Former presidential candidate Chuck Wendig issues his flash fiction call to arms this week in a saurian vein. All stories must involve dinosaurs. This is called "Doom In The Sky".
Watching a child in a museum crowd reminds me of my days playing high school basketball, when I was taught to use peripheral vision and constantly track both one's opponent and the ball. It's a peculiar routine, tracking exhibits with one eye and a child with another. As my chemistry teacher Mr. Turner always told us, when you're doing two things at once, you're doing one or both of them badly, and I was having trouble noticing any of the displays because I was preoccupied with tracking Dylan's mop of brown hair.
We were stopped in front of a dinosaur display, a giant T. Rex looming over both of us. My sister, pregnant and exhausted, begged me to take my nephew somewhere, anywhere, so I drove into the city to take him to the museum. "And I don't want him coming home with any gifts," she said as we left, but she always said that, and I never listened. Dylan was hard to say no to, and I wasn't inclined to do so in any case.
I knew the T. Rex was a rough approximation of what they actually looked like, steel and plaster and paint constructing a facsimile of a creature that could have stood here 65 million years ago. I remembered reading somewhere that they were probably more tropical beasts, but then again, the climate was different then. I always wondered how aware they really were. They almost certainly operated on a more basic level- just feed, and excrete, and reproduce. Then repeat. I envied the simplicity sometimes.
The crowd swirled and boiled around us- boys chased girls, girls chased boys. Parents gossiped, occasionally pausing to yell a command that wasn't heeded. A slim girl beamed as she held the hand of a rough looking boy, who seemed embarassed but secretly pleased. Young looking museum employees in blue polo shirts walked around aimlessly, preventing outright destruction while privately flirting with one another. It was humanity, caged in, surrounded by the history of everything on the planet.
"I like T. Rex," Dylan declared.
"You do?," I asked. "You're not scared of them?"
"Nope," he said. "Dinosaurs aren't real."
Not any more, they're not. "They aren't real now. But they used to be."
"When?"
How to explain a time span of millions of years to someone who finds it hard to wait from lunch until dinner?
"A long time ago."
"When you were a baby?"
Ouch, kid.
"Longer than that, pal. Before anyone you know was born."
"Wow," he said admiringly. "Like a kabillion years?"
"Yeah, about that."
"Can we go get ice cream?" He shifted gears like nobody's business. Take care of a root need- hunger.
It had to be easier to be a dinosaur, blissfully unaware that your time as master of the planet was short? No appointments, no schedules, no unemployment checks, no worries about your ex girlfriend or your novel that won't sell. Just acting, letting your primordial drives take the wheel. "Just do, don't think," Coach Turner would tell us. How much of my behavior was instinct, my lizard brain still running the show, my genetic heritage cutting through the clutter of society and decorum. I know Richard Dawkins would argue that I was a slave to my genes, acting to protect my nephew so that my genetic heritage, encoded in his tiny cells, would carry on. Even if I was only protecting him from an afternoon of Spongebob reruns.
"Of course we can, buddy. Don't tell Mom, OK?"
"Sure," he agreed. I knew he would tell her anyway, and I knew he would show her whatever trinket or stuffed animal he came home with. He hadn't learned to lie, which made him both endearing and dangerous.
I took his hand, and we walked through the maelstrom, his trust in me innocent and absolute. He knew nothing bad would happen as long as he held on. And nothing would, if I had anything to say about it. There were comets on the way, later on, that would disrupt everything he knew. Things like death, and heartbreak, and sadness; but for now, walking along with me, following the signs for the cafeteria, he was as unaware as a T.Rex, munching away on greenery as doom lights the sky behind him.
Tuesday, May 08, 2012
Tuesday, May 01, 2012
Trifecta Writing Challenge: "To Tell The Truth"
The Trifecta Writing Challenge is going with "thunder" this week. I call this "To Tell The Truth".
We had walked, and sang, and ran, and played outside, and read books, and ate. It was the time of the day where we slow down, not yet ready for bed, but definitely heading that way. You make an effort to say everything slowly and calmly, dimming the lights, sending gentle, subtle signals that it is time to go to sleep. Mommy and Daddy are due home long after bed, and while my nephew seems to have a certain understanding of the events, he still looked around now and then like he wasn't entirely sure.
