For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Tobie challenged me with "No, this can't be happening. It's too early!" and I challenged Caroline with "Overdrawn".
I had to keep him away from Caroline. I always did. It had been a long time for me, and this one seemed like a catch. I just had to somehow keep him from seeing her too soon, and keep him from making the obvious choice. .
When Alyssa's cousin moved in two towns away from me, I couldn't say no. He passed all the standard tests- attractive enough, not visibly crazy, dresses nice, smells okay. We had a coffee, then a dinner the next weekend, then another, and we seemed to have a rapport. Tonight, he got some theater tickets, with the end of the evening left deliberately left vague.
I had planned it all out, home from work at 6, then upstairs to change and dress, then downstairs at 7:30 so I could meet him in the driveway before he got to the front door at 8. The only thing I absolutely did not want was to bring him inside to be introduced around. He knew I still lived at home until I finished school- I had been clear about that part. And my parents were my parents- embarrassing and awkward, but nothing we couldn't laugh about in our seats before the play. It was Caroline I had to keep away from.
Caroline was my 19 year old sister, and she was gorgeous. That's not the fake praise of a person who loves her sister, but instead it's an honest to God observation. Sure, we looked alike, and when pressed, I might admit I'm not terrible looking. But I was the rough draft- Caroline was the paper you handed in. Men rode their bicycles into utility poles when she walked by, and I lost more boyfriends than I could count, either mentally or physically, when they got a look at her. She was otherworldly, a goddess carved from stone and made of silk, and everyone knew it.
I was walking back and forth in front of my mirror, tiny little mincing steps to make sure I could walk in my ensemble and that I hadn't left anything uneven or off kilter, when I heard my mother's voice, intentionally loud, probably for my benefit, "Why, David! We didn't expect you until 8 or so!"
I froze, and my heart stopped.
"I know, and I'm sorry. I left early to make sure I could find your house, and it turns out it was much easier than I thought."
My mother laughed, a high, fake sound. "That's fine. Come on in! Kelly will be right down."
I heard him step inside. I prayed Caroline was in the kitchen, or in the back yard, or on the phone. I looked myself over one final time, figuring this will have to do. I grabbed my purse and headed for the stairs.
"So what do you do, David?"
"I'm an insurance adjuster," he said. "Not the most popular industry right now."
"But someone has to do it."
"Very true," he said. "I'm glad you see it that way."
They took a couple of steps inside. "This is my other daughter, Caroline," she said.
"Hi," Caroline said.
It's all over, I thought. She never meant to, but something happened when they saw her. She may never touch them, but I lose them just the same.
"Hello," he said.
"So how did you meet our Kelly?," my mother interjected.
I gritted my teeth. God, Mom, stop it. I could picture his eyes roaming over Caroline, her long legs, her carelessly tossed hair, her pouty lips.
"She's my cousin's friend."
"Aha. How about that? Kelly's father worked with my brother Jack! Good things often happen that way."
"Indeed," he said. Jesus, I thought. I was making my way down the stairs, treading as carefully as I could.
"Have you known each other long?"
"A month or so," he said. "I've only been in town 6 weeks. I was transferred from Fresno."
"How nice for you! I'm so happy you two met!" So you can get this one out of my hair, she probably wanted to add.
My shoes emerged into view. "There she is!" my mother said, relieved. "Have fun, you two!" I took a long look at Caroline, who was back to watching Jeopardy and checking her phone. I looked at David, who was looking at me. I let a deep breath out.
We said our pleasantries, and we left. My shoes crunched on the gravel walkway.
"So that's them," I said.
"They're sweet," he said.
"What did you think of Caroline?," I said.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, she has...a way of becoming the center of attention, let's say."
David opened the passenger door of his car, holding it open for me. His belt buckle gleamed faintly where a streetlight hit it. It was starting to rain a little bit. "She is a pretty girl," he mused slowly. "But I'm not holding the door for her."
I got in the car.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Thursday, October 06, 2011
RIP Steve Jobs
My email to remembersteve@apple.com:
I don't think it overstates one bit to say that the passing of Steve Jobs is the loss of our Picasso, our Rembrandt, our daVinci. I can't say that Apple or Jobs did everything right- I could take issue with their DRM or the treatment of workers in China. But I can say that my life would be worse without Apple products, and people almost everywhere can say the same. Steve Jobs changed the world, and not a lot of people get to say that. Rest In Peace.
- Posted using BlogPress
I don't think it overstates one bit to say that the passing of Steve Jobs is the loss of our Picasso, our Rembrandt, our daVinci. I can't say that Apple or Jobs did everything right- I could take issue with their DRM or the treatment of workers in China. But I can say that my life would be worse without Apple products, and people almost everywhere can say the same. Steve Jobs changed the world, and not a lot of people get to say that. Rest In Peace.
- Posted using BlogPress
Wednesday, October 05, 2011
Self Promotion Is Exhausting Work, But Someone Has To Do It. I Guess.
Monday, October 03, 2011
Self Promotion Is A Thankless Job
Showing here is a story of mine, "The Secret", which was chosen as one of the best stories of 52/250's fourth quarter.
- Posted using BlogPress
- Posted using BlogPress
Sunday, October 02, 2011
Many Paths (Indie Ink Writing Challenge)
For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Sherree challenged me with Oscar Wilde's "The mystery of love is greater than the mystery of life," and I challenged Princess Dardar with "Just my imagination/running away with me".
Kelly waited for the moment to be right. She knew she had to call him. She had to tell him. He needed to know, deserved to know. But she didn't want to tell him. Her stomach roiled with tension. Her mouth felt dry, so she took another draw on the takeout iced tea she had bought on the way home. She watched the condensation on the outside of the cup, which was emblazoned with an appeal to come and work for the restaurant. The cup had pictures of smiling multicultural people on it, which she suspected wasn't entirely the truth. The people there never looked happy.
She looked out through the windshield. There was a fence there, covered over with shrubs and other greenery. She knew that the other side of the fence was a softball diamond, where the girls' softball team practiced during the spring and early summer. Kelly tried to remember what it felt like to be carefree, to be worried about fielding, running, and throwing, things which feel so minor now. Nothing's minor, though, she reminded herself, while you're going through it.
She thought briefly about starting the car and driving home, and calling him from there. But she had promised herself that she would tell him right away. No secrets, he told her. You can trust me, he said. She wanted to believe him, and she needed to believe him. But there was a tiny part of her that didn't believe anyone, an insistent voice that told her that she was essentially unloved, that anyone who claimed to love her was just waiting for the chance to let her down.
She had to call him, and call him now. She had warned him last night that she had to find out for sure, and she took the morning off from answering phones at Hoffman Auto Parts to find out. She could picture him at work, stacking up the juice boxes or the frozen food, hauling, lifting, twisting. He came home from work exhausted, hardly able to move, listening to her as she prattled on about what this friend was doing and when that friend was getting married and when this other friend was due. He didn't care, and she knew he didn't care, but he was patient enough, or smart enough, or exhausted enough, to just sit and listen to her.
He wasn't supposed to be on his phone at work, but he always assured her she could call if she needed to. He would find a quiet corner to talk with her unobserved for a minute or two so they could say what they had to say. She knew she needed to tell him now, just like she had promised herself, just like she had warned him she would. "No problem," he said, like he always did. Nothing she needed was ever a problem.
When she pictured his face, she felt herself seize up inside. His face, with its long angular lines and pointed jaw, the way it looked when she admitted fatigue or weakness or bouts of onrushing, overpowering sadness. It broke her heart, the way he just took her pain, absorbed it, just held her in their tiny apartment on their third hand couch until the shuddering stopped and she was out of tears. She had never shared so much of herself with anyone, and all he did was quietly shoulder it all, without fighting or complaining.
She knew she had to call him and tell him. She knew he would brood about it, revealing nothing, and then he would come home from work, and then she would come home to him, and she would cry, and he would hold her, rocking back and forth, taking in her pain like a paper towel soaking up a spill. They would talk, probably long into the night, and they would reach an accord, and he would let her do what she wanted. He always did.
