Scriptic Prompt Exchange: "Storm Front Coming"

[For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Jester Queen gave me this prompt: "The shutters slapped against the house with every gust of wind, and I felt the house watching me. This was alone. This was bad." I gave kgwaite this prompt: " 'The thing about life that gets me crazy is that by the time you learn it all, it's too late to deal with it.' -Ozzy Osbourne"]

{Author's Note: I feel once again moved to note that what follows is foofaraw and nonsense. I also feel obligated to point out that I disassembled the quote I was given, sprinkling it throughout. Feel free to look.}










I woke up early. This was normal. I slept when I was tired, and I woke up when my brain decided it was tired of sleeping. The morning sun was occluded by hard, scudding gray clouds that rushed by like they had somewhere else to be. So there was light, but a gray light that had bad intentions. I looked at it for a moment, then turned on the couch and put my bare feet on the floor. No use in waiting any longer.

My son had insisted that I have a television, partially to assuage his Internet fueled ADD when he came to visit, but nominally so that I would have easy access to weather reports. I really didn't have any need for them. I walked everywhere, and if it rained, I sought shelter and sketched or wrote or read until it got calm enough for me to resume my travels. Or, I just got wet. But my son and his pretty wife insisted, and I could never say no to a pretty face. So I let him buy it and install it. It was easier than arguing with them.

I grabbed the remote and flicked the set on. I kept it on NBC, mostly because I had a crush on the morning news lady. Once in a while I would flip around, looking for a movie or a ballgame, but it generally stayed silent. I sometimes considered hurling the thing into the ocean, but I didn't want to do that to the fish. Sometimes you needed noise, though, even artificial, annoying noise, so I turned it on to keep me company while I decided on breakfast.

My crush was on, her brown face filling the screen, her dark eyes round and serious. I saw the colored crawl at the bottom of the screen. It was listing counties and locations, blank, featureless capitals describing potential wind speeds, areas of damage, counties that should evacuate, counties that were being forced to do so. I knew the storm was coming- you didn't live somewhere for too long without learning where the weather came from, and where it generally went afterwards. I knew it was going to be bad, that much was clear from the preparations that were being made in town, and the increasingly frantic calls from my son and his wife.

I went to the refrigerator, removing one of the bottles of water I had prepared, and took out a half sandwich from last night. I added some mustard to the sandwich and ate it, chewing slowly over a paper towel as my girlfriend continued talking about directions and wind speeds and timelines, standing next to a blonde meterologist who was much taller than she was. They kept cutting to the satellite imagery, the stutter step march of clouds whipping around that tight, perfect circle at the center. I knew the more beautiful they looked, the more terrifying they were. Just like women, I thought, stifling a chuckle and almost choking on the sandwich.

I remembered the old joke that hurricanes were just like women in another way- they were wet and wild and when they left, half your stuff was gone. It was a mildly crude joke, meant to represent divorce, I assumed, but it didn't apply to me. The only thing I had left when my wife left, cruelly stolen by breast cancer right before she turned 50, was this house and a round hole where my optimism used to be. The news took a break for an auto dealer making outrageous promises, followed by a politician doing the same. I thought about shutting it off as I finished the sandwich and crumpled up the towel, but I reflected that my girlfriend would be back on soon, and with that storm bearing down on our little island the way it was, the power would be out soon anyway.

The police had been by last night, telling each house in turn that they strongly recommended evacuating. The pair that came to my house were Ellie, a pug nosed little Latina, and John Martin, I listened to what they had to say, calmly refusing their offer of a ride off the island into a shelter. "There's water, and food, and a nice clean cot," Ellie offered. "You can sit there and write and read and nap to your heart's content." I thanked them both kindly, declining again and letting them go, shutting the door on Martin's puzzled face. Martin was fresh out of the Academy, drunk on power and not used to being told "no".

I was staring out the kitchen window, watching the racing clouds and listening to the rain, which was starting slowly, but already being whipped by the wind into stinging pellets. There was a knock at the door. I went over and opened it.