"What's that sound?," he said. A hot day had evolved into a summer storm, one that couldn't help but be a little frightening. We heard a sharp bang, followed by a slow, rolling rumble and a gust of wind, splattering rain against the window.
"Thunder," I said.
"What's that?" He was at the "what's that" stage- a million questions, one following another, an endless sequence of queries. I gave brief thanks that my own child was long past this phase.
"Just a noise, buddy." I pictured the violent, hot strike of the lightning bolt, shoving the air aside, causing the waves that we processed as sound. It was just a noise, I knew, but it still spoke to one's lizard brain, telling you that you were in danger.
"Scary," he said.
"Yeah, it is," I said. I tried not to lie to him. "But we're OK."
"Are Mommy and Daddy coming home?" His head was resting on my thigh as he stared intently at the TV. I could smell the sweat from our last bout of roughhousing. On the screen, animated Batman was battling cartoon evil. The noise continued to thunder away at the windows.
"Yes, they are, buddy. You'll see them in the morning. Don't worry. They are safe. We are safe. Everything is okay."
I hoped that wasn't a lie, either.
We had walked, and sang, and ran, and played outside, and read books, and ate. It was the time of the day where we slow down, not yet ready for bed, but definitely heading that way. You make an effort to say everything slowly and calmly, dimming the lights, sending gentle, subtle signals that it is time to go to sleep. Mommy and Daddy are due home long after bed, and while my nephew seems to have a certain understanding of the events, he still looked around now and then like he wasn't entirely sure.
"What's that sound?," he said. A hot day had evolved into a summer storm, one that couldn't help but be a little frightening. We heard a sharp bang, followed by a slow, rolling rumble and a gust of wind, splattering rain against the window.
"Thunder," I said.
"What's that?" He was at the "what's that" stage- a million questions, one following another, an endless sequence of queries. I gave brief thanks that my own child was long past this phase.
"Just a noise, buddy." I pictured the violent, hot strike of the lightning bolt, shoving the air aside, causing the waves that we processed as sound. It was just a noise, I knew, but it still spoke to one's lizard brain, telling you that you were in danger.
"Scary," he said.
"Yeah, it is," I said. I tried not to lie to him. "But we're OK."
"Are Mommy and Daddy coming home?" His head was resting on my thigh as he stared intently at the TV. I could smell the sweat from our last bout of roughhousing. On the screen, animated Batman was battling cartoon evil. The noise continued to thunder away at the windows.
"Yes, they are, buddy. You'll see them in the morning. Don't worry. They are safe. We are safe. Everything is okay."
I hoped that wasn't a lie, either.
100 Word Song: "Ballad Of An Unknown Gun"
If it's Tuesday, this must be Belgium, and this also must be 100 Word Song Day. Leeroy and mi hombre Lance have gone with Ashtar Command's "Deadman's Gun". I call this "Ballad of an Unknown Gun."
"I just want it gone," my mother said. I thought about Hemingway, who got rid of the gun his father used, only to use a different gun to end his own life. It laid there in a wooden box, an inert piece of silver metal and polished wood. Someone worked hard to make this into a perfectly functional little object that was willing to serve the desires of whoever held it. It's kind of silly to blame a machine, I thought, for the errors of its operator. "Computers never make mistakes," my father used to say. "People often do."
"I just want it gone," my mother said. I thought about Hemingway, who got rid of the gun his father used, only to use a different gun to end his own life. It laid there in a wooden box, an inert piece of silver metal and polished wood. Someone worked hard to make this into a perfectly functional little object that was willing to serve the desires of whoever held it. It's kind of silly to blame a machine, I thought, for the errors of its operator. "Computers never make mistakes," my father used to say. "People often do."
Monday, April 30, 2012
100 Word Song: "The Friend Zone"
Mi amigo Leeroy, and his human pal Lance renew the 100 Word Song Challenge this week with the mighty Rolling Stones and a track off the first album of theirs I ever owned (vinyl, bitches!). The disc was "Tattoo You" and the song was a mellow track, "Waiting on a Friend". I call this "The Friend Zone".