She watched the water droplets making paths down the plastic of the takeout cup. She supposed it was little imperfections in the plastic that made the droplets take one path or another. She felt like one of those drops, heading downward, your path altered by things you couldn't see and can't control. She took another deep swallow of the iced tea, now watered down almost to nothing by the ice.
She had to call him. Either way, she said, I'll call you and tell you. "OK," was all he said, headed out the door, his mind already on pallets and boxes, merchandise to be put up or taken down. She felt deep, full tenderness for how much he did, how much he swallowed, how much he didn't say or didn't do. She had never been with anyone so sweet and caring. She loved him, but she had to do this.
She hit the button. She put the phone to her ear, listening to the ring. She tried to picture him, unloading pears or toilet paper, feeling his phone vibrate, moving quickly into the back room, finding a deserted corner next to canned green beans or soda.
"Babe?," he said.
"Yeah, it's me," she said. She let out a long sigh. She didn't know how to say it. Her eyes watered.
"Did they tell you?"
"Yeah." She swallowed. "I am."
"You are?"
"I am." She felt sick, like someone had just punched her.
She heard him let out a breath. "OK, babe. We'll talk about this tonight. OK?"
"Sure, hun. I love you."
"Love you too, babe."
"Bye."
"Bye."
She stared at the phone screen until it signalled that the call was disconnected. She had to get back to the shop, where Janet was patiently covering for her, and think of what to say to her. To her, and to him, and to everyone. She wanted to crawl into a corner and hide, to drive somewhere where nobody knew her name. But that wasn't fair to him, and to her friends, and to her mom, and to her sisters. And to someone else.
Kelly waited for the moment to be right. She knew she had to call him. She had to tell him. He needed to know, deserved to know. But she didn't want to tell him. Her stomach roiled with tension. Her mouth felt dry, so she took another draw on the takeout iced tea she had bought on the way home. She watched the condensation on the outside of the cup, which was emblazoned with an appeal to come and work for the restaurant. The cup had pictures of smiling multicultural people on it, which she suspected wasn't entirely the truth. The people there never looked happy.
She looked out through the windshield. There was a fence there, covered over with shrubs and other greenery. She knew that the other side of the fence was a softball diamond, where the girls' softball team practiced during the spring and early summer. Kelly tried to remember what it felt like to be carefree, to be worried about fielding, running, and throwing, things which feel so minor now. Nothing's minor, though, she reminded herself, while you're going through it.
She thought briefly about starting the car and driving home, and calling him from there. But she had promised herself that she would tell him right away. No secrets, he told her. You can trust me, he said. She wanted to believe him, and she needed to believe him. But there was a tiny part of her that didn't believe anyone, an insistent voice that told her that she was essentially unloved, that anyone who claimed to love her was just waiting for the chance to let her down.
She had to call him, and call him now. She had warned him last night that she had to find out for sure, and she took the morning off from answering phones at Hoffman Auto Parts to find out. She could picture him at work, stacking up the juice boxes or the frozen food, hauling, lifting, twisting. He came home from work exhausted, hardly able to move, listening to her as she prattled on about what this friend was doing and when that friend was getting married and when this other friend was due. He didn't care, and she knew he didn't care, but he was patient enough, or smart enough, or exhausted enough, to just sit and listen to her.
He wasn't supposed to be on his phone at work, but he always assured her she could call if she needed to. He would find a quiet corner to talk with her unobserved for a minute or two so they could say what they had to say. She knew she needed to tell him now, just like she had promised herself, just like she had warned him she would. "No problem," he said, like he always did. Nothing she needed was ever a problem.
When she pictured his face, she felt herself seize up inside. His face, with its long angular lines and pointed jaw, the way it looked when she admitted fatigue or weakness or bouts of onrushing, overpowering sadness. It broke her heart, the way he just took her pain, absorbed it, just held her in their tiny apartment on their third hand couch until the shuddering stopped and she was out of tears. She had never shared so much of herself with anyone, and all he did was quietly shoulder it all, without fighting or complaining.
She knew she had to call him and tell him. She knew he would brood about it, revealing nothing, and then he would come home from work, and then she would come home to him, and she would cry, and he would hold her, rocking back and forth, taking in her pain like a paper towel soaking up a spill. They would talk, probably long into the night, and they would reach an accord, and he would let her do what she wanted. He always did.
She watched the water droplets making paths down the plastic of the takeout cup. She supposed it was little imperfections in the plastic that made the droplets take one path or another. She felt like one of those drops, heading downward, your path altered by things you couldn't see and can't control. She took another deep swallow of the iced tea, now watered down almost to nothing by the ice.
She had to call him. Either way, she said, I'll call you and tell you. "OK," was all he said, headed out the door, his mind already on pallets and boxes, merchandise to be put up or taken down. She felt deep, full tenderness for how much he did, how much he swallowed, how much he didn't say or didn't do. She had never been with anyone so sweet and caring. She loved him, but she had to do this.
She hit the button. She put the phone to her ear, listening to the ring. She tried to picture him, unloading pears or toilet paper, feeling his phone vibrate, moving quickly into the back room, finding a deserted corner next to canned green beans or soda.
"Babe?," he said.
"Yeah, it's me," she said. She let out a long sigh. She didn't know how to say it. Her eyes watered.
"Did they tell you?"
"Yeah." She swallowed. "I am."
"You are?"
"I am." She felt sick, like someone had just punched her.
She heard him let out a breath. "OK, babe. We'll talk about this tonight. OK?"
"Sure, hun. I love you."
"Love you too, babe."
"Bye."
"Bye."
She stared at the phone screen until it signalled that the call was disconnected. She had to get back to the shop, where Janet was patiently covering for her, and think of what to say to her. To her, and to him, and to everyone. She wanted to crawl into a corner and hide, to drive somewhere where nobody knew her name. But that wasn't fair to him, and to her friends, and to her mom, and to her sisters. And to someone else.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Write On Edge: Model Citizen
Write On Edge's prompt this week involves one of two pictures, showing here. My story is based on the second picture, called "Model Citizen".
It was kind of funny. They want to make the pictures natural looking, but in order to do that, they bring artificial lights, and fans, and probably 20 different people being paid by the hour to make sure I look natural. They do this by fiddling with every possible variable- the blush on my cheek, the amount of blonde in my hair, the shine on the tip of the 700 dollar shoe I'm supposed to be selling. There has to be some wind blowing, but not too much- bystanders in the background, but photogenic ones.
I've been doing it for so long it hardly fazes me anymore. Yes, fine, fiddle with that. Sure. No trouble. Turn 4 millimeters to my right? Of course. Sun's behind a cloud? Yes, I'll wait.
It's a strange thing, being this object that all the action centers around. And that's what you are- an object. A pretty thing for them to hang their stuff on.
Helmut calls a break, so I take my leg down from the bench. I feel the muscles of my leg bunching uncomfortable, so I take a couple of tiny steps to try and make the feeling go away. The shoes aren't really comfortable, but that's not the point, is it?
There's a young woman, maybe 20 years old or so, staring at me open mouthed from behind the camera. I recognize the look. It's "I hate you for looking that good" mixed with "I wish I could look that good", about half and half. She's pretty enough, conventionally speaking- a nice, average looking girl body, with cute glasses and a short, spunky haircut. I looked at her skirt, her shoes, the way her blouse stretched tight across her body. I wondered what her life was like. Did she have a boyfriend? Would she go home and spitefully finish a pint of ice cream by herself?
I wished I knew, for a minute, what her life felt like. Not obsessing about skin tone, and angles, and blisters, and weight, and time.
"OK! Let's go everyone!," Helmut called out. I took a couple of tiny, teetering steps, back to the hard steel bench. The girl turned away and walked across the square. I watched her walk as the functionaries fussed and fluttered around the body. At least, I thought, with all her imperfections, she owns her body. I feel like I'm renting.
It was kind of funny. They want to make the pictures natural looking, but in order to do that, they bring artificial lights, and fans, and probably 20 different people being paid by the hour to make sure I look natural. They do this by fiddling with every possible variable- the blush on my cheek, the amount of blonde in my hair, the shine on the tip of the 700 dollar shoe I'm supposed to be selling. There has to be some wind blowing, but not too much- bystanders in the background, but photogenic ones.
