoying. Why, exactly, should anyone believe anything they say about anything?
In today's news, Standard and Poor's has downgraded the debt of the United States, an unprecedented move that has shaken people around the world. It makes me wonder, though. Standard and Poor's are the same people who told us all that bonds backed by fraudulent mortgages were perfectly safe and OK to purchase, helping lead us all into the global economic meltdown we have all been enjoying. Why, exactly, should anyone believe anything they say about anything?
Thursday, August 04, 2011
Terrible Minds Challenge: "EBay From Hell"
Chuck Wendig is, among other things, dope on the floor and magic on the mic. His Terrible Minds Flash Fiction Challenge this week involves a story about a flea market in some way, shape or form. This is mine, called "EBay from Hell".
He stopped. Again. That's how it was- stop, wait, look, think, then move on, walking a few more steps, then stopping, looking again. All the while, I waddled along behind him, feeling like a water buffalo among the cheetah.
I sighed and took a step back. Big as I was, there was no place left to stand where I wasn't in the way. I tried to stay out of the traffic flow, not blocking any of the other stands while not preventing people from streaming by on their way to somewhere else. We were at the Washington Township Flea Market, an event where they turn the parking lot of our minor league hockey team's home arena, every Saturday all summer, into a giant, open air, EBay From Hell. People were there selling everything you could imagine- bootleg t shirts, books, jewelry, computer software, lawn decorations, trading cards. My hips began to ache as I walked along one of the long aisles between stands. I craved the air conditioned cool of our apartment.
A number of food trucks had set themselves up here on the steamy blacktop, and one of them, a teriyaki stand, served enormous cups of iced tea with lemon slices. I eagerly bought one as soon as we entered the maze of card tables and tents, and, already feeling warm as the humid morning started to assert itself, I sucked on the straw greedily. I felt out of place and awkward. I hated being out, walking around and being sweaty, but I also felt an intense need to be wherever he was, too.
I came with him out of a panicky sense of time slipping away. Steven was bent low over a plastic carton, flipping through cardboard backed comic books with a practiced eye. He had told me, gripping the wheel tightly as he played "Led Zeppelin III" in our ancient Subaru on the way over, what he was looking for, but I had already forgotten. Whenever I told my girlfriends at work about any weekend plans, the older ones clucked softly, reminding me that days like this, just the two of us gallivanting around, would soon be a thing of the past. I missed this, this "us", even before it was gone.
"Need a chair, hon?" The voice was coming from behind me, female, but gravelly with years of smoking. I half turned. She had a tanned, leathery face, with a tattoo high on her right shoulder of a heart with a scroll of names underneath it. She was smiling guardedly. The table in front of her was covered with what looked like Christmas ornaments- snowflakes, angels, wrapped presents- made out of what looked like hardened cookie dough.
I blushed. "Me? Oh, no. No, no. No thank you." She had startled me a little, and I felt my heart thrum briefly.
"OK. Just ask if you need it," she added. A young girl stopped in front of her wares, eyeing the ornaments suspiciously. She ran off, flip flops slapping the ground, free to move on to another adventure. I envied her.
"First one?," she said, gesturing towards my belly.
"Yup," I said.
"Boyfriend?," she said, her hand pointing vaguely at Steven, who was studying a single issue intently. Looking for flaws, I knew, folds or rips or holes that would make it less valuable to collectors.
"Husband," I said firmly. Why was it people never assumed I was married?
"You're good to put up with this," she said. "Husbands are crazy."
"Well, we take turns," I said. "Tonight, he has to sit on the couch and watch a movie with me."
"That's the way to do it," she said. "Give and take. My Freddie and me always did that. He had his model trains, and I had my ornaments."
"You had kids?" I asked her.
"Six." I gasped, trying to imagine going through this one more time, never mind five.
"It gets easier," she said, chuckling. I found that hard to believe. "And Freddie helped me. And you learn it as you go, too. It's a gradual thing. You'll never be good at it, but you'll get better, if that makes any sense."
Steven had one book under his arm, and was pawing for another.
"Mind a little more free advice, doll?," she added.
I did mind, but I didn't know how to refuse.
"Don't take anything for granted. Anything. Even this, out in the hot sun, perspiring in that cute dress like you are. Don't take your man for granted. Not once. My Freddie's been gone 8 years now, and I miss him every damn day."
Steven paid for his purchase, then walked over to me, a quizzical look on his face. "You OK?"
He said that a lot. "Yes, fine. You done? Or do you need to look some more?"
"I'm done," he said. He took my hand.
"Good luck, hon," she said to me.
"Thanks," I told her. "You too."
"Oh, no, hon," she said, chuckling again. "It's you that needs the luck now."