Her voice was blubbering, with gulps of air between the words. "And he was there, with her, and they stopped kissing, and they looked at me. It was like they thought I was stupid, stupid for not knowing, stupid because I was the only one who didn't know." I couldn't see her, but I knew the way her face got red and hot with emotion, the way her blonde curls shook when she was angry. I always knew he was wrong for her, now she knew too. "I wish the boys I liked were like you," she said.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Flash Fiction Friday: "No Way Out (Heaven's Trail)"
The Flash Fiction Friday family has offered doubt as this week's topic. I call this story "No Way Out (Heaven's Trail)"
The Samuelsons were part of the 90% of the church that asked very little of anyone. They were there on Christmas and Easter, and they handed over their contribution when they were in the pews. They didn't join committees or sing in choir. They mostly kept to themselves, filing out briskly before anyone could socialize with them. When they started coming less and less, and then when the news blew through the congregation like an ill wind that their elaborately named daughter Cornelia was in serious medical trouble, I made sure they knew they could reach out to me.
When the call came, I set aside an afternoon, turning the corner into the oncology wing at about 1:30 or so. I shook hands with her father, a small, visibly nervous man, right outside her room. He was taking turns with his wife, one of them attempting to do work at home while the other sat vigil. His face and arms were tanned. He owned a landscaping firm, I thought.
"She's been waiting for you," he said. He looked tired, and he sounded beaten.
I squirted hand sanitizer into my palms and rubbed it in briskly.
"I would have come earlier if I had known," I said. "How is she?"
He didn't say anything, just looked down at the institutional gray tile floor. He sighed.
"Not so good. Do you mind if I go get a cup of coffee?," he said, steadily avoiding my gaze.
"No, not at all," I said. "I have lots of experience doing this. We're fine." I had walked into my share of hospital rooms, and seen just about everything it was possible to see. .
He walked off without another word, and I went into her room. I remembered Cornelia as a modest girl, a trim, pretty preteen, always turned out in her Sunday best, walking shyly a pace or two behind her parents as they leave the service. The girl I confronted now had lost all of her auburn hair, giving her a skeletal, alien appearance. Her skin, usually alabaster white, was splotched with ugly red patches. I knew enough not to react, but the contrast was striking. She barely looked human.
"Hi there," I ventured. She was hooked up to IVs, and there was a TV on a rocker arm way above her head, playing silently to no one. The gown hung on her skeletal form loosely, and I could see where her collarbone jutted out at the base of her neck.
"Hi Reverend," she said. Her voice was papery soft. She took a sip of water from a plastic cup in front of her. "Did my Dad leave?"
"Yes," I said. "He went to get something downstairs. He said you wanted to talk to me?"
"I need to ask you something," she said. It sounded like she couldn't get enough air to form the words.
"Absolutely," I said. "Anything at all."
"And you can't tell anyone what I tell you."
"No, sweetheart, no. I will absolutely keep this discussion between us. I wouldn't reveal it, and actually, legally, I can't. So ask me anything."
She took another sip of water, and laid her head back. I could see the outline of her chest more clearly now. I knew she was in middle school, but she was so thin she would pass for a tall second grader.
"Did God give me cancer?"
This was the Sunday punch of questions, and although I have answered it dozens of times, I've never felt like I answered it very well. There were volumes full of wisdom answering this question, from all faiths, across the centuries, and none of it helped.
"I don't think God does that. I think cancer is just part of the world we live in, and He gives us the strength to deal with it." It was hard to take on the cares of so many people. I thought about the scene in "Jesus Christ Superstar" where the actor says, "There is too little of me!" I know the Lord supports me, but it is hard not to feel alone, too.
"It's not because I did something bad? Not because of telling a lie? Or kissing a boy?"
"No, it's not because of anything anyone did. God understands we're not perfect. He loves us despite our mistakes." The trees were moving silently outside the window.
"But why, though? Why me?"
"I don't know, Cornelia. Nobody knows. A long time ago, I read a book where someone asked that question, and the answer was 'why not me?' I know that doesn't make sense, but we have to trust in God's plan. It's all we have." I looked at the highway in the distance, people rushing to get somewhere else, as fast as they could.
"It's not fair."
"No, no it's not."
"I'm never going to have a boyfriend. I'm never going to get married. I'm never going to get to do anything good. Why is that part of the plan, Reverend?"
"I don't know if that's true," I said.
"I think it is," she said firmly, then coughed once. "I hear the way they talk. I pretend I'm sleeping and they talk about me."
She was probably right. "I don't know why this is part of the plan. I really don't. All I can do, all any of us can do, is just trust that it is."
"So I'm not a bad person?"
"No, honey. You're not a bad person at all."