I've been doing it for so long it hardly fazes me anymore. Yes, fine, fiddle with that. Sure. No trouble. Turn 4 millimeters to my right? Of course. Sun's behind a cloud? Yes, I'll wait.
It's a strange thing, being this object that all the action centers around. And that's what you are- an object. A pretty thing for them to hang their stuff on.
Helmut calls a break, so I take my leg down from the bench. I feel the muscles of my leg bunching uncomfortable, so I take a couple of tiny steps to try and make the feeling go away. The shoes aren't really comfortable, but that's not the point, is it?
There's a young woman, maybe 20 years old or so, staring at me open mouthed from behind the camera. I recognize the look. It's "I hate you for looking that good" mixed with "I wish I could look that good", about half and half. She's pretty enough, conventionally speaking- a nice, average looking girl body, with cute glasses and a short, spunky haircut. I looked at her skirt, her shoes, the way her blouse stretched tight across her body. I wondered what her life was like. Did she have a boyfriend? Would she go home and spitefully finish a pint of ice cream by herself?
I wished I knew, for a minute, what her life felt like. Not obsessing about skin tone, and angles, and blisters, and weight, and time.
"OK! Let's go everyone!," Helmut called out. I took a couple of tiny, teetering steps, back to the hard steel bench. The girl turned away and walked across the square. I watched her walk as the functionaries fussed and fluttered around the body. At least, I thought, with all her imperfections, she owns her body. I feel like I'm renting.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Flash Fiction Friday: "Lunch Break"
Flash Fiction Friday has a challenge this week where we are to write a story given one of two first lines. My entry is called "Lunch Break".
“You know Javier, poets say that in the spring a young man’s thoughts turn to love, but I think they’re wrong.”
Her colleague turned to her, egg salad sandwich in hand. "Well, I can tell you one thing- they certainly don't turn to thoughts of geometry."
She laughed, a high, soft sound. "Nobody's thoughts turn to that, Javier." She ate a spoonful of raspberry yogurt. At the other end of the table, the head of the history department, John Samuelson, ruffled the pages of his newspaper.
"Mine do," he said calmly. "Ptolemy's. Pythagoras'."
She chuckled again. "That's the only ones."
"So what do young men turn their thoughts to, then?" He took another bite of his sandwich.
"I've never been a young man," she said. "Why don't you tell me?"
"Oh, I agree with the poets. Love, definitely."
"Not sex? They are two different things, you know."
He looked at her strangely, like he had never seen her before.
"That's true. One has more letters."
"Always the geometer," she said, smiling. "Measuring the world."
"I don't know how else to describe it," he said to her. She was scraping her spoon along the bottom of the plastic yogurt container.
"The world? How about art? Music? Dance? Literature? There's more to life than theorems, Javier. You just said it- young men's thoughts turning to love. What do your ancient Greeks and your protractors have to say about that?"
"Oh, they had lots to say, you know that." He pointed to a framed picture on the wall, a Degas print. "Look at the curve of the dancer's calf, the arch of her back. There's geometry all around you. Math can be beautiful. You just have to know to look for it."
She stood up, brushing a few crumbs from the front of her print dress. He watched her in silence.
"All I know is, the young men in my classes are sex crazed. You hear them talk- it's all braggadocio about who they're going to do, who they did, who's doing what to who. No talk of love."
"News flash, Janine: they are men."
"We were never like that in our day."
Javier barked out a laugh. "You weren't, maybe. We were. All men are."
"Not all men. You're not like that."
"I grew up," he said, finishing his sandwich and crumpling up the plastic wrap. "But underneath? On some level? All men are like that."
She put her hands on her hips. "What are you trying to say?," she said, frowning.
The newspaper at the end of the table rustled shut. Samuelson spoke in a gravelly voice. "He's saying he wants to sleep with you."
The air was tense. "Do you?," she asked.
"Of course I do," Javier said. "I want to sleep with every woman I see, to some degree. I don't, because I'm married, and because it's wrong, and because my wife would cut my head off in my sleep if I did. But we all want to. Wanting to is just part of being men. As we get older, we just learn to hide it better."
"You make it sound like men are one step removed from animals," she said.
"I'm not positive it's a full step," he said.
"I don't understand men at all," she said, throwing her yogurt container away.
The bell sounded, meaning they had to go to their next class. "Don't worry. We don't understand ourselves, either," Samuelson said to her back.
“You know Javier, poets say that in the spring a young man’s thoughts turn to love, but I think they’re wrong.”
Her colleague turned to her, egg salad sandwich in hand. "Well, I can tell you one thing- they certainly don't turn to thoughts of geometry."
She laughed, a high, soft sound. "Nobody's thoughts turn to that, Javier." She ate a spoonful of raspberry yogurt. At the other end of the table, the head of the history department, John Samuelson, ruffled the pages of his newspaper.
"Mine do," he said calmly. "Ptolemy's. Pythagoras'."
She chuckled again. "That's the only ones."
"So what do young men turn their thoughts to, then?" He took another bite of his sandwich.
"I've never been a young man," she said. "Why don't you tell me?"
"Oh, I agree with the poets. Love, definitely."
"Not sex? They are two different things, you know."
He looked at her strangely, like he had never seen her before.
"That's true. One has more letters."
"Always the geometer," she said, smiling. "Measuring the world."
"I don't know how else to describe it," he said to her. She was scraping her spoon along the bottom of the plastic yogurt container.
"The world? How about art? Music? Dance? Literature? There's more to life than theorems, Javier. You just said it- young men's thoughts turning to love. What do your ancient Greeks and your protractors have to say about that?"
"Oh, they had lots to say, you know that." He pointed to a framed picture on the wall, a Degas print. "Look at the curve of the dancer's calf, the arch of her back. There's geometry all around you. Math can be beautiful. You just have to know to look for it."
She stood up, brushing a few crumbs from the front of her print dress. He watched her in silence.
"All I know is, the young men in my classes are sex crazed. You hear them talk- it's all braggadocio about who they're going to do, who they did, who's doing what to who. No talk of love."
"News flash, Janine: they are men."
"We were never like that in our day."
Javier barked out a laugh. "You weren't, maybe. We were. All men are."
"Not all men. You're not like that."
"I grew up," he said, finishing his sandwich and crumpling up the plastic wrap. "But underneath? On some level? All men are like that."
She put her hands on her hips. "What are you trying to say?," she said, frowning.
The newspaper at the end of the table rustled shut. Samuelson spoke in a gravelly voice. "He's saying he wants to sleep with you."
The air was tense. "Do you?," she asked.
"Of course I do," Javier said. "I want to sleep with every woman I see, to some degree. I don't, because I'm married, and because it's wrong, and because my wife would cut my head off in my sleep if I did. But we all want to. Wanting to is just part of being men. As we get older, we just learn to hide it better."
"You make it sound like men are one step removed from animals," she said.
"I'm not positive it's a full step," he said.
"I don't understand men at all," she said, throwing her yogurt container away.
The bell sounded, meaning they had to go to their next class. "Don't worry. We don't understand ourselves, either," Samuelson said to her back.
"Call Me Immediately" (IndieInk Writing Challenge)
This week's Indie Ink Challenge came from Andrea, who gave me this prompt:"and the anger was smoothed again by a breaking bone". I challenged Head Ant with the prompt "Can I take your order?".
Emergency rooms are always the same: lots of motion and sound, but very purposeful. People in colored pants and shirts are moving back and forth, talking firmly but quietly. Ringing telephones, beeping equipment, clipboards and computers and bags of clear fluid. Someone was bringing trays off of a tall cart and delivering them to a few people behind blue curtains. It smelled like the trays had some variety of baked chicken on them.
"She in here, sah" the pretty woman with the deep black hair said as she held the curtain aside to let him through. She had an accent that he couldn't place exactly, but it sounded Caribbean. Inside he saw his wife, sitting on a hard hospital chair, actively flicking at the screen of her phone. He was so keyed up he forgot to thank her.
"What is it? What happened?," he asked her excitedly.