He stopped. Again. That's how it was- stop, wait, look, think, then move on, walking a few more steps, then stopping, looking again. All the while, I waddled along behind him, feeling like a water buffalo among the cheetah.
I sighed and took a step back. Big as I was, there was no place left to stand where I wasn't in the way. I tried to stay out of the traffic flow, not blocking any of the other stands while not preventing people from streaming by on their way to somewhere else. We were at the Washington Township Flea Market, an event where they turn the parking lot of our minor league hockey team's home arena, every Saturday all summer, into a giant, open air, EBay From Hell. People were there selling everything you could imagine- bootleg t shirts, books, jewelry, computer software, lawn decorations, trading cards. My hips began to ache as I walked along one of the long aisles between stands. I craved the air conditioned cool of our apartment.
A number of food trucks had set themselves up here on the steamy blacktop, and one of them, a teriyaki stand, served enormous cups of iced tea with lemon slices. I eagerly bought one as soon as we entered the maze of card tables and tents, and, already feeling warm as the humid morning started to assert itself, I sucked on the straw greedily. I felt out of place and awkward. I hated being out, walking around and being sweaty, but I also felt an intense need to be wherever he was, too.
I came with him out of a panicky sense of time slipping away. Steven was bent low over a plastic carton, flipping through cardboard backed comic books with a practiced eye. He had told me, gripping the wheel tightly as he played "Led Zeppelin III" in our ancient Subaru on the way over, what he was looking for, but I had already forgotten. Whenever I told my girlfriends at work about any weekend plans, the older ones clucked softly, reminding me that days like this, just the two of us gallivanting around, would soon be a thing of the past. I missed this, this "us", even before it was gone.
"Need a chair, hon?" The voice was coming from behind me, female, but gravelly with years of smoking. I half turned. She had a tanned, leathery face, with a tattoo high on her right shoulder of a heart with a scroll of names underneath it. She was smiling guardedly. The table in front of her was covered with what looked like Christmas ornaments- snowflakes, angels, wrapped presents- made out of what looked like hardened cookie dough.
I blushed. "Me? Oh, no. No, no. No thank you." She had startled me a little, and I felt my heart thrum briefly.
"OK. Just ask if you need it," she added. A young girl stopped in front of her wares, eyeing the ornaments suspiciously. She ran off, flip flops slapping the ground, free to move on to another adventure. I envied her.
"First one?," she said, gesturing towards my belly.
"Yup," I said.
"Boyfriend?," she said, her hand pointing vaguely at Steven, who was studying a single issue intently. Looking for flaws, I knew, folds or rips or holes that would make it less valuable to collectors.
"Husband," I said firmly. Why was it people never assumed I was married?
"You're good to put up with this," she said. "Husbands are crazy."
"Well, we take turns," I said. "Tonight, he has to sit on the couch and watch a movie with me."
"That's the way to do it," she said. "Give and take. My Freddie and me always did that. He had his model trains, and I had my ornaments."
"You had kids?" I asked her.
"Six." I gasped, trying to imagine going through this one more time, never mind five.
"It gets easier," she said, chuckling. I found that hard to believe. "And Freddie helped me. And you learn it as you go, too. It's a gradual thing. You'll never be good at it, but you'll get better, if that makes any sense."
Steven had one book under his arm, and was pawing for another.
"Mind a little more free advice, doll?," she added.
I did mind, but I didn't know how to refuse.
"Don't take anything for granted. Anything. Even this, out in the hot sun, perspiring in that cute dress like you are. Don't take your man for granted. Not once. My Freddie's been gone 8 years now, and I miss him every damn day."
Steven paid for his purchase, then walked over to me, a quizzical look on his face. "You OK?"
He said that a lot. "Yes, fine. You done? Or do you need to look some more?"
"I'm done," he said. He took my hand.
"Good luck, hon," she said to me.
"Thanks," I told her. "You too."
"Oh, no, hon," she said, chuckling again. "It's you that needs the luck now."
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Indie Ink Writing Challenge: I Want To Hold Your Hand
This week, the IndieInk Writing Challenge brings me "the apex of happiness" from Ms. Ixy. My challenge, "I've Got A Feeling", goes out to Angela. This week brings us yet another story from my Novel That Has No Name, Along With, Really, No Reason For Being. As before, the narrator is Ray, and this time he is trying to put to bed his willful 3 year old "niece", Kate. (They are not, in fact, related. For more details, please feel free to seek out my first novel, "Everybody Loves You Now," conveniently available in the sidebar.)
t was a battle, every time. It was a struggle of wills- two forces attempting to dominate and impose their agenda on the other. My opponent thought she was smarter than she was, and she thought I had forgotten the way this war went last time. Like in any skirmish, the question was not victory- I would win, because I was in charge- but instead how many losses I was willing to endure.
