While Leeroy and his humanoid buddy Lance swelter under the Georgia sun, the 100 word songs continue to flow like the electricity does not to so many Americans at this hour. this week, it's the indie rocker Ani DeFranco and her song, "Cloud Blood". I call this story "Her Turn".
Caroline got out of the pool, tugging at the gaps around her thighs. It was summer, and instead of feeling free, she walked under a cloud. She had watched her mother's face light up with the news. "Your sister's pregnant again!," she nearly shrieked, happier than she was with anything Caroline ever did. Caroline loved Anna, and she loved her niece Julia too. But she had to wonder, fiddling with her black one piece as cottony bits of whiteness blew by, if she was ever going to be anything more than a brood mare to continue the bloodline.
Monday, July 02, 2012
Sunday, July 01, 2012
Scriptic Prompt Exchange: "Encounter"
[For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Carrie gave me this prompt: Open a new Google search window. Close your eyes and hit three random keys. See what is 'suggested' by Google. Pick one and write a 500 word story inspired by it. Don't forget to tell us your inspiration!. I gave kgwaite this prompt: " 'How can I go forward when I don't know which way I'm facing?' -John Lennon"] [I hit the keys "loh", and for reasons that escape even me, "Lohan" was what spoke to me. This story is called "Encounter"]
One of my contacts told me it would be worth hanging out outside a bar/restaurant I had never heard of somewhere in Topanga. He gave me the address, and after a few missteps, I found what I thought had to be the place. "El Grandita", it was called, and it was quaint. It looked old, but the new kind of old, weathered by design instead of actual usage. There was a perfect alley for my purposes- cluttered by a high hedge on top of a low wall and enormous green metal trash bins. If she went out the back, I would have a clear view, able to get some good shots in before dashing up the alley and away. They wouldn't be able to see me until they were right up on me.
I tucked myself in there good, my back against the stone wall, opened my backpack and took out my bottled water and my camera. I didn't fool myself into thinking I was Jill Krementz. I knew I was feeding the lowest common denominator of our culture, adding slime to the swamp we were drowning in. But the merciless computers at the District Court were going to look for $348.17 Friday morning, and if I didn't come up with something good to feed the sharks in the next couple of days, their payment request was going to echo inside my empty account.
I heard the back door open, and I tensed. I could see from the ankles down, and I caught a glimpse of two sets of men's shoes. The men stepped back inside, and then emerged again, first the two of them, then a pair of bare, skinny ankles above expensive looking sandals. I let them walk. The men looked big, like they were failed walk ons at USC. I waited a beat as they went past. The sandaled feet were moving slower than the two men.
I stepped out and saw Lindsay Lohan, the celebrity felon and would be movie star. She looked like someone's kid sister. I was about to start shooting when she looked at me. I heard the two monoliths start to move. They went to step past me. She looked at me curiously, like she had never seen a sketchy looking guy with a camera before. I realized why people were fascinated by her. She was quite attractive, of course, but she had a delicate face, a face men wanted to protect from harm.. I could imagine splitting the Sunday Times with her, eating bagels and drinking strong coffee. Her eyes darted away to her two handlers, and as I stared, they were hurrying their way past me, guiding her into the car and away, and I wondered, as I often did, why it was I spent my life hunting for things I didn't want to find.
One of my contacts told me it would be worth hanging out outside a bar/restaurant I had never heard of somewhere in Topanga. He gave me the address, and after a few missteps, I found what I thought had to be the place. "El Grandita", it was called, and it was quaint. It looked old, but the new kind of old, weathered by design instead of actual usage. There was a perfect alley for my purposes- cluttered by a high hedge on top of a low wall and enormous green metal trash bins. If she went out the back, I would have a clear view, able to get some good shots in before dashing up the alley and away. They wouldn't be able to see me until they were right up on me.
I tucked myself in there good, my back against the stone wall, opened my backpack and took out my bottled water and my camera. I didn't fool myself into thinking I was Jill Krementz. I knew I was feeding the lowest common denominator of our culture, adding slime to the swamp we were drowning in. But the merciless computers at the District Court were going to look for $348.17 Friday morning, and if I didn't come up with something good to feed the sharks in the next couple of days, their payment request was going to echo inside my empty account.
I heard the back door open, and I tensed. I could see from the ankles down, and I caught a glimpse of two sets of men's shoes. The men stepped back inside, and then emerged again, first the two of them, then a pair of bare, skinny ankles above expensive looking sandals. I let them walk. The men looked big, like they were failed walk ons at USC. I waited a beat as they went past. The sandaled feet were moving slower than the two men.
I stepped out and saw Lindsay Lohan, the celebrity felon and would be movie star. She looked like someone's kid sister. I was about to start shooting when she looked at me. I heard the two monoliths start to move. They went to step past me. She looked at me curiously, like she had never seen a sketchy looking guy with a camera before. I realized why people were fascinated by her. She was quite attractive, of course, but she had a delicate face, a face men wanted to protect from harm.. I could imagine splitting the Sunday Times with her, eating bagels and drinking strong coffee. Her eyes darted away to her two handlers, and as I stared, they were hurrying their way past me, guiding her into the car and away, and I wondered, as I often did, why it was I spent my life hunting for things I didn't want to find.
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge: "Come in, please."
Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge is as cool as the other side of the pillow, which makes it the only thing east of the Mississippi that qualifies as "cool." This week's word is "swagger", and this story is called "Come in, please."
If it was possible to sit with a swagger, that's what he did. He came into my office, smiling with white teeth, his suit cut perfectly over a muscular body, a subtle hint of cologne in the air. He had dreamy eyes, a Roman nose, and an expensive haircut. I sat up a little straighter, arching my back slightly. I wasn't going to hire him. He had few of the qualities we needed, and he looked like someone who got by on charm more than skill. But now I have his phone number, I thought with a shiver.
If it was possible to sit with a swagger, that's what he did. He came into my office, smiling with white teeth, his suit cut perfectly over a muscular body, a subtle hint of cologne in the air. He had dreamy eyes, a Roman nose, and an expensive haircut. I sat up a little straighter, arching my back slightly. I wasn't going to hire him. He had few of the qualities we needed, and he looked like someone who got by on charm more than skill. But now I have his phone number, I thought with a shiver.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Scriptic Prompt Exchange: "Graceland"
[For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, SAM gave me this prompt: "Grab a favorite book from your shelf. Open it to page 68 and count 7 lines. Add that line somewhere in your piece. Please share the book and the line in your required Scriptic text." I gave Grace this prompt: " 'Think of writing as writing a letter to someone.' -Kurt Vonnegut". I chose Chad Harbach's "The Art of Fielding", and the line is, "The chatter stopped midword." This story is called "Graceland".]
At every place I had worked, there was always a true center of power. There was the boss on the org chart, and then there was the real person in charge, the one who remembered all the birthdays and made sure the coffeemaker got cleaned. This time, her name was Jenny, and when our latest release finally made it into the world, after almost three weeks of nonstop effort, sad eyed Jenny stood up and insisted that everyone come to her apartment for beer, wine and snacks Friday night. I loathed such occasions, but I also knew better than to offend custom if you want to be tolerated.
Jenny lived on a tree lined street in a tan and red three decker. Her place was on the bottom floor, and when I came in, fashionably late and carrying an imported pale ale I had read was tasty, the proceedings were in full swing. The room was hot, even with air conditioning purring in the corner. Our entire team was 8 people, but when you added everyone's significant others, the gay couple upstairs who they invited so they wouldn't complain about noise, along with cousins visiting from Seattle and younger sisters home from college, there were about 5 more people than her place, even expanding to use the tiny communal backyard, could comfortably hold. I set my gift down on her kitchen counter, next to an array of other beverages, and began to circulate.
The key was to make sure you are seen by as many people as possible, so that you will be remembered as having attended, and then quickly sneak home in time to catch up on your DVR before bed. I didn't believe in socializing at work- my old pal Henry called it the colliding worlds theory. But working in such a small place, to be unsocial is to be unemployable, and since I was the new guy, I had to act sociable. I had joined the company, an anxious, eager startup, hoping for a new start after a toxic breakup drove me out of San Antonio. I had plunged in, working the same insane hours they all did, driving to the finish, shaping the code until it sang like a high performance engine. We weren't done, of course- no computer program is ever done. But we had earned, Jenny thought, a brief respite. And everybody listened to Jenny.
I walked around the room, stepping around already active conversations, nodding hello, engaging in the awkward waltz of the stranger. Jenny had some subtle music playing, just short of clearly audible. I thought I recognized the bass line from Paul Simon's "Graceland." I let Jenny corner me near her dining table. She was finishing a glass of white wine.
"You came!," she exclaimed.
"Of course I did," I said. "I said I would."
"But I didn't think you would!" Jenny had the wide hips of an older woman, with an open face that betrayed everything. She was as secretive as a whiteboard.
"I did."
"I know, silly," she said, giggling. Jenny had this way of making you do what she wanted. She carried herself like you had already agreed, and all we have to do is work out the details.
"You didn't, um, bring someone?" She was pretending to peek behind me, as if I had someone in my pocket.
"No."
"I guess you and I are the only single ones here, huh?" We had this discussion at least once a week. Either she was unusually forgetful, or trying to drop a hint.
"I guess so." I looked over the spread, reached over and took a crab puff.
"You never talk," she said firmly, as if she were correcting me.
"I'm talking now," I said. We both slid over slightly and allowed Jayne to get to the wine. I took a beer bottle for myself.