"Settle down, Parker," she said distractedly, intent on the tiny screen. "She's fine. Just a field hockey accident. She may have broken her arm."
"But," he sputtered, his anxiety sliding into anger at her nonchalance, "you used the code!"
They both had occupations that did not always allow the acceptance of telephone calls, so they adopted a shorthand system of text messaging to quickly communicate essential ideas. "PUD" was "Pick Up Dinner," meaning the sender was too tired to cook. "PUP" was "Pick Up Prescription," etc. The code she had sent 95 long minutes ago was "CM-911", meaning, "Call me immediately, it's an emergency." The last time she had sent that, she was in the middle of delivering their stillborn son. His frantic phonecalls to her were ignored, her only reply being a text saying simply, "Ewing Hospital ER".
"It was the only way I could get you to come," she said icily.
He opened and closed his mouth without saying anything. He couldn't think of anything useful to say to that. Yes, it had made him come, but that didn't mean...
"Kelly, I was right in the middle of..."
"Do shut up, Parker. You're always in the middle of something. And you know what? It's never as important as you say it is. So shut up and sit here and wait for your daughter."
He felt the tension along his back. He wanted to punch someone, to yell. "Where is she?"
"They took her for X rays. I told them I would wait here for you."
She was typing away on her phone's tiny screen. Along with her day job as an assistant to a City Council member, she was the head of the Horticultural Society, and was constantly rearranging, delegating, ordering and confirming. He liked to joke that he had to email her to have sex. Somewhere on the other side of the curtain, some of the staff started laughing at a joke one of them had told.
"Kel, I was really worried. I thought something had happened. I thought we agreed you wouldn't use that code unless..."
"Oh, Parker," she said, distracted. "You're such a drama queen sometimes."
His wife's legs were primly crossed, one modest heel bobbing slightly as she typed. He understood very little, but at times like this he felt like he understood nothing at all, like the first time he went to Helsinki by himself. He remembered wondering if everyone was talking about him, and secretly suspecting that they were.
The curtain parted and a man and a woman in identical green scrubs pushed her inside the room in a wheelchair. They all could smell the grass and sweat from her clothes. She had eyeblack on next to her pert nose, and her hair pulled into a single greasy ponytail with a yellow tie, her left arm in a tan sling, and her full uniform- skirt, knee socks, spikes, and dirty uniform top with her number, 24, near one shoulder. Marissa had a faraway look on her angelic face. She looked almost comical, all suited up for battle inside this cement and fabric square.
"I'm going to let the doctor tell you for sure, but I'd bet my life it's broken," the woman said. She had dark brown skin and black hair, and spoke like an Oxford don.
"Oh, yeah," the man chimed in, a redhead with blooms of bright red on each cheek. "It's busted for sure."
They helped Marissa up into the bed, where she regarded her two parents uncertainly, like she couldn't recognize them. He felt offended at the notion her precious arm now hanging useless and broken from her neck, the arm he had protected and nurtured and fed for so many years, that arm that used to be flung around his neck with unrestrained joy when he came home. He felt like he could see the two ends of the bone, discontinuous now where they had always been so solid.
"Daddy!," she said after pausing for too many seconds. "You came! Momma said you wouldn't. She said you'd be too busy!" She didn't sound like herself- no painstakingly constructed, logical sentences, no breathless wonder of conspiratorial talk with a friend. She sounded like a little girl, like she had at 8 when she would throw a fit if she couldn't accompany him on the shortest errand.
"Did you give her something for the pain?," he asked the woman.
"You can't tell?," she observed before the two parted the curtain and left.
"It doesn't hurt, honey?," he said to his daughter.
"Oh, no, Daddy. No. It doesn't hurt," she said dreamily.
"So what happened?," he said to her. He pulled the sheet up to cover her dirty knees.
"To what?" she asked.
"Your arm, baby." His wife pecked away on her phone's keyboard, oblivious.
"Oh that? I broked it, Daddy," she said, erupting in a fit of giggles. "I was playing field hockey, and then Shannon just, like, fell on it. And it broke."
He looked at her laughing, her head thrown back. He had stopped treating her like a little girl years ago, watching the two of them retreat into an armed camp, isolating him. Conversations ended when he came in the room, with glances and laughter marking where words once stood. He would ask his wife later what it was, and she would dismiss it idly. "It's just girl talk, Parker. Never you mind about it." He remembered previous visits they had made under these flourescents, a bout of vomiting that wouldn't stop when she was three, a twisted knee after a skateboard mishap at nine, and, of course, the death of his son.
His wife stood up, her business evidently concluded. "They said she collided with two other girls. They went down in a heap and one of the other girls just fell on her wrong. Listen, Parker. I'm starving. Why don't you go get some dinner and meet us at home? I can wait for the doctor as well as you can." His wife had an expectant look, like she was surprised he hadn't left already. She was used to being obeyed, listened to, respected.
He opened his mouth again, then closed it. He stepped forward and planted a kiss on his daughter's forehead. He could taste the salt of her sweat. She wasn't the little girl who idolized him anymore- she was headstrong and beautiful, confident and strong, with a woman's body and her mother's steel trap of a mind.
"I'll get some pizza and see you guys at home then," he said, backing away from the two of them. His wife looked at him. "Goodbye, Daddy," his daughter said. She hadn't called him that since grade four.
He walked through the curtain and back out through the maelstrom to his car. He had a brief, vivid image of himself taking his cell phone from his pocket and going into a full windup and just heaving it into the pavement in front of him. He could picture it shattering, precious metal connections shattering and rare metal alloys now so much shiny junk. But he'd have to explain that to them, and he couldn't imagine saying something that would not brand him a lunatic.
He called up the pizza place on his contact list, hit the button and watched the phone do its magic. While he waited for them to pick up, he wondered if there was any beer left in the fridge.
Emergency rooms are always the same: lots of motion and sound, but very purposeful. People in colored pants and shirts are moving back and forth, talking firmly but quietly. Ringing telephones, beeping equipment, clipboards and computers and bags of clear fluid. Someone was bringing trays off of a tall cart and delivering them to a few people behind blue curtains. It smelled like the trays had some variety of baked chicken on them.
"She in here, sah" the pretty woman with the deep black hair said as she held the curtain aside to let him through. She had an accent that he couldn't place exactly, but it sounded Caribbean. Inside he saw his wife, sitting on a hard hospital chair, actively flicking at the screen of her phone. He was so keyed up he forgot to thank her.
"What is it? What happened?," he asked her excitedly.
"Settle down, Parker," she said distractedly, intent on the tiny screen. "She's fine. Just a field hockey accident. She may have broken her arm."
"But," he sputtered, his anxiety sliding into anger at her nonchalance, "you used the code!"
They both had occupations that did not always allow the acceptance of telephone calls, so they adopted a shorthand system of text messaging to quickly communicate essential ideas. "PUD" was "Pick Up Dinner," meaning the sender was too tired to cook. "PUP" was "Pick Up Prescription," etc. The code she had sent 95 long minutes ago was "CM-911", meaning, "Call me immediately, it's an emergency." The last time she had sent that, she was in the middle of delivering their stillborn son. His frantic phonecalls to her were ignored, her only reply being a text saying simply, "Ewing Hospital ER".
"It was the only way I could get you to come," she said icily.
He opened and closed his mouth without saying anything. He couldn't think of anything useful to say to that. Yes, it had made him come, but that didn't mean...
"Kelly, I was right in the middle of..."
"Do shut up, Parker. You're always in the middle of something. And you know what? It's never as important as you say it is. So shut up and sit here and wait for your daughter."
He felt the tension along his back. He wanted to punch someone, to yell. "Where is she?"
"They took her for X rays. I told them I would wait here for you."
She was typing away on her phone's tiny screen. Along with her day job as an assistant to a City Council member, she was the head of the Horticultural Society, and was constantly rearranging, delegating, ordering and confirming. He liked to joke that he had to email her to have sex. Somewhere on the other side of the curtain, some of the staff started laughing at a joke one of them had told.
"Kel, I was really worried. I thought something had happened. I thought we agreed you wouldn't use that code unless..."