She yawned elaborately.
"Do you need to close your eyes, Cornelia?"
"A little bit," she said, and stretched, settling her tiny body again on the mattress.
"I'll let you go, then," I said. "If you need to talk, just have your mom or dad call me. I'm available whenever you need me."
"OK," she said, her voice thick and slow. "Thanks."
"Thank you, Cornelia. I'll pray for you."
"Thanks," she mumbled.
I backed out of the room. Her eyes fluttered and closed. Cornelia's father was sitting on a chair in front of the door, staring at the floor between his knees, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand. He looked up at me, and we both nodded. I walked down the hall, listening to the beeping and the chatter, the ringing phones and the rattling of carts. I was pretty sure she didn't believe my answers. I had trouble believing them too.
The Samuelsons were part of the 90% of the church that asked very little of anyone. They were there on Christmas and Easter, and they handed over their contribution when they were in the pews. They didn't join committees or sing in choir. They mostly kept to themselves, filing out briskly before anyone could socialize with them. When they started coming less and less, and then when the news blew through the congregation like an ill wind that their elaborately named daughter Cornelia was in serious medical trouble, I made sure they knew they could reach out to me.
When the call came, I set aside an afternoon, turning the corner into the oncology wing at about 1:30 or so. I shook hands with her father, a small, visibly nervous man, right outside her room. He was taking turns with his wife, one of them attempting to do work at home while the other sat vigil. His face and arms were tanned. He owned a landscaping firm, I thought.
"She's been waiting for you," he said. He looked tired, and he sounded beaten.
I squirted hand sanitizer into my palms and rubbed it in briskly.
"I would have come earlier if I had known," I said. "How is she?"
He didn't say anything, just looked down at the institutional gray tile floor. He sighed.
"Not so good. Do you mind if I go get a cup of coffee?," he said, steadily avoiding my gaze.
"No, not at all," I said. "I have lots of experience doing this. We're fine." I had walked into my share of hospital rooms, and seen just about everything it was possible to see. .
He walked off without another word, and I went into her room. I remembered Cornelia as a modest girl, a trim, pretty preteen, always turned out in her Sunday best, walking shyly a pace or two behind her parents as they leave the service. The girl I confronted now had lost all of her auburn hair, giving her a skeletal, alien appearance. Her skin, usually alabaster white, was splotched with ugly red patches. I knew enough not to react, but the contrast was striking. She barely looked human.
"Hi there," I ventured. She was hooked up to IVs, and there was a TV on a rocker arm way above her head, playing silently to no one. The gown hung on her skeletal form loosely, and I could see where her collarbone jutted out at the base of her neck.
"Hi Reverend," she said. Her voice was papery soft. She took a sip of water from a plastic cup in front of her. "Did my Dad leave?"
"Yes," I said. "He went to get something downstairs. He said you wanted to talk to me?"
"I need to ask you something," she said. It sounded like she couldn't get enough air to form the words.
"Absolutely," I said. "Anything at all."
"And you can't tell anyone what I tell you."
"No, sweetheart, no. I will absolutely keep this discussion between us. I wouldn't reveal it, and actually, legally, I can't. So ask me anything."
She took another sip of water, and laid her head back. I could see the outline of her chest more clearly now. I knew she was in middle school, but she was so thin she would pass for a tall second grader.
"Did God give me cancer?"
This was the Sunday punch of questions, and although I have answered it dozens of times, I've never felt like I answered it very well. There were volumes full of wisdom answering this question, from all faiths, across the centuries, and none of it helped.
"I don't think God does that. I think cancer is just part of the world we live in, and He gives us the strength to deal with it." It was hard to take on the cares of so many people. I thought about the scene in "Jesus Christ Superstar" where the actor says, "There is too little of me!" I know the Lord supports me, but it is hard not to feel alone, too.
"It's not because I did something bad? Not because of telling a lie? Or kissing a boy?"
"No, it's not because of anything anyone did. God understands we're not perfect. He loves us despite our mistakes." The trees were moving silently outside the window.
"But why, though? Why me?"
"I don't know, Cornelia. Nobody knows. A long time ago, I read a book where someone asked that question, and the answer was 'why not me?' I know that doesn't make sense, but we have to trust in God's plan. It's all we have." I looked at the highway in the distance, people rushing to get somewhere else, as fast as they could.