"No," she said with gentle exasperation. "You don't talk about yourself, your family. Your personal life. Nothing like that."
"I like keeping that personal," I said. "Hence the name."
"Ha!," she said, barking a short laugh. "You're funny. When did you start with us?"
"February," I said. I had moved here on a slim reed, crashing on a college friend's couch until I fell into this job, then a tiny studio apartment several streets away. Since the breakup, I had felt like a piece of paper blowing down a windy street.
"You've been working really hard, and you fit right in with everybody. It's really been great having you around."
"Thank you," I said. "It's been a real pleasure."
"And I feel like I don't know you. You never talk about yourself."
"I know."
"I know you broke up with somebody before you moved here."
"Yeah," I said. I had a vision of Katherine, slamming the door as she left, the duffel bag of her things getting caught in the door like we were on a sitcom. I thought about the Bob Dylan song, "It Takes A Lot To Laugh, It Takes A Train To Cry."
"I guess you're not over it."
"Not really, no."
Jenny poured herself another glass of wine. She had a very cute little dress on, a deep blue, which was charmingly snug on her. I took a sip of beer. She straightened up, standing a little closer to me than I expected. I looked into her eyes, which were a pale blue, and looked incomprehensibly sad.
"I might be able to help you there," she said. If she could have purred, she might have.
"I appreciate that," I said. "Really. But I can't."
"Don't you like me?," she said, sounding hurt.
"Of course," I said. "You're beautiful. I've told you that."
"So what is it? You said you're not gay."
"No, I'm not."
"So what is it, then?," she said, taking another sip of wine. Her face was beginning to flush.
"I'm just...," I said, suddenly unable to complete the sentence. What am I?
"I'm trying to say I'm in love with you, you asshole," Jenny spat a little too loudly.
The chatter stopped midword. Conversations about the Mets, and Murakami novels, and the new exhibition at the museum, all stopped dead. All that was missing was that record scratching sound from old 80s movies. Jenny's face was fully flushed, with tears forming at the corners, and she drained her glass in one long swallow. She moved past me, into her bedroom, and we all heard the door to the bathroom slam shut. I tried to look around the room, but I couldn't, so I opted to take my half bottle of beer and slip out the front door as quietly as I could. I heard the "rooba rooba rooba" sound of conversations starting up again, and I pictured pretty Jenny, looking into the mirror, wondering who I was. I wondered the same thing.
At every place I had worked, there was always a true center of power. There was the boss on the org chart, and then there was the real person in charge, the one who remembered all the birthdays and made sure the coffeemaker got cleaned. This time, her name was Jenny, and when our latest release finally made it into the world, after almost three weeks of nonstop effort, sad eyed Jenny stood up and insisted that everyone come to her apartment for beer, wine and snacks Friday night. I loathed such occasions, but I also knew better than to offend custom if you want to be tolerated.
Jenny lived on a tree lined street in a tan and red three decker. Her place was on the bottom floor, and when I came in, fashionably late and carrying an imported pale ale I had read was tasty, the proceedings were in full swing. The room was hot, even with air conditioning purring in the corner. Our entire team was 8 people, but when you added everyone's significant others, the gay couple upstairs who they invited so they wouldn't complain about noise, along with cousins visiting from Seattle and younger sisters home from college, there were about 5 more people than her place, even expanding to use the tiny communal backyard, could comfortably hold. I set my gift down on her kitchen counter, next to an array of other beverages, and began to circulate.
The key was to make sure you are seen by as many people as possible, so that you will be remembered as having attended, and then quickly sneak home in time to catch up on your DVR before bed. I didn't believe in socializing at work- my old pal Henry called it the colliding worlds theory. But working in such a small place, to be unsocial is to be unemployable, and since I was the new guy, I had to act sociable. I had joined the company, an anxious, eager startup, hoping for a new start after a toxic breakup drove me out of San Antonio. I had plunged in, working the same insane hours they all did, driving to the finish, shaping the code until it sang like a high performance engine. We weren't done, of course- no computer program is ever done. But we had earned, Jenny thought, a brief respite. And everybody listened to Jenny.
I walked around the room, stepping around already active conversations, nodding hello, engaging in the awkward waltz of the stranger. Jenny had some subtle music playing, just short of clearly audible. I thought I recognized the bass line from Paul Simon's "Graceland." I let Jenny corner me near her dining table. She was finishing a glass of white wine.
"You came!," she exclaimed.
"Of course I did," I said. "I said I would."
"But I didn't think you would!" Jenny had the wide hips of an older woman, with an open face that betrayed everything. She was as secretive as a whiteboard.
"I did."
"I know, silly," she said, giggling. Jenny had this way of making you do what she wanted. She carried herself like you had already agreed, and all we have to do is work out the details.
"You didn't, um, bring someone?" She was pretending to peek behind me, as if I had someone in my pocket.
"No."
"I guess you and I are the only single ones here, huh?" We had this discussion at least once a week. Either she was unusually forgetful, or trying to drop a hint.
"I guess so." I looked over the spread, reached over and took a crab puff.
"You never talk," she said firmly, as if she were correcting me.
"I'm talking now," I said. We both slid over slightly and allowed Jayne to get to the wine. I took a beer bottle for myself.
"No," she said with gentle exasperation. "You don't talk about yourself, your family. Your personal life. Nothing like that."
"I like keeping that personal," I said. "Hence the name."
"Ha!," she said, barking a short laugh. "You're funny. When did you start with us?"
"February," I said. I had moved here on a slim reed, crashing on a college friend's couch until I fell into this job, then a tiny studio apartment several streets away. Since the breakup, I had felt like a piece of paper blowing down a windy street.
"You've been working really hard, and you fit right in with everybody. It's really been great having you around."
"Thank you," I said. "It's been a real pleasure."
"And I feel like I don't know you. You never talk about yourself."
"I know."
"I know you broke up with somebody before you moved here."
"Yeah," I said. I had a vision of Katherine, slamming the door as she left, the duffel bag of her things getting caught in the door like we were on a sitcom. I thought about the Bob Dylan song, "It Takes A Lot To Laugh, It Takes A Train To Cry."
"I guess you're not over it."
"Not really, no."
Jenny poured herself another glass of wine. She had a very cute little dress on, a deep blue, which was charmingly snug on her. I took a sip of beer. She straightened up, standing a little closer to me than I expected. I looked into her eyes, which were a pale blue, and looked incomprehensibly sad.
"I might be able to help you there," she said. If she could have purred, she might have.
"I appreciate that," I said. "Really. But I can't."
"Don't you like me?," she said, sounding hurt.
"Of course," I said. "You're beautiful. I've told you that."
"So what is it? You said you're not gay."
"No, I'm not."
"So what is it, then?," she said, taking another sip of wine. Her face was beginning to flush.
"I'm just...," I said, suddenly unable to complete the sentence. What am I?
"I'm trying to say I'm in love with you, you asshole," Jenny spat a little too loudly.
The chatter stopped midword. Conversations about the Mets, and Murakami novels, and the new exhibition at the museum, all stopped dead. All that was missing was that record scratching sound from old 80s movies. Jenny's face was fully flushed, with tears forming at the corners, and she drained her glass in one long swallow. She moved past me, into her bedroom, and we all heard the door to the bathroom slam shut. I tried to look around the room, but I couldn't, so I opted to take my half bottle of beer and slip out the front door as quietly as I could. I heard the "rooba rooba rooba" sound of conversations starting up again, and I pictured pretty Jenny, looking into the mirror, wondering who I was. I wondered the same thing.
Friday, June 22, 2012
Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge: Annalee
Velvet Verbosity no longer has as many NBA Championships as LeBron James, but she's still only one behind. This week she has posted "not five, not four, not three, not two...," but instead one word for our 100 Word Nerd Purposes, and that word is "invigorating". (What Velvet does with the 100 Word Nerd Porpoises is probably best left to the imagination.) This story is humbly dedicated to the great Ellis Paul, and is named after one of his songs, "Annalee".
"Change your environment to change your thinking," my therapist tells me. So I put on some boots and a jacket and start walking down the street, feeling the crisp air, smelling decay and burning, thinking about football and the baseball playoffs and school starting again. It was invigorating, true. It was nice to get away from the same sounds, the same colors, the same walls. But what nobody mentioned was that the damned reality, the hard edged fuck you truth of the situation, was that Annalee was gone, and no matter what tricks I used, I couldn't forget that.
"Change your environment to change your thinking," my therapist tells me. So I put on some boots and a jacket and start walking down the street, feeling the crisp air, smelling decay and burning, thinking about football and the baseball playoffs and school starting again. It was invigorating, true. It was nice to get away from the same sounds, the same colors, the same walls. But what nobody mentioned was that the damned reality, the hard edged fuck you truth of the situation, was that Annalee was gone, and no matter what tricks I used, I couldn't forget that.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Scriptic Prompt Exchange: Behind Enemy Lines
[For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Barb Black gave me this prompt: Write something based on The Killers' song "Human". I gave the most super of all Marens this prompt: "A woman is talking on a cell phone outside of a department store. Her eyes and face are red. She is crying.. What just happened?"]
Pops had flown in the Great War, so now he was far too old and fat to fly. He fixed engines now, and it had become a superstition among the pilots that if you bought Pops a beer the night before your mission, you would come back alive. So I did, dutifully, and Pops fixed me with a hard stare, at least, as hard a stare as he could manage, and said flatly, "Be careful, son. You never see the ones that get you," before putting his head down on the bar and snoring loudly.