It was Chloe, the startlingly pretty young wife of Andrew, the hotshot stockbroker who lived next door. They had a young girl, Emily, who would always wave when I walked by her on the beach, and given the way Chloe's soft cotton dress bulged in the middle, there would soon be another mouth to feed. I hoped Andrew was doing well, because I didn't envy anyone paying for the cost of two weddings.

"Mr. Johnson?" The rain was already starting to pepper her hair and make her dress cling to her strong legs.

"I told you, Chloe, Steven is fine."

"Andrew wants to make sure you won't come with us. He feels terrible about leaving you behind. I do, too. This was...this is...alone. This is bad. " I never really liked the guy, partially atavistic jealousy because his wife was cute, partially dislike of what he did for a living. He was always perfectly kind to me, though. I should really learn to get over myself.

"That's very nice of you. Both of you. I appreciate it. But I'm fine."

"You won't come with us? There's room. Andrew got a suite, about 100 miles inland." There was. They drove a Land Rover, some gas swilling monstrosity that could probably seat a whole hockey team. But I couldn't imagine being that near her for that long. She was young enough to be my daughter, but I was old, not dead. Yet.  

"That's sweet of you to offer. But no."

"You're sure?," Chloe said, shifting her weight onto her other hip. She was already starting to carry herself differently, fatigue drawing lines on her face even at this early stage. I marveled at how anyone can, knowing how it feels, voluntarily go through all that again.

"I'm positive. Thank you."

"Be safe, Mr. Johnson."

"I will, Chloe. Thank you for your concern." She walked away, waddling slightly, tossing her wet blond hair out of her eyes. I watched her get into the giant truck and leave, staring at the brake lights until they went out of sight. Behind me, my cell phone, another purchase my son insisted on, buzzed incessantly. I ignored it. It was either my son, or my nephew, or someone else calling to ensure I had gotten to high ground. I could lie to them, or I could just ignore it, claiming I had forgotten to turn it on.

I heard a first serious gust, water like bullets against the glass, then pouring more steadily. Outside, the grinding wheels of a police SUV over the sand that had blown onto the road. They were making announcements over the hailer, telling us all that the evacuation was now mandatory. The wind carried away the rest of the words, but I knew what they meant. You were on your own. If you somehow managed to call for help, the authorities felt no obligation to respond until the storm was over.

I looked at the screen again, the blonde meteorologist now alone in front of the map, pointing out places where she hoped everyone was out, because the damage was going to be severe. Her manicured fingernails brushed over my island, describing gusts over 100 miles per hour for the next several hours. I watched her teeter on her heels, seeing the seriousness on her face but also a tiny, buried thrill. On some level, she loved weather events, because she was the center of the story, and tall blondes, while they claimed to hate it, loved being the center of anything.

There was a gust, and a rolling clap of thunder, and the power went out, cutting off the blonde in midsentence. Saves me doing it, I thought.

I had packed a bag already- all it needed was a couple of the cold bottles of water, and I would be OK for a day or two. If I couldn't find help by then, I wasn't going to make it anyway. I kept a notebook and pens in there, along with a couple of paperbacks, locked away tight in a plastic case to further protect them from the elements. Some energy bars and a pocketknife, and I had cash, and a flashlight with fresh batteries.

It's suicide to stay on the islands, the blonde had said. She didn't have it quite right, at least not in my case. I couldn't expect her to. She was speaking to maybe 3 or 4 million people in the metropolitan area, not just to me, and she would probably assume, like many people, that if someone was dumb enough to stay here, after having multiple chances to leave, they deserved what they got. She probably had a nice life, full of cocktail parties and fine dining, and she couldn't imagine sacrificing it. She was probably 27, and she had that luxury. The luxury of good looks and a fat paycheck and a future as long and beautiful as her legs and her five hundred dollar shoes.

I thought about Chloe and Andrew and Emily, probably queueing for the bridge, Emily looking fearfully at the wind and the rain. Chloe was probably talking to her brightly, her voice high and cheery, talking about all the fun they were going to have at the hotel. Andrew sure and confident, cursing the slowness of the traffic but knowing he had matters under control. He didn't. No one did, but in order to be him, he had to believe that he did.