"Oh, Parker," she said, distracted. "You're such a drama queen sometimes."
His wife's legs were primly crossed, one modest heel bobbing slightly as she typed. He understood very little, but at times like this he felt like he understood nothing at all, like the first time he went to Helsinki by himself. He remembered wondering if everyone was talking about him, and secretly suspecting that they were.
The curtain parted and a man and a woman in identical green scrubs pushed her inside the room in a wheelchair. They all could smell the grass and sweat from her clothes. She had eyeblack on next to her pert nose, and her hair pulled into a single greasy ponytail with a yellow tie, her left arm in a tan sling, and her full uniform- skirt, knee socks, spikes, and dirty uniform top with her number, 24, near one shoulder. Marissa had a faraway look on her angelic face. She looked almost comical, all suited up for battle inside this cement and fabric square.
"I'm going to let the doctor tell you for sure, but I'd bet my life it's broken," the woman said. She had dark brown skin and black hair, and spoke like an Oxford don.
"Oh, yeah," the man chimed in, a redhead with blooms of bright red on each cheek. "It's busted for sure."
They helped Marissa up into the bed, where she regarded her two parents uncertainly, like she couldn't recognize them. He felt offended at the notion her precious arm now hanging useless and broken from her neck, the arm he had protected and nurtured and fed for so many years, that arm that used to be flung around his neck with unrestrained joy when he came home. He felt like he could see the two ends of the bone, discontinuous now where they had always been so solid.
"Daddy!," she said after pausing for too many seconds. "You came! Momma said you wouldn't. She said you'd be too busy!" She didn't sound like herself- no painstakingly constructed, logical sentences, no breathless wonder of conspiratorial talk with a friend. She sounded like a little girl, like she had at 8 when she would throw a fit if she couldn't accompany him on the shortest errand.
"Did you give her something for the pain?," he asked the woman.
"You can't tell?," she observed before the two parted the curtain and left.
"It doesn't hurt, honey?," he said to his daughter.
"Oh, no, Daddy. No. It doesn't hurt," she said dreamily.
"So what happened?," he said to her. He pulled the sheet up to cover her dirty knees.
"To what?" she asked.
"Your arm, baby." His wife pecked away on her phone's keyboard, oblivious.
"Oh that? I broked it, Daddy," she said, erupting in a fit of giggles. "I was playing field hockey, and then Shannon just, like, fell on it. And it broke."
He looked at her laughing, her head thrown back. He had stopped treating her like a little girl years ago, watching the two of them retreat into an armed camp, isolating him. Conversations ended when he came in the room, with glances and laughter marking where words once stood. He would ask his wife later what it was, and she would dismiss it idly. "It's just girl talk, Parker. Never you mind about it." He remembered previous visits they had made under these flourescents, a bout of vomiting that wouldn't stop when she was three, a twisted knee after a skateboard mishap at nine, and, of course, the death of his son.
His wife stood up, her business evidently concluded. "They said she collided with two other girls. They went down in a heap and one of the other girls just fell on her wrong. Listen, Parker. I'm starving. Why don't you go get some dinner and meet us at home? I can wait for the doctor as well as you can." His wife had an expectant look, like she was surprised he hadn't left already. She was used to being obeyed, listened to, respected.
He opened his mouth again, then closed it. He stepped forward and planted a kiss on his daughter's forehead. He could taste the salt of her sweat. She wasn't the little girl who idolized him anymore- she was headstrong and beautiful, confident and strong, with a woman's body and her mother's steel trap of a mind.
"I'll get some pizza and see you guys at home then," he said, backing away from the two of them. His wife looked at him. "Goodbye, Daddy," his daughter said. She hadn't called him that since grade four.
He walked through the curtain and back out through the maelstrom to his car. He had a brief, vivid image of himself taking his cell phone from his pocket and going into a full windup and just heaving it into the pavement in front of him. He could picture it shattering, precious metal connections shattering and rare metal alloys now so much shiny junk. But he'd have to explain that to them, and he couldn't imagine saying something that would not brand him a lunatic.
He called up the pizza place on his contact list, hit the button and watched the phone do its magic. While he waited for them to pick up, he wondered if there was any beer left in the fridge.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Terrible Minds Challenge: Report For Duty
Chuck Wendig, the irascible penmonkey and Yo Yo King, has a new post time for the Terrible Minds Challenge this week, Monday. This week's challenge is to write a story in three sentences. My entry is called "Report For Duty".
“There’s got to be some way to get out of this town without joining the Army,” Julia said.
I tucked the letter into my back pocket as I looked at the soft brown hair framing her face.
“Got to be,” I said.
“There’s got to be some way to get out of this town without joining the Army,” Julia said.
I tucked the letter into my back pocket as I looked at the soft brown hair framing her face.
“Got to be,” I said.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
100 Word Challenge: Tuesday Morning, 9:37 AM
Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge is drying slowly in the fall sun. The word is "Occupy," and I call this "Tuesday Morning, 9:37 AM"
It was oceans and rivers of talk.
"And then the monster said his eggs were hidden in the secret places and then Thomas said …,"
Cameron's blue eyes were wide. She was forcing her swollen face into an expression of intense interest, but she was craving silence, just waiting for the waves of words to finally stop.
"...he could take me to Knapford Station, and I said..."
Searching for something to occupy him, she did what she swore she would never do.
The TV came on. "It was a sunny day on the Island of Sodor...," the narrator said.
It was oceans and rivers of talk.
"And then the monster said his eggs were hidden in the secret places and then Thomas said …,"
Cameron's blue eyes were wide. She was forcing her swollen face into an expression of intense interest, but she was craving silence, just waiting for the waves of words to finally stop.
"...he could take me to Knapford Station, and I said..."
Searching for something to occupy him, she did what she swore she would never do.
The TV came on. "It was a sunny day on the Island of Sodor...," the narrator said.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Terrible Minds Challenge: The Buck Stops
Chuck Wendig, lord and master of all he surveys, issued a flash fiction challenge last week to use three of five words he gave you in a 100 Word Flash Fiction piece. My entry is called "The Buck Stops".
"New! With Bio Enzyme Cleaning Power!," the label to the cleanser said, though it still smelled the same. Julie was cleaning out the back seat of her SUV, her kids at Grandma's house. She finished wiping the seat and looked underneath, quickly regretting it. Old French fries, a bishop from a travel chess set, and a lollipop cemented to the carpeting. If she were at work, she could order it done, but here at home, there's no way to get out of the manual labor.
Sigh.
She misses being home, but right now, she longs for the office.
"New! With Bio Enzyme Cleaning Power!," the label to the cleanser said, though it still smelled the same. Julie was cleaning out the back seat of her SUV, her kids at Grandma's house. She finished wiping the seat and looked underneath, quickly regretting it. Old French fries, a bishop from a travel chess set, and a lollipop cemented to the carpeting. If she were at work, she could order it done, but here at home, there's no way to get out of the manual labor.
Sigh.
She misses being home, but right now, she longs for the office.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Indie Ink Writing Challenge: Hanging Curve
This week's Indie Ink Writing Challenge, the cryptic "Seven Deadly Zins", comes at me from Miranda, while my challenge was flung at the feet of urbane Billy Flynn, who is sure to razzle dazzle us.
I must emphasize before we begin that what follows is 110% fiction. I haven't even been to San Diego.
It was the kind of night that reminded you why you lived in San Diego- warm and dry, so pleasant it should be illegal, with enough of a gentle breeze to ruffle the hem of a woman's dress when she walked. Even so, I was driving carefully all the way there, like I expected there to be land mines along the way. I parked, and she got out without a word, the silence uneasy. I watched her walk, the green dress, bought years ago for a nephew's wedding, still fitting well around her hips.
It was our monthly splurge, a dinner out with all the trimmings. We got dressed up, summoned a babysitter, and went to an expensive place, experiencing the high life for 2 or 3 hours before returning to the world of projects and deadlines, runny nosed kids and orthodontist bills. We had been favoring the same place for a while, and apparently I had made an impression with my good tipping as they seated us along a huge window that looked out onto the ocean.