I was thinking about Pops now, sitting on the floor of a shabby wood cabin, in the middle of a clearing on top of a small hill somewhere in the French countryside. We were almost clear of the hot zone, finally ready to turn and head for home when a last, desperate shell exploded right near the tail. He was right- none of us saw it, just heard the boom, felt the rattling and shaking. It didn't seem to hurt us much, but then we lost control. Shrapnel probably cut a control wire or two, so when I realized we couldn't turn to get back home, I got us up as high as I could, we all grabbed our chutes and jumped.
We lost each other on the way down, and I found myself caught on a large pine, suddenly brought to an abrupt stop by the branches. My lights went out when the twisted cords slammed me against the tree trunk, and when I came to, I was in this cabin. Someone had taken my pistol, my pack of supplies, everything but my uniform and boots. I looked around the cabin, which looked like someone's hunting retreat, surrounded by tall fir and spruce, and thought about Pops' warning. Indeed, we had not seen it.
But his record was still intact. I was alive. I was thirsty, and cold, and I had a headache worse than any hangover, but I was alive. I thought about escape, just like they had taught us. Reckon by the sun, then head west- eventually you'll find friendly forces. I considered that, but noted the fading sun through the cracked window and thought better of it. My head still pounded, and whatever force brought me here was probably in the area somewhere. I figured getting some rest wouldn't hurt anything, regardless.
I wondered about Sully, and Smithy, and Russ, and Greg Thomas, and George, and Lawrence, who was due to go on leave next week. They all left the plane before I did, but I could only hope they remembered their training at this point. Or at least that they remember that the sun sets in the west. We were striking Cologne, looking for airplane factories or other heavy industry that we could put out of action to help bring the war to an end sooner. I wanted nothing more than to end this stupid war, and get back to that base hospital where I can finally talk that nurse with the long legs and the high, tinkling laugh into coming home with me. I hoped whoever was out there might bring my crew back to this cabin, so we can compare notes and come up with a plan.
Based on our heading, I figured we had to be in eastern France, or possibly in Belgium. Either way, we weren't more than a couple of days' walk from the front lines, either British or American. I hoped I would hit American lines, because I knew the food would be better. My stomach growled in sympathy. Quiet down, I thought. It will be at least another day before you have anything to eat, so you had better get used to the idea.
The door banged open, and in came what I assumed were German regulars down on their luck. On the films we had seen, the German troops sparkled with shoe polish and had perfect creases in their pants. These five had parts of uniforms missing, ripped insignia, shirts untucked and dirty, and were unshaven and rank. I stared at each man in turn, trying to offer an apparent defiance I did not feel. If one of them had a couple of aspirin, I was prepared to join their division right then and there. They all had either handguns or submachine guns, though, which was the important part, since I did not.
We stared at each other for a moment, then one of them stepped forward. He had a short nose, dark hair, and cruel, closely set eyes. The others seemed to defer to him, so I assumed he was a sergeant of some kind.
"You do not speak German?," he asked. His accent was thick, but not comically so. I could understand him if I listened closely.
"I do not," I said. Name, rank and serial number, I thought. It was kind of funny, because I didn't have any real secrets to spill, even if they wanted me to.
"My English is good, yes?," he said.
"It's better than my German," I offered.
"It probably is. Do you know where you are?"
"Not exactly. France, I think."
"Not exactly," he said. "You parachuted down 2 miles into Germany, and you are now my prisoner. You and your war criminal friends will no longer soil the earth with your sin."
"Do you have my men also? Take me to them," I said.
"I will not," he said calmly. "You are my prisoner, air terrorist, and you will answer for your crimes against my Fatherland."
I tried to follow his logic, looking to see where this mad escapade was headed. "It's war," I offered. "Your people bombed London. Coventry. Birmingham. Liverpool. We gave you some of your own back."
"Yes," he said. "We did. If you attacked Berlin, where the monsters and fools who constructed this madness lie, so much the better. But Dusseldorf? Cologne? Stuttgart? You bombed women! And children! Not the leadership! The people! And this 'you did it too'? Is that all the morality America has to offer the world? You did it to me, so I do it to you? Is the world just children squabbling over a ball in the schoolyard?"
He drew his pistol, the leather holster making a slapping sound against his thigh. I reached for mine before I remembered that it wasn't there. It was a Luger, which I had seen pictures of, but had never seen in the flesh. I always thought it was an ugly gun, too many ostentatious curves. Not like the American Colt .45, which was all business, straightforward and utilitarian, just like us. I realized that however ugly the gun, it would efficiently and quickly poke holes in me just like every other gun, and I would be just as dead, no matter the aesthetics.
"What kind of man does this? What kind of man flies high above the people, dropping death on them from the great beyond? What kind of man cares not who he kills, who he wounds when his packages go off?" My eye followed the bobbing dark circle at the end of the barrel, which bobbed and weaved as he spoke, always remaining pointed enough at me to ward off any thoughts of rushing him and trying to grab it. The hole looked enormous.
I thought about when one of our men, a bombardier, got a bad case of combat fatigue, trembling in his bunk, holding an MP's .45, crying and screaming whenever any one of us looked at him. It was Pops who talked him down, got him to put the gun down and let us take him away to the infirmary. When I asked him about it later, he simply said he just pretended he was arguing with his long dead wife Esther. "Just keep agreeing with them until they get tired of talking."
I thought about challenging him, about how much courage it took to lob a V2 over the horizon at British citizens who had done as little to him as the Hamburg residents who lost their houses had done to me. But I followed Pops' dictum, keeping quiet, watching the deadly tip of his pistol.
"Who does this, American? Are you a man? Are you a human being? Or just some monster who kills kids and old women for fun? A beast who takes to the sky in his flying machine and doesn't stop until scores of Germans lie dead?" He looked equally capable of crying , screaming, shooting himself or shooting me. I stayed on the floor, letting him continue.
"My Elsa," he said haltingly. "My Elsa lived on Burgenstrasse in Hamburg. Do you know it? Of course you don't know it. You Americans never care about anyone but yourselves. My Elsa was waiting for me. She...we...I was going to have...was having...a son. A son, do you understand me? A SON! And then the planes came. And Elsa was on the stairs when a bomb, an American bomb, YOUR bomb, collapsed the building. My sister told me. They carried her body out of the building, American, my dead child in her belly. Do you have any idea how that feels?"
I looked at him. They taught us Germans were beasts, of course, monsters that had rose from the ashes of Versailles to torture the world again. But if what this guy was saying was true, and if German bombers had taken my wife's life, I'm not sure if I wouldn't blame all Germans either.
Just then, a German I hadn't seen before burst in on this little play, chattering away in their language. I didn't speak it, but you could make out a word or two. "Americans" was in there, and I heard, as if in a counterpoint, a large, rolling boom that seemed to be coming out of the woods nearby.
The leader looked at me squarely, and I heard the distinct metal on metal sound of him cocking the weapon. If this is it, I thought, I'm going to make a run. I'd rather die on my feet than on my knees. I started measuring the distance, figuring on a plan of attack. I'll stay low, like they say in football, and just rush the guy, hoping I can close the distance before he can fire. I kept an eye on his finger, waiting for the slightest twitch.
"Schnell!" the new guy said, and suddenly his comrades were rushing out the back of the cabin, away from the noise. The leader, whatever his name was, took a long look over the barrel of his gun at me, then joined his friends, fleeing to the east. I heard another rolling boom, never so glad to hear the sound of shells going off, and got up. I hoped against hope that meant American forces were coming, then started running like the devil, hoping I could convince the sentry of my Americanness before he decided to fill me with lead.
Pops had flown in the Great War, so now he was far too old and fat to fly. He fixed engines now, and it had become a superstition among the pilots that if you bought Pops a beer the night before your mission, you would come back alive. So I did, dutifully, and Pops fixed me with a hard stare, at least, as hard a stare as he could manage, and said flatly, "Be careful, son. You never see the ones that get you," before putting his head down on the bar and snoring loudly.
I was thinking about Pops now, sitting on the floor of a shabby wood cabin, in the middle of a clearing on top of a small hill somewhere in the French countryside. We were almost clear of the hot zone, finally ready to turn and head for home when a last, desperate shell exploded right near the tail. He was right- none of us saw it, just heard the boom, felt the rattling and shaking. It didn't seem to hurt us much, but then we lost control. Shrapnel probably cut a control wire or two, so when I realized we couldn't turn to get back home, I got us up as high as I could, we all grabbed our chutes and jumped.
We lost each other on the way down, and I found myself caught on a large pine, suddenly brought to an abrupt stop by the branches. My lights went out when the twisted cords slammed me against the tree trunk, and when I came to, I was in this cabin. Someone had taken my pistol, my pack of supplies, everything but my uniform and boots. I looked around the cabin, which looked like someone's hunting retreat, surrounded by tall fir and spruce, and thought about Pops' warning. Indeed, we had not seen it.
But his record was still intact. I was alive. I was thirsty, and cold, and I had a headache worse than any hangover, but I was alive. I thought about escape, just like they had taught us. Reckon by the sun, then head west- eventually you'll find friendly forces. I considered that, but noted the fading sun through the cracked window and thought better of it. My head still pounded, and whatever force brought me here was probably in the area somewhere. I figured getting some rest wouldn't hurt anything, regardless.