First it was weaning off of TV- one more episode, and then off for the evening. Then it was a story. Then another story. Then pajamas, brushing teeth, and brushing hair. Then it was a request for another story, gently, but firmly, denied. Then it was which bed- the soft couch or the big bed. I could sleep either place, so I let her choose- which meant first one, then the other.
Then the battle was really engaged. Too many pillows, then too few, and then too few blankets, then too many. Now it's too cold, now it's too hot. A sudden, raging thirst, then, of course, a bathroom trip. I settled into the couch cushions, listening to the sounds the mattress would make as she squirmed her way into comfort. She actually talked now and then, making those little happy sounds kids make, seemingly just to hear the sound of her own voice.
I didn't have trouble sleeping, but I couldn't rest until I thought that she was fully asleep. I knew I couldn't have the light on to read, and I certainly couldn't have the TV on, so I started making lists, papering the inside of my brain with Ten Best Left Handed Relief Pitchers, and Top Five Bass Guitarists. I heard the quiet hiss of summer rain beginning outside, hoping it would not bring thunder that would wake her up. Of course, it did, and as predictable as a 6-4-3 double play, she was at the foot of the couch in seconds.
"Unca Ray, it raining."
"Yes, Lovey, it is." Her hair was already disordered, tangled with sweat.
"Can you come lay on the big bed with me? I scared."
I sighed inwardly. "Sure." I knew she had to learn how to go to sleep by herself, but expedience won out over prudence. Plus I couldn't say no to that face.
She climbed into the bed, her body rigid with excitement. I climbed in as well, leaning on one side so I could watch her, hoping I could climb back out once she fell asleep.
"You really gonna sleep here the whole night?"
"Yes, honey. Shhh. Sleep time."
"OK, Unca Ray," she said in an exaggerated whisper.
She slid her hand towards me, and I covered it with my own. She sighed deeply, seeming to finally relax. I watched her breathing, her rib cage rising softly. Her face started to slacken as fatigue took over. The rain murmured outside the window, with a distant rumble of thunder causing her to grab my hand in response.
"It's OK, baby," I said softly. "I'm here." She was so easy to reassure, because the things she was afraid of were so distant.
She released her grip slightly. I stared at her in the shadows. She was so utterly dependent, so trusting. When she walked into a playground with other kids, she would constantly look back at me, as if to ask, "is this OK? Is it safe?" And it wasn't- not completely. There were driveways to skin knees on, stomach viruses to combat, and later, friendships made and broken in the internecine warfare of growing up girl. Much later, there would be boys lying to her, breaking her heart, making promises they can't or won't keep. And all through this, she looks to us for security, the only people she doesn't have to impress, the only people who will accept her utterly. Home: the place where, when she goes there, we will always take her in.
I wanted to warn her that I wasn't smart enough for this job, that I was in no way qualified to keep her safe from the world's dangers. I could make sure the rain didn't get her, and I could hold her hand when the thunder rolled, but I couldn't make things safe. No one could. I was grateful for her trust. Mystified by it, but grateful. She made me feel like I had some substance- her needs transformed me, making me better and more whole. As much of a pain in the neck as she was, she made me happier.
She would eventually realize that something horrible had happened to her, that her birthday itself was a measurement of tragedy as well. She had been robbed of something. At some point, this would make her furiously angry at anyone and everyone, and I knew those days would come. I could tell her that the same thing happened to me, but I at least had memories to hang on to. All she had was pictures and stories, and the fundamental unfairness of that would hit her like a ton of bricks. Someday.
But right now she believed. She knew that I would always be there, and her grandmother would, and each day just brought you new and different ways to be happy in a world that couldn't hurt you. As much as I knew that promise was a lie, just like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, I let her believe it, and to be able to provide someone that kind of security made me feel competent, in charge. I smiled in the dark, tired but happy. Her intense devotion to this false premise made me believe it, too. Almost.
t was a battle, every time. It was a struggle of wills- two forces attempting to dominate and impose their agenda on the other. My opponent thought she was smarter than she was, and she thought I had forgotten the way this war went last time. Like in any skirmish, the question was not victory- I would win, because I was in charge- but instead how many losses I was willing to endure.
First it was weaning off of TV- one more episode, and then off for the evening. Then it was a story. Then another story. Then pajamas, brushing teeth, and brushing hair. Then it was a request for another story, gently, but firmly, denied. Then it was which bed- the soft couch or the big bed. I could sleep either place, so I let her choose- which meant first one, then the other.