It wasn't suicide that made me stay. It wasn't a misplaced pride in the house's quality. It had withstood some bad storms, but the last Category Five that hit this area was long before this place was built. It wasn't stubbornness- I was stubborn, certainly, refusing as much truck with the rest of the world as I could possibly manage to avoid. "A man is rich," I said under my breath, "in proportion to the number of things he can afford to let alone." Thoreau. I was stubborn, but it wasn't stubbornness that kept me here.  

It was a fatigue. Not just a physical fatigue, although that was part of it. No matter how much I slept, and I slept every minute my brain would let me, I was always a little tired. It was more a spiritual fatigue, a mental fatigue. I was tired of it, all of it. Family obligations, social obligations, physical obligations. I didn't want to do myself in- that was an act with ramifications, something that would fill my families with questions and guilt. I just wanted to bare my breast, metaphorically, to the universe. Here, take a shot. You want me? Here I am.

If the universe didn't want me, I'd keep going. I had plenty of money. There were still books I hadn't read. I never finished all of Tolstoy, the way I said I would. Maybe I would write another book. I wasn't averse to going on, necessarily. I just wasn't eager about it. Maybe some widow would take pity on a foolish old man with no hair. Maybe my son and his wife would have a grandchild. The wind blew more steadily, with gusts that made the building shake and shiver in ways it never had. The rain was pelting down. I had been out in rain like that before, and it was no fun. If the house did implode, I was going to get awfully uncomfortable. But I had been uncomfortable before.

People would miss me. At least, I hoped so. But I knew there wasn't any real use for me anywhere. I felt like I had done my part, and it was time. Lightning flashed, and there was an immediate boom of thunder. I remembered the old saying- that meant it was right on top of me. People don't want you. They might want you to do something, but when it comes down to it, people don't need you around. They have their own lives, their own problems. I felt distant, outside of myself like I was watching myself get assaulted by the storm.

I thought about reading, but instead, I just turned and looked out the window. The wind was pounding so furiously you could hardly see. Somewhere down the hill, the ocean, chopped into froth by the insistent wind, was probably surging closer. That wouldn't be a terrible fate, I thought, washed out to sea, eventually becoming fish food. Circle of life, all that. I had consumed, and consumed, and taken more than my share of resources from the world. I had done what I could, and now it was time to be consumed in turn. 'Twas ever thus.

I was at peace. Either it would happen or it wouldn't. Just like everything else.

The shutters slapped against the house with every gust of wind, and I felt the house watching me, telling me I shouldn't be here.  The house seemed to be yielding to the weather, this storm finally being the one stress it couldn't handle. The house was swaying, buckling, ready to go over, timbers smashed to kindling, becoming part of the ecosystem again. I understood how it felt.

Flash Fiction Friday: "All You Are Is All You Are"

The fine folks at Flash Fiction Friday have gifted personkind with many things, not least of which is a flash fiction challenge, this week involving hidden treasures, whether blessings or curses. This story is called "All You Are Is All You Are".










Andrea Price was right on time. They usually were. Some were treasure hunters, others history nuts or real estate speculators, and still others eager, fresh faced grad students, but whoever it was, she demanded they call ahead and set up an appointment. Cornelia Knight knew it made her seem eccentric and uptight, an old biddy holding fast to the old days, but it was her house, her rules.

The Knights had built this house, old Titus Andronicus Knight building it shortly before the war of 1812, on the side of a hill about 30 miles south of where the battle of Manassas would break out a half century later. It had been finished and refinished, admitted to the modern age with better plumbing and electrical systems, and later with cable TV and WiFi, but it was still, fundamentally, the same house that had been put together by hand when America was more a new idea than a globe straddling colossus.

Cornelia heard the door of Price's rental car shut, and the mild, soft crunching sound as she walked towards the front door. Cornelia stood up slowly, feeling all of her years in her knees and hips, arranging the folds of her cotton dress across her thighs. The doorbell rang, and she walked across the room, opening the solid, dark front door. The girl was there, dirty blonde hair pulled back into a ragged ponytail, tight denim shorts, black basketball sneakers and an oversized white shirt.