I wondered about Sully, and Smithy, and Russ, and Greg Thomas, and George, and Lawrence, who was due to go on leave next week. They all left the plane before I did, but I could only hope they remembered their training at this point. Or at least that they remember that the sun sets in the west. We were striking Cologne, looking for airplane factories or other heavy industry that we could put out of action to help bring the war to an end sooner. I wanted nothing more than to end this stupid war, and get back to that base hospital where I can finally talk that nurse with the long legs and the high, tinkling laugh into coming home with me. I hoped whoever was out there might bring my crew back to this cabin, so we can compare notes and come up with a plan.
Based on our heading, I figured we had to be in eastern France, or possibly in Belgium. Either way, we weren't more than a couple of days' walk from the front lines, either British or American. I hoped I would hit American lines, because I knew the food would be better. My stomach growled in sympathy. Quiet down, I thought. It will be at least another day before you have anything to eat, so you had better get used to the idea.
The door banged open, and in came what I assumed were German regulars down on their luck. On the films we had seen, the German troops sparkled with shoe polish and had perfect creases in their pants. These five had parts of uniforms missing, ripped insignia, shirts untucked and dirty, and were unshaven and rank. I stared at each man in turn, trying to offer an apparent defiance I did not feel. If one of them had a couple of aspirin, I was prepared to join their division right then and there. They all had either handguns or submachine guns, though, which was the important part, since I did not.
We stared at each other for a moment, then one of them stepped forward. He had a short nose, dark hair, and cruel, closely set eyes. The others seemed to defer to him, so I assumed he was a sergeant of some kind.
"You do not speak German?," he asked. His accent was thick, but not comically so. I could understand him if I listened closely.
"I do not," I said. Name, rank and serial number, I thought. It was kind of funny, because I didn't have any real secrets to spill, even if they wanted me to.
"My English is good, yes?," he said.
"It's better than my German," I offered.
"It probably is. Do you know where you are?"
"Not exactly. France, I think."
"Not exactly," he said. "You parachuted down 2 miles into Germany, and you are now my prisoner. You and your war criminal friends will no longer soil the earth with your sin."
"Do you have my men also? Take me to them," I said.
"I will not," he said calmly. "You are my prisoner, air terrorist, and you will answer for your crimes against my Fatherland."
I tried to follow his logic, looking to see where this mad escapade was headed. "It's war," I offered. "Your people bombed London. Coventry. Birmingham. Liverpool. We gave you some of your own back."
"Yes," he said. "We did. If you attacked Berlin, where the monsters and fools who constructed this madness lie, so much the better. But Dusseldorf? Cologne? Stuttgart? You bombed women! And children! Not the leadership! The people! And this 'you did it too'? Is that all the morality America has to offer the world? You did it to me, so I do it to you? Is the world just children squabbling over a ball in the schoolyard?"
He drew his pistol, the leather holster making a slapping sound against his thigh. I reached for mine before I remembered that it wasn't there. It was a Luger, which I had seen pictures of, but had never seen in the flesh. I always thought it was an ugly gun, too many ostentatious curves. Not like the American Colt .45, which was all business, straightforward and utilitarian, just like us. I realized that however ugly the gun, it would efficiently and quickly poke holes in me just like every other gun, and I would be just as dead, no matter the aesthetics.
"What kind of man does this? What kind of man flies high above the people, dropping death on them from the great beyond? What kind of man cares not who he kills, who he wounds when his packages go off?" My eye followed the bobbing dark circle at the end of the barrel, which bobbed and weaved as he spoke, always remaining pointed enough at me to ward off any thoughts of rushing him and trying to grab it. The hole looked enormous.
I thought about when one of our men, a bombardier, got a bad case of combat fatigue, trembling in his bunk, holding an MP's .45, crying and screaming whenever any one of us looked at him. It was Pops who talked him down, got him to put the gun down and let us take him away to the infirmary. When I asked him about it later, he simply said he just pretended he was arguing with his long dead wife Esther. "Just keep agreeing with them until they get tired of talking."
I thought about challenging him, about how much courage it took to lob a V2 over the horizon at British citizens who had done as little to him as the Hamburg residents who lost their houses had done to me. But I followed Pops' dictum, keeping quiet, watching the deadly tip of his pistol.
"Who does this, American? Are you a man? Are you a human being? Or just some monster who kills kids and old women for fun? A beast who takes to the sky in his flying machine and doesn't stop until scores of Germans lie dead?" He looked equally capable of crying , screaming, shooting himself or shooting me. I stayed on the floor, letting him continue.
"My Elsa," he said haltingly. "My Elsa lived on Burgenstrasse in Hamburg. Do you know it? Of course you don't know it. You Americans never care about anyone but yourselves. My Elsa was waiting for me. She...we...I was going to have...was having...a son. A son, do you understand me? A SON! And then the planes came. And Elsa was on the stairs when a bomb, an American bomb, YOUR bomb, collapsed the building. My sister told me. They carried her body out of the building, American, my dead child in her belly. Do you have any idea how that feels?"
I looked at him. They taught us Germans were beasts, of course, monsters that had rose from the ashes of Versailles to torture the world again. But if what this guy was saying was true, and if German bombers had taken my wife's life, I'm not sure if I wouldn't blame all Germans either.
Just then, a German I hadn't seen before burst in on this little play, chattering away in their language. I didn't speak it, but you could make out a word or two. "Americans" was in there, and I heard, as if in a counterpoint, a large, rolling boom that seemed to be coming out of the woods nearby.
The leader looked at me squarely, and I heard the distinct metal on metal sound of him cocking the weapon. If this is it, I thought, I'm going to make a run. I'd rather die on my feet than on my knees. I started measuring the distance, figuring on a plan of attack. I'll stay low, like they say in football, and just rush the guy, hoping I can close the distance before he can fire. I kept an eye on his finger, waiting for the slightest twitch.
"Schnell!" the new guy said, and suddenly his comrades were rushing out the back of the cabin, away from the noise. The leader, whatever his name was, took a long look over the barrel of his gun at me, then joined his friends, fleeing to the east. I heard another rolling boom, never so glad to hear the sound of shells going off, and got up. I hoped against hope that meant American forces were coming, then started running like the devil, hoping I could convince the sentry of my Americanness before he decided to fill me with lead.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Flash Fiction Friday: "Pinky Swear"
Your friends and mine at the Flash Fiction Friday compound high in the Hollywood Hills, guarded by stone lions just like the New York Public Library, have issued a challenge involving a literal or metaphorical ticking bomb. This story is called "Pinky Swear".
"You know, it's only a matter of time," Shannon said. The noise in the restaurant, a national chain that made pretty decent salads and pasta, started to build as the lunch crowd grew. Shannon always spoke just loudly enough to be heard. She made you want to listen to her.
"Everything is a matter of time, Shea," I said. "Everything." I told Bill last night I was going to lunch with Shannon today, and his reply dripped with acid. "Again?," was all he said.
"You know what I meant," she said dismissively. She had this way of looking down her nose at you, as if you had said the silliest thing. It came from a lifetime of usually being the tallest person in the room. But I was right. Everything eventually happens, it's only a matter of time. More things on heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in all your philosophy.
"Yeah," I admitted. "But if I worry about what's going to happen, I'd never do anything. I can't afford to borrow trouble." I watched a visibly pregnant woman leading a train of small children into a booth near us. I shivered at the thought of Bill and I having kids.
"But still," she said. She took a sip of her water. There was condensation beading on the side of the glass. "I told you he wasn't right for you." She had done that, true. All the way up until my bridal shower, she made it clear that she didn't like Bill, that he was scaring her.
"Shea," I said. "Let's not turn this into the 'Shannon Was Right' Chronicles, please. I know you said it. And I didn't listen." She spent the months after my wedding waiting for the shoe to drop, watching for it to go wrong, her disapproval a visible cloud around every word. She never said it straight out, but you could tell.
"I'm scared for you, hun." She probably was. Shannon, for all her superiority and controlling nature, really was sweet and genuinely cared about people. Then again, I always looked for the good in everyone.
"I know," I said. "I appreciate that. I do. I'm scared for me, too." I didn't tell her about how I cry with relief when he leaves for work, that every moment with the two of us together is like a hostage negotiation.
"You know you can come stay in our spare room. If you need to." I tried to picture living in Shannon's precise house, every magazine square on the table, her well behaved, polite children, her husband, distant and cold and secretly resenting me.
"Thanks, Shea. That's nice of you to offer." It was the kind of offer that you made expecting to be turned down, a kind of offer that had about a two week expiration date. It was an offer that wasn't an offer, like the way fat Mike flirts with me at the copy machine.
"You've got to get out of there," Shannon began. The waiter came, bringing us twin salads. Greek for me, garden for her. I couldn't stand to not have something on a salad, which explained why I looked like me and Shannon looked like her.
"I wish I could," I said. "Where would I go? What would I do for a job? For health coverage?" And what would the point be, really? Single? At my age? I was too tired to think about saving myself anymore.
"You have your degree," Shannon said, taking a bite of salad. She chewed as precisely as she talked.
"Yeah," I spat back. "A BA in Business Administration. Me and 7000 other people. Big deal." I went to college because everyone said I should, even though I really had no interest in it. I couldn't admit it at the time, but I was thinking about dropping out and getting married the whole time.
"You can come live with me," she insisted. I pictured waking up to long haired, pretty Polly, along with composed, serious Wyatt, watching cartoons together in pajamas. What would they call me? What would I be?
"It's fine, Shea. I'll be fine."