Then the battle was really engaged. Too many pillows, then too few, and then too few blankets, then too many. Now it's too cold, now it's too hot. A sudden, raging thirst, then, of course, a bathroom trip. I settled into the couch cushions, listening to the sounds the mattress would make as she squirmed her way into comfort. She actually talked now and then, making those little happy sounds kids make, seemingly just to hear the sound of her own voice.
I didn't have trouble sleeping, but I couldn't rest until I thought that she was fully asleep. I knew I couldn't have the light on to read, and I certainly couldn't have the TV on, so I started making lists, papering the inside of my brain with Ten Best Left Handed Relief Pitchers, and Top Five Bass Guitarists. I heard the quiet hiss of summer rain beginning outside, hoping it would not bring thunder that would wake her up. Of course, it did, and as predictable as a 6-4-3 double play, she was at the foot of the couch in seconds.
"Unca Ray, it raining."
"Yes, Lovey, it is." Her hair was already disordered, tangled with sweat.
"Can you come lay on the big bed with me? I scared."
I sighed inwardly. "Sure." I knew she had to learn how to go to sleep by herself, but expedience won out over prudence. Plus I couldn't say no to that face.
She climbed into the bed, her body rigid with excitement. I climbed in as well, leaning on one side so I could watch her, hoping I could climb back out once she fell asleep.
"You really gonna sleep here the whole night?"
"Yes, honey. Shhh. Sleep time."
"OK, Unca Ray," she said in an exaggerated whisper.
She slid her hand towards me, and I covered it with my own. She sighed deeply, seeming to finally relax. I watched her breathing, her rib cage rising softly. Her face started to slacken as fatigue took over. The rain murmured outside the window, with a distant rumble of thunder causing her to grab my hand in response.
"It's OK, baby," I said softly. "I'm here." She was so easy to reassure, because the things she was afraid of were so distant.
She released her grip slightly. I stared at her in the shadows. She was so utterly dependent, so trusting. When she walked into a playground with other kids, she would constantly look back at me, as if to ask, "is this OK? Is it safe?" And it wasn't- not completely. There were driveways to skin knees on, stomach viruses to combat, and later, friendships made and broken in the internecine warfare of growing up girl. Much later, there would be boys lying to her, breaking her heart, making promises they can't or won't keep. And all through this, she looks to us for security, the only people she doesn't have to impress, the only people who will accept her utterly. Home: the place where, when she goes there, we will always take her in.
I wanted to warn her that I wasn't smart enough for this job, that I was in no way qualified to keep her safe from the world's dangers. I could make sure the rain didn't get her, and I could hold her hand when the thunder rolled, but I couldn't make things safe. No one could. I was grateful for her trust. Mystified by it, but grateful. She made me feel like I had some substance- her needs transformed me, making me better and more whole. As much of a pain in the neck as she was, she made me happier.
She would eventually realize that something horrible had happened to her, that her birthday itself was a measurement of tragedy as well. She had been robbed of something. At some point, this would make her furiously angry at anyone and everyone, and I knew those days would come. I could tell her that the same thing happened to me, but I at least had memories to hang on to. All she had was pictures and stories, and the fundamental unfairness of that would hit her like a ton of bricks. Someday.
But right now she believed. She knew that I would always be there, and her grandmother would, and each day just brought you new and different ways to be happy in a world that couldn't hurt you. As much as I knew that promise was a lie, just like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, I let her believe it, and to be able to provide someone that kind of security made me feel competent, in charge. I smiled in the dark, tired but happy. Her intense devotion to this false premise made me believe it, too. Almost.
Friday, July 29, 2011
100 Word Challenge: No Myth
The Velvet Verbosity 100 Word Challenge is back from the brink and ready to take on all comers. This week's word is "Myth", and my story is called, "No Myth"
For Johnna
I had to time it just right, starting the song just as she started up the hill, so I'd be singing the right part when she got up to me. I was playing acoustic guitar, trying to stay in practice before I had to go do my grownup work. I didn't know her name, only the swinging rhythm of her walk, her caramel skin and long black hair. I looked at her, and as she looked away I sang-
"What if I were Romeo in black jeans-
What if I were Heathcliff, it's no myth-"
(The above lyric used without permission is from Michael Penn's "No Myth", a criminally underrated song from 1989. The video is included below for your amusement.)
For Johnna
I had to time it just right, starting the song just as she started up the hill, so I'd be singing the right part when she got up to me. I was playing acoustic guitar, trying to stay in practice before I had to go do my grownup work. I didn't know her name, only the swinging rhythm of her walk, her caramel skin and long black hair. I looked at her, and as she looked away I sang-
"What if I were Romeo in black jeans-
What if I were Heathcliff, it's no myth-"
(The above lyric used without permission is from Michael Penn's "No Myth", a criminally underrated song from 1989. The video is included below for your amusement.)
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