"Mrs. Knight? I'm Andrea Price. We talked on the phone yesterday?" Her voice was even and serious. Cornelia tried to imagine the girl being playful, but she had difficulty. Something in her manner implied emotionless competence. Andrea Price would be an excellent coworker, but she wouldn't give a flirt the least satisfaction.

"Of course, dear. Come right in and have a seat." Andrea walked in, looking briefly at the living room wall, where Cordelia had left up her late husband's decorations, things like a captured Confederate sword, framed duty rosters and Confederate money, and several oil paintings of Titus. Cornelia watched Andrea gaze at the history, holding a three ring binder under one arm. Cornelia could see the younger woman looking at each item in turn, carefully examining them, like a good scientist, noticing everything without comment.

"Would you like some tea, dear? I've just put the kettle on. Or we can go right downstairs and see it, if you're in a hurry."

The younger woman took a moment to answer, as if she was lost in thought. "Tea? Tea would be fine. I have something to show you, actually."

"You do? Fascinating. Well, come into the kitchen, sweetheart, and we can sit and chat." This was nothing new. Occasionally, some bright university person would rush up here, full of vigor and sure that this old lady had no idea what she was sleeping on top of. Cornelia was able to set them straight. Every adult Knight was able to recite the family lore by heart.

"Certainly."

Andrea sat down, looking at the flowers at the center of the table. "My mother always said," Cornelia said, pouring hot water into two cups with tea bags in them, "no matter how bad things get, you can always afford fresh flowers. I buy new ones once a week." Cornelia brought the cups to the table, then brought cream and a bowl with some cut lemon wedges and set them down.

"Have you heard the story of this house already, dear?" Family lore went that Titus Knight II, the son of the builder of the house, with his own son's birth due any day, decided he could no longer countenance treating some humans differently from others, and started hiding slaves on their way North, joining up with the Underground Railroad. The story went that the neighbors didn't appreciate Titus' stance, and he had to use his musket more than once to dissuade those who disagreed. They continued doing it until a Confederate cavalry unit learned of the house's role, and threatened to burn it down if they continued. Titus I, standing tall at nearly 70, told the commander to his face that they would order his family around over his dead body, and the commander drew his sword and obliged him. After that, and since the hiding place was no longer secret, the basement and the tunnel fell into disrepair.

"Oh yes, ma'am," Andrea said quickly. "I was here two years ago with Professor Landstone." Cornelia remembered him, a very sharp dresser with an upper class British accent that she adored listening to.

"So what do you have to tell me?"

Andrea opened the binder and began turning pages. "Well, ma'am, there was a find. An estate sale in Taos, New Mexico, and there was this chest filled with papers. Fortunately, the guy who bought it was an amateur historian, so he called the right people and the papers got protected and catalogued properly. Scans of them are all posted on the web."

"What was on the papers, hun?," Cornelia said, sipping her tea carefully.

"Well, ma'am," Andrea said, swallowing and tucking some stray hair behind her ear. "The papers were all from the CSA archives. Second copies of a lot of things we already had, but also journals and diary pages and ledgers that we hadn't seen. One of them involved a unit that was around these hills around the time your ancestor, Titus, was killed."

"The story is it was the Second Virginia. But we never knew."

"Well, we're pretty sure now, ma'am," Andrea said. "There were letters, and diaries, and a lot of things we thought were true we can now pretty much prove. And one thing we had no idea about. Titus' son, your...great grandfather?"

"Two greats. Great great grandfather in law."

"Yes, well....Titus sold out the Railroad. To the Confederates."

"Sold out? What do you mean?" Cornelia's voice sounded tight.

"He was in debt to a couple of members of the unit. They had been playing poker in the front room here, and Titus II lost, and lost big. So he told the unit about the Underground Railroad, in order to get his debts forgiven, and they caught the next couple of groups that came through. Then the Railroad stopped using it."

"And his father?"

"That's unclear," the younger woman said. "It may have been just an unfortunate side effect."

Cornelia drew in a deep breath. "How do you know?"

"A letter from the unit commander telling the story. A second letter telling the same story from another member of the unit. And a ledger entry involving the commander being rewarded with 5 silver dollars for cutting off that branch of the Railroad."

"So you're sure."