"It's not fine. He's going to lose it again. You know that." She was right. I hated Shannon sometimes, the way you hate your best friend, the way you hate the way they sound when they are right and you both know they are right, the way you hate their perfect taut LL Bean and Architectural Digest life, the way you hate with a marrow deep vehemence that you can't admit to anyone.
"Yes, I know," I said. "I know. We've talked about it. If he hits me again, I go to the cops." And then what, I didn't say.
"He shouldn't hit you. Ever.," Shannon said flatly. Easy for her to say. Her husband rolled over, doing whatever she said when she said it. I looked at her long legs under the table, a fuchsia high heel balanced on her toes playfully. If I were a guy, I'd probably do what she said too.
I chewed my salad. This bite had too much dressing on it. It tasted sour.
"If you need somewhere to go, you will call me," Shannon added. I watched her uncross her legs and recross them. I saw a waiter at another table notice her. You instinctively obeyed Shannon, like she was your mother.
"Yes, Shea," I said. "I will."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
"Pinky swear?"
"Pinky swear." I'd rather he just kill me, I thought.
"You know, it's only a matter of time," Shannon said. The noise in the restaurant, a national chain that made pretty decent salads and pasta, started to build as the lunch crowd grew. Shannon always spoke just loudly enough to be heard. She made you want to listen to her.
"Everything is a matter of time, Shea," I said. "Everything." I told Bill last night I was going to lunch with Shannon today, and his reply dripped with acid. "Again?," was all he said.
"You know what I meant," she said dismissively. She had this way of looking down her nose at you, as if you had said the silliest thing. It came from a lifetime of usually being the tallest person in the room. But I was right. Everything eventually happens, it's only a matter of time. More things on heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in all your philosophy.
"Yeah," I admitted. "But if I worry about what's going to happen, I'd never do anything. I can't afford to borrow trouble." I watched a visibly pregnant woman leading a train of small children into a booth near us. I shivered at the thought of Bill and I having kids.
"But still," she said. She took a sip of her water. There was condensation beading on the side of the glass. "I told you he wasn't right for you." She had done that, true. All the way up until my bridal shower, she made it clear that she didn't like Bill, that he was scaring her.
"Shea," I said. "Let's not turn this into the 'Shannon Was Right' Chronicles, please. I know you said it. And I didn't listen." She spent the months after my wedding waiting for the shoe to drop, watching for it to go wrong, her disapproval a visible cloud around every word. She never said it straight out, but you could tell.
"I'm scared for you, hun." She probably was. Shannon, for all her superiority and controlling nature, really was sweet and genuinely cared about people. Then again, I always looked for the good in everyone.
"I know," I said. "I appreciate that. I do. I'm scared for me, too." I didn't tell her about how I cry with relief when he leaves for work, that every moment with the two of us together is like a hostage negotiation.
"You know you can come stay in our spare room. If you need to." I tried to picture living in Shannon's precise house, every magazine square on the table, her well behaved, polite children, her husband, distant and cold and secretly resenting me.
"Thanks, Shea. That's nice of you to offer." It was the kind of offer that you made expecting to be turned down, a kind of offer that had about a two week expiration date. It was an offer that wasn't an offer, like the way fat Mike flirts with me at the copy machine.
"You've got to get out of there," Shannon began. The waiter came, bringing us twin salads. Greek for me, garden for her. I couldn't stand to not have something on a salad, which explained why I looked like me and Shannon looked like her.
"I wish I could," I said. "Where would I go? What would I do for a job? For health coverage?" And what would the point be, really? Single? At my age? I was too tired to think about saving myself anymore.
"You have your degree," Shannon said, taking a bite of salad. She chewed as precisely as she talked.
"Yeah," I spat back. "A BA in Business Administration. Me and 7000 other people. Big deal." I went to college because everyone said I should, even though I really had no interest in it. I couldn't admit it at the time, but I was thinking about dropping out and getting married the whole time.
"You can come live with me," she insisted. I pictured waking up to long haired, pretty Polly, along with composed, serious Wyatt, watching cartoons together in pajamas. What would they call me? What would I be?
"It's fine, Shea. I'll be fine."
"It's not fine. He's going to lose it again. You know that." She was right. I hated Shannon sometimes, the way you hate your best friend, the way you hate the way they sound when they are right and you both know they are right, the way you hate their perfect taut LL Bean and Architectural Digest life, the way you hate with a marrow deep vehemence that you can't admit to anyone.
"Yes, I know," I said. "I know. We've talked about it. If he hits me again, I go to the cops." And then what, I didn't say.
"He shouldn't hit you. Ever.," Shannon said flatly. Easy for her to say. Her husband rolled over, doing whatever she said when she said it. I looked at her long legs under the table, a fuchsia high heel balanced on her toes playfully. If I were a guy, I'd probably do what she said too.
I chewed my salad. This bite had too much dressing on it. It tasted sour.
"If you need somewhere to go, you will call me," Shannon added. I watched her uncross her legs and recross them. I saw a waiter at another table notice her. You instinctively obeyed Shannon, like she was your mother.
"Yes, Shea," I said. "I will."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
"Pinky swear?"
"Pinky swear." I'd rather he just kill me, I thought.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Flash Fiction Friday: "Get Back"
The Folks At Flash Fiction Friday have posited a fine little poser this week: take the 8th sentence on page 83 of the book you are currently reading, and use that as the first sentence of a new story. I chose (since, as per usual, I'm reading more than one book at once) Robert J Sawyer's "Fossil Hunter", and the sentence, "Lastoon felt his heart pounding as he ran on." (Lastoon is a dinosaur.) I'm going to cheat a wee bit and change it to "he", but hopefully the complaints won't be too loud.
He felt his heart pounding as he ran on. This was normal. He was running, playing a sport at the very highest level, so he was long accustomed to the constant motion. When you got to a certain point, you didn't feel the fatigue any more- it was just functioning, making dozens of decisions every second. Everything on automatic pilot. You had to play this way to survive at this level, so you learned to push aside what weekend warriors would call genuine discomfort. Run, but watch- there were always things you could miss.
When you didn't have the ball, you went into the practiced motions of the offense. Cut here, run there. stop. Wait. Now run again. Every option had options, depending on what the opposition did. The key was, of course, that everyone on the team saw the same option together. That was why they had practice. He set a pick, absorbed the crunching blow from the excitable two guard, then rolled calmly into the open space. The ball found him, and his brain instantly calculated angles, and vectors, and planes faster than the fastest laptop. He saw that no one could reach him in time, that the shot was within his range, that there were no better options. His decision made, he shot, catching the ball and rising and firing.
It felt good, and he was glad to see it drop through the hoop almost quietly. The home crowd cheered appropriately, and he exchanged a couple of quick handslaps. They were now on defense, though, basketball's fluid nature never allowing too much celebration, and he focused on the waves of blue opponents coming at them. It was one of the first lessons you learn as a youngster- get back, as soon as the ball changes hands. Don't think, just move. The team moved back, matching up with their assignments without a word.
Defense wasn't quite so regimented- it was reactive. Try to see what they are attempting to do, and disrupt it as best you can. The ball came in deep to their hulking center, and he took a few steps towards him, trying to disrupt his rhythm. He looked up at the big man, trying to read his eyes, seeing the ball returned to the perimeter. He jumped back to defend his man, who quickly gave it up. The ball circulated, a few more cuts followed by a shot of their own.
He couldn't explain it, but he had always had a sense about rebounding. Something about the way the ball rotated off the opponent's fingertips, he could tell whether it would come off long or short, right or left, bounding high or skidding like a skipped stone. He saw where the ball was headed, his feet taking him there before he could form the thought. He slipped between two opponents, jumping as the ball came off the rim, securing it in front of the baseline. Their quicksilver point guard was already on the move, hurtling towards the offensive end, and he threw him a pass, setting out on his own path.
The guard was headed for the middle, just like they taught you in grade school, so as to maximize your options. He saw the gap on the left- just run straight down the sideline, and we should have a two on one fast break. He started off when he felt a ripping, tearing pain right across his chest. It felt like some kind of muscle pull- had he hurt himself passing the ball? It wasn't that vigorous a pass, but this was a definite pain. The closest thing he could remember was when he got kicked on a double play playing high school baseball. It was that kind of pain- abrupt and very real. He remembered it was December the next basketball season before his shot came back.
He kept running, almost out of habit, but the pain wouldn't stop. He slowed down, watching the play develop in front of him, as Maxwell, the other forward, filled in on the right, taking an easy pass and guiding the ball home for an easy two. He smiled, feeling the game's momentum sliding their way, and then grimaced. It felt like someone was opening his chest with a rusty razor.
Suddenly, unbidden, legs that had brought him near the top of his profession felt watery and weak. The pain was a roaring furnace now, both sides of his chest aching and burning. His breath felt short and quick, and no matter how deeply he sucked, it felt like he couldn't get enough air. He couldn't support his weight any more, and he fell to one knee, then to both. He commanded himself to rise, get up, get back- the primordial basketball instruction. Don't let them get an advantage.
His body rebelled, his muscles and nerves suddenly commanded by a rebellious, angry guard. He looked up at one of the opponents, the lanky point guard, who signalled to the official for a time out. He heard the whistle blow while the pain seemed to be sending daggers into his stomach. He felt nauseous, but commanded himself not to vomit- he didn't want to lead Sportscenter for a week.