"It's not fair."
"No, no it's not."
"I'm never going to have a boyfriend. I'm never going to get married. I'm never going to get to do anything good. Why is that part of the plan, Reverend?"
"I don't know if that's true," I said.
"I think it is," she said firmly, then coughed once. "I hear the way they talk. I pretend I'm sleeping and they talk about me."
She was probably right. "I don't know why this is part of the plan. I really don't. All I can do, all any of us can do, is just trust that it is."
"So I'm not a bad person?"
"No, honey. You're not a bad person at all."
She yawned elaborately.
"Do you need to close your eyes, Cornelia?"
"A little bit," she said, and stretched, settling her tiny body again on the mattress.
"I'll let you go, then," I said. "If you need to talk, just have your mom or dad call me. I'm available whenever you need me."
"OK," she said, her voice thick and slow. "Thanks."
"Thank you, Cornelia. I'll pray for you."
"Thanks," she mumbled.
I backed out of the room. Her eyes fluttered and closed. Cornelia's father was sitting on a chair in front of the door, staring at the floor between his knees, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand. He looked up at me, and we both nodded. I walked down the hall, listening to the beeping and the chatter, the ringing phones and the rattling of carts. I was pretty sure she didn't believe my answers. I had trouble believing them too.
Monday, April 23, 2012
100 Word Song: "Three and One"
My bosom buddy Lance, who would be a first round pick in the Flash Fiction Contest Draft, and Leeroy, who is easily one of the best literary robots I have ever encountered, refill the 100 Word Song chalice with "Of Lilies and Remains" by Bauhaus. My entry is called "Three and One".
They were standing on top of a small hill, pretending the cold wind that made their t shirts stick to their bodies and the studs on their leather jackets jingle didn't affect them. They didn't say anything. None of them could think of anything to say. She had told them, all of them, before, at different times, in different ways, that she was tired of life and she couldn't take it anymore. That she was miserable. They thought she didn't really mean it, but standing here next to the flat gray stone, they knew she had.
They were standing on top of a small hill, pretending the cold wind that made their t shirts stick to their bodies and the studs on their leather jackets jingle didn't affect them. They didn't say anything. None of them could think of anything to say. She had told them, all of them, before, at different times, in different ways, that she was tired of life and she couldn't take it anymore. That she was miserable. They thought she didn't really mean it, but standing here next to the flat gray stone, they knew she had.
Monday, April 16, 2012
IIWC: "Medicine Ball"
"What's that?," she said as I walked in. She was looking up at my face, her fingers with the short nails and the clear fingernail polish already coming up towards my face. I recoiled instinctively, until I saw her face darken.
"What's what?," I said defensively. I had my hands up, but I lowered them again as she approached me.
"What's that?" Her hands came up onto my cheek. She dusted at something, like I was a long ignored picture on the mantle.
"Is that glitter?," she asked. "It looks like glitter." I felt the weight of her pressing against me as she stood there. Her eyes narrowed. "Where would you get glitter on you?" She curled a piece of brown hair behind one ear.
"We had to entertain some VPs. They were visiting."
"Entertain?"
"Entertain," I said. The word didn't sound right.
"Where did you take them? Cherry's?"
"Yes," I said softly. The question seemed rhetorical. Her face fell as soon as she asked.
"Whose idea was it?"
"Theirs."
"Of course it was," she said. She backed off, folding her hands across her breasts. There was a quarter moon of bare skin showing where her top gapped above her pants. "How was it?," she asked, her voice sarcastic.
"Sad, mostly," I said. "It's a parody of sexuality, everything out front. Loud, aggressive. Lots of 80s hair metal and hardcore rap. But they were satisfied."
"You had to bring them there?," she asked. She walked down the hall towards the kitchen. She had a pair of pink sweatpants on. She tugged them up as she walked. I followed her.
"You know we do. We need them to go home happy, so they will report back that we're doing well and leave us alone."
"You said that," she said. She started bending low to take dishes out of the dishwasher. I removed my jacket, hanging it across the back of a chair. I waited for her to straighten up, then reached in for a dish.
"I can do it," she insisted. I took the dish anyway and moved over to stand behind her, waiting for my turn in the cabinet. When she stretched out to reach high, her shirt rode up even higher across her chest. I wanted to run my hand over the perfect hard roundness that showed there. It seemed too large for her, straining at her silhouette like something was about to explode.