"As sure as we can be about events that happened 150 years ago," Andrea said. She sipped her tea. "I'm sorry to have to be the one that tells you."

"Not as sorry as I am. How old are you, dear?," Cordelia asked.

"24," Andrea said.

"You're not married?"

"No," Andrea said.

"No kids?"

"No."

"Brothers? Sisters?"

"Only child," Andrea said.

"I'm turning 72 next month, dear. 72 years. Three times longer than you. Members of my husband's family have lived here since the Madison Administration. I have four kids, 14 grandkids, and a great grandchild due to be born this fall. You have no idea what it is like to have a lineage. To have a bloodline that is yours. It's all you are, really. And I won't have it tarnished. I will not allow the Knights to believe they come from dishonorable men. I forbid you to publish this."

"Ma'am, with all due respect. It's history."

Cornelia looked at the younger woman hard. "I forbid it. If word of this appears anywhere, you will hear from my attorney."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Knight. But you can't do that."

"Get out," Cornelia said coldly, and the younger woman did, folding up her notebook and making her way to the front door alone. Cornelia kept staring into the space where Andrea used to be, wishing she had never come, watching the girl's tea cool, and trying to erase 72 years of lies.

Scriptic Prompt Exchange: "To Live Is To Die"

[For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Tara Roberts gave me this prompt: ' In memory of Nora Ephron: “I always read the last page of a book first so that if I die before I finish I'll know how it turned out.” How would the last page of your life story read?. ' I gave Grace O'Malley this prompt:' ​"The history of my life is the history of the struggle between an overwhelming urge to write and a combination of circumstances bent on keeping me from it." -F.Scott Fitzgerald ']




{Author's Note: I really wasn't sure how I wanted to take this on. I've stopped really writing about myself, mostly because I am frightfully boring. (The caveat being, of course, as Bono reminds us, "every artist is a cannibal, every poet is a thief.") So I warn audiences far and near that what follows is fiction. Nonsense. Hooey and applesauce. A tale told by a fool, signifying nothing.}









I always snicker inwardly when one of the staff lean over me. "Patterson Rehab and Living Center" is sewn in archaic script above the left breast of the shirts the staff wear, and I am neither capable of being rehabbed, nor of doing very much living. It was a nothing joke, a throwaway line, but my wife would have chuckled, probably shaking her head as she looked down, if she had heard it.  I probably told her thousands of jokes over the years- remembered gags from standups, stupid "three x walk into a bar" stories, puns and double entendres. We could always make each other laugh.

She's gone now. Three and a half years ago, Christmas Eve night. How's that for a joke? Wrap the presents, go outside for a final, frigid cigarette before bed, and slip and fall on the ice, never to wake up again. She would appreciate the irony of that- a death worthy of the master of satire, Kurt Vonnegut himself. Try to kill yourself with cigarettes for decades, and expire because of a slip and fall.

I wandered around for a while after that, dumbfounded. I always told her I would survive if she wasn't around, and I did. But I was awfully bad at it. Without adult supervision, men fall into patterns, usually static, stupid ones. Or I did, at least. I ate too much, stopped exercising, stopped caring. 6 months after that I collapsed in a heap getting the mail at the end of the driveway. They told me that a UPS man called 911, and I've been in the hands of the medical industrial complex ever since.

Fortunately, they still talk to me. I guess it's a medical ethics thing- they continue to explain the procedures, where I'm going, what they're about to do. I can't move a muscle- a phrase that never meant more to me until the last 12 months or so. I can't blink, or smile, or twitch an arm or a leg. Not a thing. Absolutely no communication with anyone. They've done CAT scans, MRIs, all sorts of tests, and apparently they see so much brain activity they don't dare shut me off. But I'm fed through tubes, I evacuate through tubes, everything is done for me by an endless stream of  women. Tall ones, short ones, round ones, flat ones, white, brown, and black ones. My wife would have laughed at that. "Finally, your dream scenario," she'd say. "Being waited on hand and foot by young women. Literally."