He looked up at his opponent, tried to speak, but nothing came out. The pain was like bands, hot, heavy, hard bands wrapped firmly around him and squeezing, constantly squeezing. He tried to get up and could not, and suddenly he felt the dirty floor against his face. He noted how quiet everyone was, how suddenly he heard his name, friend and foe alike urging him to get up, asking if he was OK, trying to tell him he would be OK. He looked at the bottom of the sneaker of one of his teammates, looming large in front of his face, and he knew that they weren't correct, that he wasn't going to be OK, that he was falling away from the game, away from his fans and his friends and his family and himself, and he noticed how quiet it was now, and suddenly he realized that it didn't hurt anymore.
He felt his heart pounding as he ran on. This was normal. He was running, playing a sport at the very highest level, so he was long accustomed to the constant motion. When you got to a certain point, you didn't feel the fatigue any more- it was just functioning, making dozens of decisions every second. Everything on automatic pilot. You had to play this way to survive at this level, so you learned to push aside what weekend warriors would call genuine discomfort. Run, but watch- there were always things you could miss.
When you didn't have the ball, you went into the practiced motions of the offense. Cut here, run there. stop. Wait. Now run again. Every option had options, depending on what the opposition did. The key was, of course, that everyone on the team saw the same option together. That was why they had practice. He set a pick, absorbed the crunching blow from the excitable two guard, then rolled calmly into the open space. The ball found him, and his brain instantly calculated angles, and vectors, and planes faster than the fastest laptop. He saw that no one could reach him in time, that the shot was within his range, that there were no better options. His decision made, he shot, catching the ball and rising and firing.
It felt good, and he was glad to see it drop through the hoop almost quietly. The home crowd cheered appropriately, and he exchanged a couple of quick handslaps. They were now on defense, though, basketball's fluid nature never allowing too much celebration, and he focused on the waves of blue opponents coming at them. It was one of the first lessons you learn as a youngster- get back, as soon as the ball changes hands. Don't think, just move. The team moved back, matching up with their assignments without a word.
Defense wasn't quite so regimented- it was reactive. Try to see what they are attempting to do, and disrupt it as best you can. The ball came in deep to their hulking center, and he took a few steps towards him, trying to disrupt his rhythm. He looked up at the big man, trying to read his eyes, seeing the ball returned to the perimeter. He jumped back to defend his man, who quickly gave it up. The ball circulated, a few more cuts followed by a shot of their own.
He couldn't explain it, but he had always had a sense about rebounding. Something about the way the ball rotated off the opponent's fingertips, he could tell whether it would come off long or short, right or left, bounding high or skidding like a skipped stone. He saw where the ball was headed, his feet taking him there before he could form the thought. He slipped between two opponents, jumping as the ball came off the rim, securing it in front of the baseline. Their quicksilver point guard was already on the move, hurtling towards the offensive end, and he threw him a pass, setting out on his own path.
The guard was headed for the middle, just like they taught you in grade school, so as to maximize your options. He saw the gap on the left- just run straight down the sideline, and we should have a two on one fast break. He started off when he felt a ripping, tearing pain right across his chest. It felt like some kind of muscle pull- had he hurt himself passing the ball? It wasn't that vigorous a pass, but this was a definite pain. The closest thing he could remember was when he got kicked on a double play playing high school baseball. It was that kind of pain- abrupt and very real. He remembered it was December the next basketball season before his shot came back.
He kept running, almost out of habit, but the pain wouldn't stop. He slowed down, watching the play develop in front of him, as Maxwell, the other forward, filled in on the right, taking an easy pass and guiding the ball home for an easy two. He smiled, feeling the game's momentum sliding their way, and then grimaced. It felt like someone was opening his chest with a rusty razor.
Suddenly, unbidden, legs that had brought him near the top of his profession felt watery and weak. The pain was a roaring furnace now, both sides of his chest aching and burning. His breath felt short and quick, and no matter how deeply he sucked, it felt like he couldn't get enough air. He couldn't support his weight any more, and he fell to one knee, then to both. He commanded himself to rise, get up, get back- the primordial basketball instruction. Don't let them get an advantage.
His body rebelled, his muscles and nerves suddenly commanded by a rebellious, angry guard. He looked up at one of the opponents, the lanky point guard, who signalled to the official for a time out. He heard the whistle blow while the pain seemed to be sending daggers into his stomach. He felt nauseous, but commanded himself not to vomit- he didn't want to lead Sportscenter for a week.
He looked up at his opponent, tried to speak, but nothing came out. The pain was like bands, hot, heavy, hard bands wrapped firmly around him and squeezing, constantly squeezing. He tried to get up and could not, and suddenly he felt the dirty floor against his face. He noted how quiet everyone was, how suddenly he heard his name, friend and foe alike urging him to get up, asking if he was OK, trying to tell him he would be OK. He looked at the bottom of the sneaker of one of his teammates, looming large in front of his face, and he knew that they weren't correct, that he wasn't going to be OK, that he was falling away from the game, away from his fans and his friends and his family and himself, and he noticed how quiet it was now, and suddenly he realized that it didn't hurt anymore.
Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge: "Fight Night"
Velvet Verbosity, whose failure to win a Tony Award can only be described as a massive oversight, chose "reflecting" as this week's word. I call this "Fight Night"
"Mom- MEEEEEE!," Lucy said, her voice splitting the air. "Eva's doing everything I do!" Lucy walked into the kitchen, fists balled on her hips, face contorted with anger. "Make her STOP!"
Eva followed behind, shooting me a puzzled look. She saw her older sister and immediately adopted the same pose. "See?!??!?!?," Lucy cried.
I had a flash of memory, my own mother wading into a fight between my brother and I, holding us apart with two massive hands, bellowing, "Someday you're going to have children that are JUST LIKE YOU!"
I never knew what a curse it was.
"Mom- MEEEEEE!," Lucy said, her voice splitting the air. "Eva's doing everything I do!" Lucy walked into the kitchen, fists balled on her hips, face contorted with anger. "Make her STOP!"
Eva followed behind, shooting me a puzzled look. She saw her older sister and immediately adopted the same pose. "See?!??!?!?," Lucy cried.
I had a flash of memory, my own mother wading into a fight between my brother and I, holding us apart with two massive hands, bellowing, "Someday you're going to have children that are JUST LIKE YOU!"
I never knew what a curse it was.
Saturday, June 09, 2012
100 Word Song: "Remember to Forget, Forget to Remember"
Friend of man and robot Leeroy and his humanoid buddy Lance issue this week's 100 Word Song Challenge with Damien Rice's "Elephant". This is called "Remember to Forget, Forget to Remember".
We were emptying boxes , seeing if there was anything worth saving. There often was not. He took out a white box with a red logo, a circle with a very dark looking elephant in the center.
"What's this?," he said.
"Computer disks," I said.
"What's on them?"
"No way to know."
"What if it's important?"
"It isn't. My father was smart enough to leave important things where they would be found."
"But what's on them?"
"Probably nothing. Forget it," I said.
"I don't wanna forget anything," he said.
None of us do, I thought.
We were emptying boxes , seeing if there was anything worth saving. There often was not. He took out a white box with a red logo, a circle with a very dark looking elephant in the center.
"What's this?," he said.
"Computer disks," I said.
"What's on them?"
"No way to know."
"What if it's important?"
"It isn't. My father was smart enough to leave important things where they would be found."
"But what's on them?"
"Probably nothing. Forget it," I said.
"I don't wanna forget anything," he said.
None of us do, I thought.
Scriptic Prompt Exchange: "What's the Problem?"
(For the uninitiated, which this week includes most people, the Indie Ink Writing Challenge has indeed shuffled off this mortal coil and joined the bleeding choir invisible. In its place we find the Scriptic Prompt Exchange, which consists of most of the same people, wearing most of the same clothes, (though I can't speak for Supermaren, who may not be wearing any clothes) doing most of the same things, just like when Paul Rodgers sings with Queen.)
[For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Kat gave me this prompt: "Write a story about an empty glass." I gave Chelle this prompt: "Write about someone who has, or has had, or is about to have, a headache. Literal or metaphorical. Or both!"]
People aren't all that hard to understand, Stacy thought. Men especially so. It wasn't just that the list of things they could possibly want was so short (typically beer, or sex, or a sandwich, or, ideally, all three), but it was more that they were such linear thinkers. Subtlety and nuance and subtext were Scrabble words to them. She knew what most men wanted within minutes, and the ones she knew well, men like patient, earnest Thomas, sitting there with his blue gray eyes and his new haircut and the rakish knot in his tie, she could read them in seconds.
She knew the moment he had suggested they eat here, the new French place that was becoming all the rage, what he was planning. She could have claimed illness, or a conflicting engagement, but she didn't, putting on the dress and shoes she wore to a wedding in Texas last year, noting with dismay how snug it suddenly felt, and met him there a few minutes after 7, noting with mild sadness the Cheshire Cat grin he was wearing, the grin that confirmed that she had read him absolutely correctly.
They walked in together, her eyes playing over the fat confident faces of the other diners, listening to the gentle swells of Chopin being played through hidden speakers, her footfalls silent on smooth burgundy carpeting. There were no children, no loud conversations, no TV like the more popular, family style restaurants they usually went to, just darkness and flickering candles and a funereal hush. The maitre d led them to a cozy corner table, gallantly holding out her chair first. She sat, and then he did. When the tuxedoed waiter came around, he let him order the food and wine, his 2 years studying at the Sorbonne making him the expert in such things.