The table was gorgeous, polished walnut, everything gleaming and arranged with Zen like perfection. With a forced smile, I let her order, because it was simpler than listening to her criticize what I ordered. She knew a lot more about food anyway, so whatever she ordered usually suited me fine. Her face lit up when she placed our order, some seafood dishes and a bottle of Zinfandel, as if she was trying to oversell her happiness to be there. I ordinarily would raise my eyebrows at that large a wine order, but I didn't dare.
I was watching a tanker, far out to sea, making its way north, millions of tons of steel floating, like a magic trick, on top of billions of gallons of water. I knew there were physical principles involved- buoyancy and specific gravity and such, but just like an airplane's flight, I preferred not to think too hard about it. It seemed like magic, and to really understand what went on in terms of equations and numbers took some of that away.
I thought back to when she came into our bedroom 90 minutes ago, when I was dead to rights: hung out to dry, like the runner on a busted hit and run. There was no alibi, no explanation, no innocent interpretation. I was on the bed, eagerly trying to tug the jeans off of the 23 year old graduate student we paid exceptionally well to watch our two young boys while we stole an evening out.
We were both shocked. It wasn't a planned event. That didn't make it okay- as my father used to say, an explanation is not always an excuse. The babysitter, the preternaturally calm Grace, had settled our two boys down for the night, and I was finishing getting dressed while we awaited my wife's arrival from a thorny real estate negotiation. Grace padded into my room on bare feet, her glasses suddenly appearing above my left shoulder.
"Look at you!," she said approvingly.
"Well, shucks, ma'am," I said, trying a John Wayne imitation and missing by several nautical miles.
She was standing close to me, right off my elbow. I would be lying if I said I had never felt an attraction, with her long legs and uneven, endearing smile, but it was the same attraction I had for Natalie Portman or the cute blonde who did the morning weather report on the local news- sure, you'd like to, but it's not like they are offering, so it's not really an issue. Purely theoretical. Never, ever going to happen. But it was nice to hear praise from someone who wasn't obligated to give it.
What happened in the next five seconds was something I was going to agonize over for the rest of my life, I know now. I think I might have known it then. Or maybe I didn't know anything then.
I half turned, and we were suddenly face to face, standing probably closer than we ever had before. "I wasn't thinking" is a cliche, and it's not even true- we're always thinking about something, until we're dead. But it certainly felt like my hands found her trim little waist on their own, that my head bent by itself, and that the kiss itself emerged out of nowhere. We didn't talk- she didn't say no, but she didn't say yes. I guided her over to our bed in sloppy half steps, my hands already ranging up her long belly to her soft, round breasts. She laid down, and I had undone her jeans, trying to guide them over her hips when my wife came in behind us.
I stood up, and then Grace did, pulling herself together guiltily and standing behind me. It was by far the single strangest moment I have ever experienced. My wife didn't even break stride, coming across the room to her makeup mirror, shedding her modestly heeled shoes and beginning to shimmy out of her black pencil skirt.
"Oh good, you're ready," she said. "Give me time to change into my dress, and we can leave. Why don't you go downstairs and show Grace where I put the Diet Pepsi for her?"
Like automatons, we did as she asked. I didn't ask her about what had happened, and she didn't say anything. I showed her the soda, opened the freezer to reveal a new box of ice cream sandwiches, pointed out the new cheese dip we had bought, and showed her the brand new boxes of Triscuits I had laid in. She nodded, wide eyed with shock and fear. I stared at Grace, her shirt rumpled, her hair mussed slightly, and started to question my own sanity. If you saw something happen, but nobody else will talk about it, did it really happen at all? My wife came downstairs and we left. She was utterly silent all the way over, and I didn't dare break it.
I was staring at my wife, who still hadn't uttered a word to me, next to the gorgeous ocean view, surrounded by privilege and opulence. The restaurant had that low murmur of adult conversation, somehow made even quieter because of the august surroundings. I took a sip of the wine they had poured for us. It was fine. I would have preferred a beer.
She looked at me over the rim of her wineglass. "Aren't you wondering what I'm thinking?", she said calmly.
"Kind of," I said. It felt like I had just hung a curveball, that feeling of impending doom combined with the inability to change the events that you just set in motion.
"I'm not going to leave you, if that's what you're thinking. I'm not mad at you. I'm not even mad at Grace, really. You can be very persuasive when you want to be. And let's face it- you look pretty damn good in that suit. So I'm not going to make a scene, or throw the wine in your face, or storm out in a huff. I knew this was going to happen at some point, so it doesn't even hurt that much. So I saw you, and I saw her, and I saw what you were doing, and I only had one single thought- I've got you now."
"So we're going to sit here, and we're going to have a nice dinner, and then you're going to take me home. And we're not going to talk about this ever again. But some day, you're going to need something from me- something small, but my participation is going to be really crucial to something that's important to you. And I'm going to tell you that I'll do it. And then I won't. And whatever you have planned will get screwed up. And every time you ask me to do something from now on, you're going to ask yourself, 'is this the time she lets me down?' And you won't know until it's too late."
"And Steven? Because you tried to do it on our bed? On my Martha Stewart sheets? I'm going to take a freebie. So if I decide I want to bang our child's teacher, or a hot father at the bus stop, or my old boyfriend Charles? I'm going to do it. And you can't say shit."
"And one more thing. Don't get any ideas about leaving me and running off with her. Do that, and I will destroy you. I will tell all the partners what you did, and what's worse, I'll tell your clients. And just maybe I'll suggest that she was 15 instead of 23. And then you won't be able to represent anyone outside of Traffic Court."
"You just threw the wrong pitch, Steven. And now I'm going to take you deep."
I must emphasize before we begin that what follows is 110% fiction. I haven't even been to San Diego.
It was the kind of night that reminded you why you lived in San Diego- warm and dry, so pleasant it should be illegal, with enough of a gentle breeze to ruffle the hem of a woman's dress when she walked. Even so, I was driving carefully all the way there, like I expected there to be land mines along the way. I parked, and she got out without a word, the silence uneasy. I watched her walk, the green dress, bought years ago for a nephew's wedding, still fitting well around her hips.
It was our monthly splurge, a dinner out with all the trimmings. We got dressed up, summoned a babysitter, and went to an expensive place, experiencing the high life for 2 or 3 hours before returning to the world of projects and deadlines, runny nosed kids and orthodontist bills. We had been favoring the same place for a while, and apparently I had made an impression with my good tipping as they seated us along a huge window that looked out onto the ocean.
The table was gorgeous, polished walnut, everything gleaming and arranged with Zen like perfection. With a forced smile, I let her order, because it was simpler than listening to her criticize what I ordered. She knew a lot more about food anyway, so whatever she ordered usually suited me fine. Her face lit up when she placed our order, some seafood dishes and a bottle of Zinfandel, as if she was trying to oversell her happiness to be there. I ordinarily would raise my eyebrows at that large a wine order, but I didn't dare.
I was watching a tanker, far out to sea, making its way north, millions of tons of steel floating, like a magic trick, on top of billions of gallons of water. I knew there were physical principles involved- buoyancy and specific gravity and such, but just like an airplane's flight, I preferred not to think too hard about it. It seemed like magic, and to really understand what went on in terms of equations and numbers took some of that away.
I thought back to when she came into our bedroom 90 minutes ago, when I was dead to rights: hung out to dry, like the runner on a busted hit and run. There was no alibi, no explanation, no innocent interpretation. I was on the bed, eagerly trying to tug the jeans off of the 23 year old graduate student we paid exceptionally well to watch our two young boys while we stole an evening out.
We were both shocked. It wasn't a planned event. That didn't make it okay- as my father used to say, an explanation is not always an excuse. The babysitter, the preternaturally calm Grace, had settled our two boys down for the night, and I was finishing getting dressed while we awaited my wife's arrival from a thorny real estate negotiation. Grace padded into my room on bare feet, her glasses suddenly appearing above my left shoulder.
"Look at you!," she said approvingly.
"Well, shucks, ma'am," I said, trying a John Wayne imitation and missing by several nautical miles.