I've given up worrying or getting angry. Even if I allowed myself emotions like that, how would I display them? I spent the entire first month, in between bouts of sleep, raging at my confinement, willing a finger or a toe or an eyelash to move, flicker, something. Let me speak, let me communicate, let me live, for heaven's sake. Let me ask if the Dodgers won, tell me Steven Strasburg's win total, something. But eventually calm fell over me. Resignation, really. Whatever kind of stroke this was, it had severed my motor control as surely as a puppet slumps when you cut its strings.

I was awakened by the familiar sounds of an aide coming in to check on me. I knew from my years in the industry that one of the things they tried to do was check in on each person every 8 hours- touch them, talk to them, take their vital signs. It was a way to prove that everyone was being watched, and it was, ideally, a way to make sure you caught problems before they blossomed into major issues. But it was the sort of practice I felt sure that, big companies being what they are, if they didn't have to do it, they wouldn't.

I knew it was dark out. Since I couldn't turn my head and I couldn't eat, time didn't have much concrete meaning any more. I just knew I was aware of it being light, and then, later, I was aware of it being dark. I could tell from the way the shadows played across the industrial lights that were my constant companion. The aide's face swam into my vision, a red haired girl I hadn't seen before that I could remember.

"Hello, there. How are you...um, tonight? I'm sorry. I'm new here. I don't know why they make us do this, because I don't even know if you can hear me or anything. Or if you can understand me. Maybe it's like house plants, maybe talking to people makes them healthier? I don't know."

I felt my field of vision shift. I knew logically she was tilting me to one side so she could check for bed sores or other skin issues. "I shouldn't say that. You're not a plant. I'm sorry." I couldnt feel what she was doing. "But at least you're a good listener. That's more than I can say for most men I know." My vision changed again, back to the typical view of the overhead light again. Her hands came up to my face. She had manicured nails, but short ones. I figured her work pretty much demanded that.

"You look like my ex. Older, but you have the same kind of face." She had blooms of red on her cheeks, which were otherwise porcelain white. Her eyes were bright blue. I could see thick red hair pulled back tight. When she bent low, I could see tan bra straps and a tiny gold cross. "I wish you could talk, at least. I really need someone to talk to. Everyone here is like 50. Nobody understands what it's like."

My field of vision shifted again, and I realized she was tilting me the other way. "You're practically the only guy here. Most people here are women, and nobody even close to my age." She paused. I could hear her swallow. "I guess I can tell you, right? It's not like you can tell anybody. He wants to get back together. My ex. We fight all the time, and sometimes...well, we fight a lot. It gets bad."

My vision shifted, and I was looking at the ceiling again. She was looking at me, her hands near my wrist. Pulse, I assumed. She was quiet. She had a womanly body, the kind of woman who usually gains weight after giving birth. Thick hips and thighs, busty, well built. Weighty. Fertile. Solid. I looked at the cross around her neck, and I ached to touch her, to feel the warmth of her hands, to watch her blush when I complimented her. She stopped, moved closer to my head, and thus, out of view.

"But who else am I going to get?," she continued. "I'm not pretty, I'm not rich, I'm not anything. I'm not going to find a man any better than him. And he will get better. I think, once he calms down, he'll be fine. When I finish school and stuff, he won't be so mad all the time. And, well, it's not just the two of us anymore. Or, it won't be. So I've got to take him back, now. I know he'll find a job soon. And then another year I'll be done with school. Maybe a year and a half. I'll probably have to take some time off. It will work out. It's got to."

She came back into my field of view. I could see what she meant now- the swelling that made her top tight across the middle was more than just beer and nachos. "Well, anyhow, on to the next room. Thanks for, um, listening, I guess. Bye!" She faded from view, walking out and around the corner, and I heard her voice, high and chipper and cheerful, echoing from the room next to mine. I looked at the ceiling, the same bank of lights, yearning to cry out, begging her to come back, urging my arm to move. But I made no sound, and I didn't move, and my brain chewed on itself as the room got darker and the Earth, unaware, turned beneath us all.








{Author's Note Addendum: I did very little research and/or thinking about exactly what sort of stroke might cause a disability like this. I'm pretty sure I got it wrong. Apologies to sticklers for detail.}

100 Word Song: "Her Turn"

​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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.