She watched Thomas speaking his rolling, smooth French to the waiter, who was smiling, his eyes hiding amazement at the fluency. Thomas was a good man. He was wise, and placid, and calm, never aggressive and seldom angry. He was neither too clingy and jealous, nor too distant. He had good taste in books, and film, and music. When the sewing circle, as she called it, convened at work, the young unmarrieds complaining about the latest errors made by their men, the last birthday forgotten or hairstyle unremarked upon, Stacy never had anything to add. Thomas never forgot anything, was nice to her mother, and joked about the Bears with her dad. "He's perfect," fat, single Jean said once, when Thomas' name came up, and Stacy laughed, but she had to admit her friend had a point.
Thomas was a nervous talker, though, filling silence with words, telling her now about how he had a chance to get a quarter share of a pair of Brewers tickets, good seats down the third base line, which would mean having to attend 20 or so games per year. He had taken her several times, and she had dutifully smeared on sunblock, purchased a few different girly baseball tops and a pink hat, and sat through the games with him, listening to his explanations of things she already understood, then driving home while he napped off the beer in the passenger seat. Baseball wasn't her favorite thing on earth, but every woman knew life with a man involved pretending to care about things that didn't matter. Baseball wasn't the problem.
The waiter had already refilled her glass without being asked. Stacy wasn't drunk, but she could feel a slight dissociation beginning to take hold. She couldn't afford too much more without any food in her stomach, she thought, and as if her thoughts had summoned him, the waiter was back with a pair of elaborate chicken dishes, setting them down before them with a flourish. Stacy looked down at her wineglass, swirling the liquid very gently. By the time this glass is empty, she told herself, you have to say it.
Thomas was onto a work story now, telling about a deal that was on the verge of breaking down before his team managed to slap together some financing that made the whole thing work. He was into the details about notes maturing, and interest rate hedges, and how amazed his bosses had been when he showed them how much their firm got to keep. He was drinking wine, too, but he wasn't drunk. Alcohol made him more voluble, and Stacy was more than happy to let him lead the conversation. That made everything easier. It was annoying, but his overtalkative nature wasn't the problem.
What was the problem? He didn't hit her, or force sex on her, or gamble, or cheat, or lie. He made good money, he loved kids, he didn't have any more than the average number of psycho exes. He dressed nice, he smelled good, he loved nature, he cared about the right things, he was a perfectly competent lover. As soon as she felt this night coming, she immediately prepared herself for it. She had to be ready to answer yes, or she had to somehow cut him off before he could ask. She remembered her Vonnegut: what can you say, after someone says "I love you," other than "I love you, too?"
She had been thinking about it constantly. Was he the one? If he was, she had to be sure. And if he wasn't, she had to be just as sure, so she could get away from him before he asked. She couldn't let him ask, because she couldn't be the kind of person who said "no" when someone proposed. You can't let that happen. And as she went through her days, showering in the morning, standing in line for coffee, waiting for the afternoon meeting to begin, she kept going over Thomas like a geometry problem, trying to find the fault line, but she couldn't uncover it, the key piece of information that would open him up, displaying his faults for her to peruse.
The glass of wine was halfway gone, and she could feel the chicken and the rich sauce starting to counteract the heady alcohol feeling. Thomas had come along when she was a wreck, on the edge of losing her job after another messy breakup, an ex who decided it was a good idea to bed his intern in the apartment they shared. She had treated him abominably after they were matched up by chubby Jean, not returning his calls and cancelling plans without notice, but Thomas persevered, and eventually she saw the enormous kindness of him, allowing him into her life full time two years ago.
They did all the ritual visits, Thanksgiving and Christmas and holiday weekends and weddings and funerals. It was one of the first steps, she knew, feeling Thomas beginning to be integrated into her own family and her into his. She remembered clearly her mother's face, disappointed when they had not come home to announce an engagement, and the way she snuck in a message, scraping a Thanksgiving dish beside Stacy while Thomas watched football with her father in the other room. "He's a good man," she said in a low tone, traces of Ireland around the edges of her voice. "They don't grow on trees."
So what was she waiting for? What was this hesitancy, this voice telling her "no," "wait," "don't," "you can't?" She knew there were plenty of lesser men out there. Was this just cold feet, an inability to concieve of an entire lifetime with just one person, no matter how flawless? What was the problem? She took another sip of her wine. She looked into Thomas' eyes, holding his gaze. Was she really ready to spend decades with that face, raise children with him, never make a plan or an appointment without consulting him?
She looked down, staring at the way her thighs strained against the fabric of the dress. The truth was, Stacy told herself, that she needed urgency. Every relationship she had ever had had been one of need, of possession. She had to be obsessed, to want to consume, to be unable to bear being separated. She required this quickening of her heart rate, the out of control sense of a car chase in an action movie, to feel alive, and this feeling, this dark sweetness, was the farthest thing from her mind when gentle, sweet Thomas held her hand shyly on the couch after dinner.
"Stacy?," Thomas said. Stacy's glass still had a swallow of wine lingering at the bottom. Her stomach plunged when she registered the look on his face. Too late, she thought. She closed her eyes slightly. Stacy thought about draining the glass, sucking it back, standing up, telling him in a controlled fury that they were going too fast, that she couldn't settle down, that she wasn't prepared, that she never wanted to be anybody's other half. She thought about how painful it would be for him, how deeply she would cry on the way home, but how she would also feel the freedom, she was sure, of someone making a jailbreak.
She opened her eyes and stared for a moment. His chair was empty, and she had trouble registering it for a moment. Where had he gone? She thought about it for a moment, then suddenly registered a crowd over her left shoulder. The maitre d was back, holding a deep black bottle with gold lettering on it, and behind him were a few black clad servers, all looking at her expectantly. She was about to say, "What?," when she saw Thomas out of the corner of her eye, on one knee, looking up at her, one hand behind his back.
"Will you marry me?," he asked.
Stacy swallowed, and closed her eyes for another second.
"Of course I will," she said softly, and the champagne was opened, and there was extended, polite clapping from the staff and neighboring tables. She stood up, pulling her dress down over herself, and they embraced beside the table, Thomas pulling her in for a long kiss, and a long, slow squeeze.. Stacy felt herself starting to tear up, and she buried her face in his neck, his strong, muscular neck that smelled like oak trees and sweat, and she repeated the phrase again and again. "Of course I will, Thomas, of course I will, of course I will," she said into his neck, "of course I will," and she cried a little bit, and she hoped she was telling the truth.
Friday, June 08, 2012
Terrible Minds Challenge: Purple Toenails
Sir Charles of Wendig issues his customary challenge this week for his penmonkeys to choose one of eight settings. I chose "Aisle Nine", and this story is called "Purple Toenails".
Alexa was tagging, going down the long aisles of Fresh Food Markets Co. Inc. LLC and taking off yellow stickers that indicated last week's sale prices, replacing them with blue ones that indicated this week's. Alexa didn't feel well, and the work was pointless and stupid, but she went to work because she had to, in order to keep herself alive. She had experienced bad moods before, but this one was a beaut, a gray blanket of nothing that had coated her life for the last month, refusing to lift.
Alexa was changing prices on a whole row of soups- cream of mushroom, bean, tomato, Italian wedding, and she groaned softly when she straightened up. She used to run every day, but it was now just easier to stay in bed, waiting until the last possible second before getting up to shower and change into the khaki pants and blue shirt and overbright name tag that marked her status. She stared up at the rows of flourescent bulbs that ran across the ceiling. One bulb above her head flickered to black, then shone brightly again, like it had changed its mind about burning out. .
Alexa was taller than most people she knew, and it felt good to arch her back now and reach up high, scanning the tags above her shoulders. It was nice to feel her blue shirt grow taut across her chest as she reached, the top gapping slightly in the back where her pants dipped down. She felt the cool air of the store on the suddenly bare skin of her lower back. She secretly hoped someone was checking her out, although she always felt revolted when someone actually was. Even her mother, sniffing around at the first hint of potential grandchildren, had stopped asking her about her love life, which was a relief because she had nothing to tell.
Alexa didn't want to work here for the rest of her life, but as the days slipped by into weeks and months and years, she was starting to grow genuinely frightened that she was going to. It was like that first mistake, not enrolling in even a community college, had now grown and metastasized to cover her entire life. Now she had bills, and rent, and food to buy, and a few single friends who depended on her to join the wolfpack on Friday nights, and suddenly she couldn't see any other way forward but the same path she was on.
A customer came around the corner as Alexa was marking the final variety of linguini that was on special. She had waves of brilliant red hair and a beautiful tan dress with a print of green and brown leaves on it. She was visibly, hugely pregnant, her midsection taut and hard like she was stealing watermelons, and she was walking in that way expectant women do, walking around her stomach. Alexa registered the woman's wedding ring, pasting an automatic smile on her own face in case she asked for help, but her eyes kept jumping back to that hard belly, the way the dress was plastered against it, then dropping away loosely at the bottom. A signal passed between them, but Alexa couldn't read it. Did the woman need help? Or was she just grateful that it was only the two of them in this narrow aisle?
Alexa had a couple of friends who were pregnant, and she hated what it did to them. They had no sense of humor anymore, and they were super emotional, like they had the world's worst PMS, and they had it all the damn time. They were so obvious, so blatant, the way they swelled up so huge, as if they were trying to say, look what I did, as if any 16 year old with a couch and 15 minutes and a boy couldn't have done the same thing. Alexa watched her walk, studying the woman as she looked at the different varieties of Shake and Bake. She looked decisive, calm, everything sharp and clear as she took a Southwestern flavor box from the shelf, bending with difficulty to lower it into her cart.