She was standing close to me, right off my elbow. I would be lying if I said I had never felt an attraction, with her long legs and uneven, endearing smile, but it was the same attraction I had for Natalie Portman or the cute blonde who did the morning weather report on the local news- sure, you'd like to, but it's not like they are offering, so it's not really an issue. Purely theoretical. Never, ever going to happen. But it was nice to hear praise from someone who wasn't obligated to give it.
What happened in the next five seconds was something I was going to agonize over for the rest of my life, I know now. I think I might have known it then. Or maybe I didn't know anything then.
I half turned, and we were suddenly face to face, standing probably closer than we ever had before. "I wasn't thinking" is a cliche, and it's not even true- we're always thinking about something, until we're dead. But it certainly felt like my hands found her trim little waist on their own, that my head bent by itself, and that the kiss itself emerged out of nowhere. We didn't talk- she didn't say no, but she didn't say yes. I guided her over to our bed in sloppy half steps, my hands already ranging up her long belly to her soft, round breasts. She laid down, and I had undone her jeans, trying to guide them over her hips when my wife came in behind us.
I stood up, and then Grace did, pulling herself together guiltily and standing behind me. It was by far the single strangest moment I have ever experienced. My wife didn't even break stride, coming across the room to her makeup mirror, shedding her modestly heeled shoes and beginning to shimmy out of her black pencil skirt.
"Oh good, you're ready," she said. "Give me time to change into my dress, and we can leave. Why don't you go downstairs and show Grace where I put the Diet Pepsi for her?"
Like automatons, we did as she asked. I didn't ask her about what had happened, and she didn't say anything. I showed her the soda, opened the freezer to reveal a new box of ice cream sandwiches, pointed out the new cheese dip we had bought, and showed her the brand new boxes of Triscuits I had laid in. She nodded, wide eyed with shock and fear. I stared at Grace, her shirt rumpled, her hair mussed slightly, and started to question my own sanity. If you saw something happen, but nobody else will talk about it, did it really happen at all? My wife came downstairs and we left. She was utterly silent all the way over, and I didn't dare break it.
I was staring at my wife, who still hadn't uttered a word to me, next to the gorgeous ocean view, surrounded by privilege and opulence. The restaurant had that low murmur of adult conversation, somehow made even quieter because of the august surroundings. I took a sip of the wine they had poured for us. It was fine. I would have preferred a beer.
She looked at me over the rim of her wineglass. "Aren't you wondering what I'm thinking?", she said calmly.
"Kind of," I said. It felt like I had just hung a curveball, that feeling of impending doom combined with the inability to change the events that you just set in motion.
"I'm not going to leave you, if that's what you're thinking. I'm not mad at you. I'm not even mad at Grace, really. You can be very persuasive when you want to be. And let's face it- you look pretty damn good in that suit. So I'm not going to make a scene, or throw the wine in your face, or storm out in a huff. I knew this was going to happen at some point, so it doesn't even hurt that much. So I saw you, and I saw her, and I saw what you were doing, and I only had one single thought- I've got you now."
"So we're going to sit here, and we're going to have a nice dinner, and then you're going to take me home. And we're not going to talk about this ever again. But some day, you're going to need something from me- something small, but my participation is going to be really crucial to something that's important to you. And I'm going to tell you that I'll do it. And then I won't. And whatever you have planned will get screwed up. And every time you ask me to do something from now on, you're going to ask yourself, 'is this the time she lets me down?' And you won't know until it's too late."
"And Steven? Because you tried to do it on our bed? On my Martha Stewart sheets? I'm going to take a freebie. So if I decide I want to bang our child's teacher, or a hot father at the bus stop, or my old boyfriend Charles? I'm going to do it. And you can't say shit."
"And one more thing. Don't get any ideas about leaving me and running off with her. Do that, and I will destroy you. I will tell all the partners what you did, and what's worse, I'll tell your clients. And just maybe I'll suggest that she was 15 instead of 23. And then you won't be able to represent anyone outside of Traffic Court."
"You just threw the wrong pitch, Steven. And now I'm going to take you deep."
Thursday, September 15, 2011
100 Word Challenge: Shampoo
Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge has resumed its reign of terror atop the 100 word literary challenge landscape. The word is "inhibited" and my story is called "Shampoo".
She was proud of her hair, and rightfully so. It was long, brown, and wavy, and she flipped it around constantly. It wiggled when she raised her head to watch the lecture. I wanted to touch it constantly, see what sort of magic it held, but I never did. She always smelled like shampoo and baby powder, and she always seemed under control somehow, like she wanted for nothing, had no simple human lusts like the rest of us.
"When that signal reaches the gonads, the production of sex hormones will be inhibited," the professor said.
Hardly, I was thinking.
She was proud of her hair, and rightfully so. It was long, brown, and wavy, and she flipped it around constantly. It wiggled when she raised her head to watch the lecture. I wanted to touch it constantly, see what sort of magic it held, but I never did. She always smelled like shampoo and baby powder, and she always seemed under control somehow, like she wanted for nothing, had no simple human lusts like the rest of us.
"When that signal reaches the gonads, the production of sex hormones will be inhibited," the professor said.
Hardly, I was thinking.
Write On Edge: Kiss The Bride
My friends at Write on Edge have a new challenge up, 600 words about heartbreak. I expanded a previous stub and came up with this, "Kiss The Bride".
She’s getting married.
I'm in the church, sitting apart from anyone else, nodding politely when nodded to. I had to see it, had to prove it to myself. She's gone. The church is silent, save for squeaks when someone shifts their weight on the ancient wood and the buzz of the road outside, commerce and progress and other people's lives moving onwards like nothing was happening. I'm not even invited to the wedding. I snuck in, sitting in the very back, needing to witness, wanting to see. I wouldn't dare talk to her.
I want to protest, but why shouldn’t she get married? She’s been out of my life for years, lingering in my head like a ghost image on an old TV, but she greeted my return to her life with a multi paragraph apology that I sweated blood to compose, with a simple reply.
“No worries. We were young.”
Nope, no worries. And young? Yes, we were so damn young.
We were beautiful, and we were free, young and careless and as wild as a minimum wage job would let someone be. I burned with ferocious pride when I saw her sitting at a restaurant table, sitting there, guileless and open. I couldn't spend enough time with her, putting aside everything I could, even if it was only to drive her home after dance class. She was perfect to me, and I wanted to protect her from everything, the rain and the wind and every possible heartbreak. I didn't know yet that you can't do that. Nobody can.
Sitting here in an old suit jacket I whip out for weddings and funerals, sweating in the sneaky June warmth, I feel the little aches and pains that tell me I'm not young anymore. The clergyman, in a broad baritone, asks if anyone objects. No one ever does, except in movies, but I have to stifle the urge to shout out in the quiet. Like the Elton John song, I should just stand up and say I want to kiss the bride. I do. She looks beautiful, wiser now, of course, with a few wrinkles. Her face, with her hair pulled back tight, still looks innocent. I do want to kiss her, and apologize, and beg her to reconsider. But I don't.
The whole thing was doomed to failure. What I had for her was a worship, not a relationship with give and take and human interaction. I didn't know how to be someone's partner- I was barely human myself. I was a kid, a kid who thought he knew it all, but still, a kid. Even if I hadn't ended it, it would have ended. There isn't any doubt about that. I know this, and yet, and yet...my heart breaks as they kiss. Something is gone forever.
"You may kiss the bride," the clergyman says.
It's one thing to suspect you've blown it. It's quite another to see it demonstrated.
She’s getting married.
I'm in the church, sitting apart from anyone else, nodding politely when nodded to. I had to see it, had to prove it to myself. She's gone. The church is silent, save for squeaks when someone shifts their weight on the ancient wood and the buzz of the road outside, commerce and progress and other people's lives moving onwards like nothing was happening. I'm not even invited to the wedding. I snuck in, sitting in the very back, needing to witness, wanting to see. I wouldn't dare talk to her.
I want to protest, but why shouldn’t she get married? She’s been out of my life for years, lingering in my head like a ghost image on an old TV, but she greeted my return to her life with a multi paragraph apology that I sweated blood to compose, with a simple reply.
“No worries. We were young.”
Nope, no worries. And young? Yes, we were so damn young.
We were beautiful, and we were free, young and careless and as wild as a minimum wage job would let someone be. I burned with ferocious pride when I saw her sitting at a restaurant table, sitting there, guileless and open. I couldn't spend enough time with her, putting aside everything I could, even if it was only to drive her home after dance class. She was perfect to me, and I wanted to protect her from everything, the rain and the wind and every possible heartbreak. I didn't know yet that you can't do that. Nobody can.
Sitting here in an old suit jacket I whip out for weddings and funerals, sweating in the sneaky June warmth, I feel the little aches and pains that tell me I'm not young anymore. The clergyman, in a broad baritone, asks if anyone objects. No one ever does, except in movies, but I have to stifle the urge to shout out in the quiet. Like the Elton John song, I should just stand up and say I want to kiss the bride. I do. She looks beautiful, wiser now, of course, with a few wrinkles. Her face, with her hair pulled back tight, still looks innocent. I do want to kiss her, and apologize, and beg her to reconsider. But I don't.
The whole thing was doomed to failure. What I had for her was a worship, not a relationship with give and take and human interaction. I didn't know how to be someone's partner- I was barely human myself. I was a kid, a kid who thought he knew it all, but still, a kid. Even if I hadn't ended it, it would have ended. There isn't any doubt about that. I know this, and yet, and yet...my heart breaks as they kiss. Something is gone forever.
"You may kiss the bride," the clergyman says.
It's one thing to suspect you've blown it. It's quite another to see it demonstrated.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Terrible Minds Challenge: Labor Day
Chuck Wendig will not run, and if elected, will not serve. This week's challenge is about a picture on his website of a woman holding a torch, and my story is called "Labor Day".
They really didn't know what to do with us. We were too old for the kid programs, and too young for the adult programs, and our parents weren't brave enough to leave us at home alone all weekend. So when Labor Day Weekend rolled around, we went up to the lake and the Family Conference anyway. We wandered, sitting on the beach where it was too cold to swim, or watching the softball game we were too cool to participate in. We played frisbee, or congregated around an electrical outlet to listen to each other's collection of tapes. We complained about how boring it was, but we still managed to fill every minute.
There were six of us: moody Goth Victoria, straightlaced Susan, happy go lucky Kelly, aimless Jim, troubled Mark, and me. 3 boys, 3 girls: perfectly symmetrical. We all either had special someones back home or were too disaffected to care, so by some unspoken agreement, we didn't talk about it. We talked about sports, or our plans for the fall, or whether the Smiths were better than the Cure. We had been coming to this same old campground for years, so we knew each other, but only for these four day stretches once a year.
It was late Sunday night, and we had all gathered around a campfire. Every group of cabins had an assigned "babysitter" who sat by the fire and kept warm while the parents were off at some seminar or other. They were basically in charge of being around, comforting children with bad dreams until their parents returned from yoga, or Movie Night, or the book group. We were sitting on the end of picnic tables, on rocks, on stumps, all aware that the long weekend was about to end, and our regular lives beckoned.
Susan was tall, unusually tall for a girl, with short, intensely curly hair that always looked wet. She had the gift of looking well put together, somehow more formal than everyone else, even when wearing teenager chic. She was fairly quiet, but when she spoke, everyone listened. If she laughed at something I said, my heart leapt. I had been in love with her more and more each year. Becca, the pig tailed teen whose fire we were gathered around, stared at her as rapturously as I did.
"Everybody back next year?," cheerful Kelly began. There were a chorus of yesses, including mine, except for Susan. She was sitting, chin on her knees. She stood up. There was dirt on the knees of her jeans, which was unusual. She seemed like the sort of person who would change pants after dirtying the knees.
"Susie Q?," Kelly said, a little softer.
Susan stood close to the fire. The licking tongues of orange made flashing patterns on her face. I wanted to cry out, tell her to back away, that it wasn't safe. She wasn't looking at any of us. Without warning, she stuck her hand out and took the butt end of a stick that was in the fire, holding it aloft. The other end burned unsteadily, a nub of flame separated from the larger body. She held it up above her head, watching it sputter and glow in the moonlight. I looked at her brown eyes, her perfect face, looking for an answer. Was she looking for an honest man?
She brought it down and held it close to her lips.
"No," she said softly. "This is my last year." She put the stick back into the fire again.
Nobody said anything. I knew I was never going to see her again now. It was time. Get up, I thought. Tell her. You have to let her know how you feel. Now. Don't wait.
"That's too bad," Kelly said. "I'll miss you."
I looked up at her, standing too close to the fire, the ember by her lips. If you don't say it now, you're never going to.
"I'm going to go to bed," Susan said. I watched her walk across in front of me, dirty knees almost at eye level. Reach out, I thought. Stop her. Tell her you need to stay in touch.
"Good night, everybody."
"Good night," we echoed.
She walked off into the night, and I stared at the fire. It was cold.
They really didn't know what to do with us. We were too old for the kid programs, and too young for the adult programs, and our parents weren't brave enough to leave us at home alone all weekend. So when Labor Day Weekend rolled around, we went up to the lake and the Family Conference anyway. We wandered, sitting on the beach where it was too cold to swim, or watching the softball game we were too cool to participate in. We played frisbee, or congregated around an electrical outlet to listen to each other's collection of tapes. We complained about how boring it was, but we still managed to fill every minute.
There were six of us: moody Goth Victoria, straightlaced Susan, happy go lucky Kelly, aimless Jim, troubled Mark, and me. 3 boys, 3 girls: perfectly symmetrical. We all either had special someones back home or were too disaffected to care, so by some unspoken agreement, we didn't talk about it. We talked about sports, or our plans for the fall, or whether the Smiths were better than the Cure. We had been coming to this same old campground for years, so we knew each other, but only for these four day stretches once a year.
It was late Sunday night, and we had all gathered around a campfire. Every group of cabins had an assigned "babysitter" who sat by the fire and kept warm while the parents were off at some seminar or other. They were basically in charge of being around, comforting children with bad dreams until their parents returned from yoga, or Movie Night, or the book group. We were sitting on the end of picnic tables, on rocks, on stumps, all aware that the long weekend was about to end, and our regular lives beckoned.
Susan was tall, unusually tall for a girl, with short, intensely curly hair that always looked wet. She had the gift of looking well put together, somehow more formal than everyone else, even when wearing teenager chic. She was fairly quiet, but when she spoke, everyone listened. If she laughed at something I said, my heart leapt. I had been in love with her more and more each year. Becca, the pig tailed teen whose fire we were gathered around, stared at her as rapturously as I did.
"Everybody back next year?," cheerful Kelly began. There were a chorus of yesses, including mine, except for Susan. She was sitting, chin on her knees. She stood up. There was dirt on the knees of her jeans, which was unusual. She seemed like the sort of person who would change pants after dirtying the knees.
"Susie Q?," Kelly said, a little softer.
Susan stood close to the fire. The licking tongues of orange made flashing patterns on her face. I wanted to cry out, tell her to back away, that it wasn't safe. She wasn't looking at any of us. Without warning, she stuck her hand out and took the butt end of a stick that was in the fire, holding it aloft. The other end burned unsteadily, a nub of flame separated from the larger body. She held it up above her head, watching it sputter and glow in the moonlight. I looked at her brown eyes, her perfect face, looking for an answer. Was she looking for an honest man?
She brought it down and held it close to her lips.
"No," she said softly. "This is my last year." She put the stick back into the fire again.
Nobody said anything. I knew I was never going to see her again now. It was time. Get up, I thought. Tell her. You have to let her know how you feel. Now. Don't wait.
"That's too bad," Kelly said. "I'll miss you."
I looked up at her, standing too close to the fire, the ember by her lips. If you don't say it now, you're never going to.
"I'm going to go to bed," Susan said. I watched her walk across in front of me, dirty knees almost at eye level. Reach out, I thought. Stop her. Tell her you need to stay in touch.
"Good night, everybody."
"Good night," we echoed.
She walked off into the night, and I stared at the fire. It was cold.
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