Alexa thought about rushing over to help, but that might seem insulting. Alexa looked down at the woman's toes, which poked out of her sandals, a bright, luminous purple. She couldn't possibly do that herself, Alexa thought. There's no way she could reach, as big as she was. Alexa thought about the woman's husband, probably a dark haired, rakishly handsome lawyer, tenderly painting the woman's toenails, and she felt herself beginning to cry. She didn't want to cry because she wanted someone in her life who would do that, although she did, she wanted to cry because she couldn't believe anyone could care about anyone that much.
Thursday, June 07, 2012
100 Word Challenge: "Your Call Cannot Be Completed As Dialed"
Our friend Velvet, who has as many NBA Championships as LeBron James, has given us "slumber" for our word this week. This is called "Your Call Cannot Be Completed As Dialed"
"You should show enthusiasm," they said during her training, "making callers feel like you are delighted to help them." I'm a woman, Cindy thought. Faking enthusiasm shouldn't be a problem.
"EZ Slumber, where our low prices help you save while you sleep, this is Cindy, how can I help you?"
"Go get Donald. This is his wife," a woman's voice said sternly. Cindy didn't know red faced Donald was married. Cindy thought about the way he liked to stand behind her, looking down her shirt as she worked.
"Please hold," she said pleasantly, disconnecting the call.
"You should show enthusiasm," they said during her training, "making callers feel like you are delighted to help them." I'm a woman, Cindy thought. Faking enthusiasm shouldn't be a problem.
"EZ Slumber, where our low prices help you save while you sleep, this is Cindy, how can I help you?"
"Go get Donald. This is his wife," a woman's voice said sternly. Cindy didn't know red faced Donald was married. Cindy thought about the way he liked to stand behind her, looking down her shirt as she worked.
"Please hold," she said pleasantly, disconnecting the call.
Monday, May 28, 2012
100 Word Song: "Belly"
Say what you will about Leeroy and his carbon based pal Lance , they sure do broaden one's musical horizons. This week's song is called "Within Me" by Lacuna Coil, and I call this story "Belly".
I had snuggled up with him as he half dozed on the couch. His hand circled my waist.
"Such a cute tummy," he said sleepily.
"You mean my gut?," I asked.
"Don't call it that," he said.
He was so simple. He never really understood me. He had no idea how that ball of flesh tormented me. It settled in around age 14 and never entirely left. I imagined cutting it out, fleshy, white and red and raw, and setting it before him, with blood running down my legs.
"It's mine. I'll call it what I want."
"Such a cute tummy," he said sleepily.
"You mean my gut?," I asked.
"Don't call it that," he said.
He was so simple. He never really understood me. He had no idea how that ball of flesh tormented me. It settled in around age 14 and never entirely left. I imagined cutting it out, fleshy, white and red and raw, and setting it before him, with blood running down my legs.
"It's mine. I'll call it what I want."
Terrible Minds Challenge: "A Toast Shouts"
Chuck Wendig, majordomo of all things Terribly Minded, issues a rather random challenge this week. Given a random sentence generated from a random sentence generator located here, use it as the first or last sentence of your 1000 word tale. My sentence was "A toast shouts," and this is called "A Toast Shouts".
We were all sitting there, mute and itchy in unfamiliar clothes and wobbly shoes. I was at an age where I knew where this went. Sit quietly, smile a lot, pick at your food, and then, once pictures are taken and the rituals performed, go find your flip flops and do whatever you wanted. All you were was a Barbie doll, dressed up to appear as an ornament. Like one of Beyonce's dancers, or a chorus girl in an old show. Just a backdrop.
The best man was speaking now, a friend of Kenneth's from college. I knew him distantly. I knew them all distantly, to be honest. I was Emily's roommate freshman and sophomore year, and then we drifted in different directions. These things happen. I knew a few of the other bridesmaids- Emily's little sister Caitlin, tall, blond Shannon, who edited the student newspaper, and the social butterfly, the maid of honor, dark, vivacious Chloe. I sat there, just another pretty maid in a row.
The room looked like a Greek temple- or what I imagined a Greek temple would look like. We certainly were engaged in a ritual here. Costumed, perfumed, and pretending- everyone in their role. Everyone secretly thinking their thoughts about the bride and groom. "She doesn't deserve him." "He doesn't deserve her." "That dress is hideous." "I wish she were marrying me." "I wish he were marrying me." "I can't wait to start drinking." We all have secrets, and we all smile like we don't know anything.
I still wasn't listening to Kenneth's friend. I shifted my weight from one side to the other, uncrossing my legs and crossing them again. One foot now screamed with relief while the other began to suffer, all the weight now on that tiny spike, the burr of pain underneath my heel. He was going on and on about how he never expected Kenny to settle down, on what a wild man he was. He then slid neatly into the standard rap about how different he was, how he had settled down now. You could slide this clown out, slide in any one of a half dozen best men speeches I had heard over the last couple of summers. Same words, different face.
Kenneth was indeed quite the Lothario in our student days. I didn't fall prey to his charms, but many did, and more than one late night visit to the Health Center followed his conquests. We all knew who he was, how he worked. We all hated him, the way he used us up and moved on, consuming us like Fritos, and we all secretly wanted him to turn his gaze on us, to be that desired. He was a beautiful man, tall and dark with abs of steel and a Superman curl that fell into his eyes, and if he looked at you, you were beautiful too.
The best man didn't know about Kenneth, his eyes bleary with drink, cornering me after the rehearsal dinner. He didn't know about how he backed me into an alcove, one where a phone booth used to be. He didn't know about the way Kenneth yanked up my dress, and the way I gasped and let him, the way I knew what I was doing, what he did, what I was letting him do, kissing my neck, probing for my weak spots, the way I knew it was wrong, and I didn't care. It wasn't even that I was in a dry spell, although I certainly was, it was about the way the spotlight of his attention was on you, and for a moment, you cared for nothing else except for how to make it stay. Kenneth's best friend didn't know about the way the rain was falling as I walked to my car afterwards, how I took off my shoes and walked on the pebbles, soaking my hair and my two hundred dollar dress.
Kenneth's best man, now winding his speech up with more platitudes, piling false sentiment onto fake praise, didn't know the way a toast says nothing, and he didn't know the way, sometimes, a toast shouts. A toast shouts.
We were all sitting there, mute and itchy in unfamiliar clothes and wobbly shoes. I was at an age where I knew where this went. Sit quietly, smile a lot, pick at your food, and then, once pictures are taken and the rituals performed, go find your flip flops and do whatever you wanted. All you were was a Barbie doll, dressed up to appear as an ornament. Like one of Beyonce's dancers, or a chorus girl in an old show. Just a backdrop.
The best man was speaking now, a friend of Kenneth's from college. I knew him distantly. I knew them all distantly, to be honest. I was Emily's roommate freshman and sophomore year, and then we drifted in different directions. These things happen. I knew a few of the other bridesmaids- Emily's little sister Caitlin, tall, blond Shannon, who edited the student newspaper, and the social butterfly, the maid of honor, dark, vivacious Chloe. I sat there, just another pretty maid in a row.
The room looked like a Greek temple- or what I imagined a Greek temple would look like. We certainly were engaged in a ritual here. Costumed, perfumed, and pretending- everyone in their role. Everyone secretly thinking their thoughts about the bride and groom. "She doesn't deserve him." "He doesn't deserve her." "That dress is hideous." "I wish she were marrying me." "I wish he were marrying me." "I can't wait to start drinking." We all have secrets, and we all smile like we don't know anything.
I still wasn't listening to Kenneth's friend. I shifted my weight from one side to the other, uncrossing my legs and crossing them again. One foot now screamed with relief while the other began to suffer, all the weight now on that tiny spike, the burr of pain underneath my heel. He was going on and on about how he never expected Kenny to settle down, on what a wild man he was. He then slid neatly into the standard rap about how different he was, how he had settled down now. You could slide this clown out, slide in any one of a half dozen best men speeches I had heard over the last couple of summers. Same words, different face.
Kenneth was indeed quite the Lothario in our student days. I didn't fall prey to his charms, but many did, and more than one late night visit to the Health Center followed his conquests. We all knew who he was, how he worked. We all hated him, the way he used us up and moved on, consuming us like Fritos, and we all secretly wanted him to turn his gaze on us, to be that desired. He was a beautiful man, tall and dark with abs of steel and a Superman curl that fell into his eyes, and if he looked at you, you were beautiful too.
The best man didn't know about Kenneth, his eyes bleary with drink, cornering me after the rehearsal dinner. He didn't know about how he backed me into an alcove, one where a phone booth used to be. He didn't know about the way Kenneth yanked up my dress, and the way I gasped and let him, the way I knew what I was doing, what he did, what I was letting him do, kissing my neck, probing for my weak spots, the way I knew it was wrong, and I didn't care. It wasn't even that I was in a dry spell, although I certainly was, it was about the way the spotlight of his attention was on you, and for a moment, you cared for nothing else except for how to make it stay. Kenneth's best friend didn't know about the way the rain was falling as I walked to my car afterwards, how I took off my shoes and walked on the pebbles, soaking my hair and my two hundred dollar dress.
Kenneth's best man, now winding his speech up with more platitudes, piling false sentiment onto fake praise, didn't know the way a toast says nothing, and he didn't know the way, sometimes, a toast shouts. A toast shouts.
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