I put the dish away as she turned back to get more.
"I thought you werent supposed to go there anymore."
"We're not. Greg paid for it on his personal card, and he's going to get it reimbursed as a restaurant trip somehow."
"Grace wasn't with you?"
"No, her daughter is home sick and she wanted to be with her."
"And the visitors were OK with that?"
"Yeah."
'I guess they didn't want her spoiling the party."
"You're probably right- if she was along we probably would have really gone to the steakhouse." I took a pan out of the lower drawer, running a towel over it quickly and sliding it into its home. She took out a glass, running a towel over it deliberately.
"How was it?"
"I told you. Sad. Lonely. Pathetic."
"You didn't get excited? At all?" She turned to set the glass into the cabinet. Her shirt gapped again, revealing a sliver of bare skin as she twisted. She tugged at the waist of her pants again, trying to cover the space. Her bare feet were tan on the dark wood floor.
"Well, I am human, hun. Seriously. There were naked women there."
She took out another glass, holding it in front of her like an artifact. "So you're horny?" She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"No," I said quickly. I thought about the impassive faces of the executives, looking out over the sea of skin and improbable nipples. It was love as a commodity, sex as an object. We were ATMs to these girls. I thought about the lanky redhead with the sad eyes who seemed to spend half the night brushing against my side as she walked past..
"Come on," she said. "It's OK. I understand. You're only a man."
"I'm not," I insisted.
She took out another glass, checking the rim for spots. She saw one, and made an irritated face as she rubbed at it.
"Do you wish I looked like them?" She put the clean glass away, then inspected another.
"Oh stop," I said quickly. "You know I don't. I love you. You know that."
"I know you didn't insist that you had to get home to your pregnant wife. I know that." She sounded bitter, biting off the end of each word.
"I had to be there," I said.
"Grace didn't." She put two more glasses away.
"What do you want me to say?," I said plaintively.
"The truth."
"I am telling you the truth. I could have told you we just went to that new Brazilian steakhouse."
"Your face would give you away." She twisted again to put a wineglass away.
"The point is, I didn't lie to you."
"No, that's not the point."
"What is the point, then?"
"The point is that you went. The point is that you went there, and you stared, and one of them got close enough to you to leave some glitter on your face. I know you didn't cheat. In a strange way, I'd almost rather you did. That I could understand. I'm not pinup material, even before this." She put the last glass away.
"The point is that I don't know what you're thinking about now. Are you thinking of me, or of one of them? I don't know where your loyalty is, where your thoughts go when you daydream. I know things are different now, and I know you can't help your biology, but I have to know whose side you're on. Where your heart is. That is the fucking point."
She bent down low, reaching for the door to the dishwasher. I looked at the way her breasts hung down inside her top, looking somehow inappropriately oversized. I saw her belly looming under it, heavy and hard like she was carrying a medicine ball around. She stood up, slamming the dishwasher shut with a bang that rattled the plastic trays inside it. I watched her walk down the hall to her room, tugging at her recalcitrant sweats as she walked.
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Jake Durkin challenged me with "'Good God!' she screams when she lays her eyes upon me, 'What the hell is wrong with your face?!'" and I challenged SAM with "'The lesson I take from this place is that the person who wishes for peace does not hide even a needle as a weapon. Even when driven into the need for self defense, if you have a weapon, you are qualified to fight-maybe-but you are not qualified to pray for peace.' -Dr. Paul Nagai, atomic bomb survivor"
"What's what?," I said defensively. I had my hands up, but I lowered them again as she approached me.
"What's that?" Her hands came up onto my cheek. She dusted at something, like I was a long ignored picture on the mantle.
"Is that glitter?," she asked. "It looks like glitter." I felt the weight of her pressing against me as she stood there. Her eyes narrowed. "Where would you get glitter on you?" She curled a piece of brown hair behind one ear.
"We had to entertain some VPs. They were visiting."
"Entertain?"
"Entertain," I said. The word didn't sound right.
"Where did you take them? Cherry's?"
"Yes," I said softly. The question seemed rhetorical. Her face fell as soon as she asked.
"Whose idea was it?"
"Theirs."
"Of course it was," she said. She backed off, folding her hands across her breasts. There was a quarter moon of bare skin showing where her top gapped above her pants. "How was it?," she asked, her voice sarcastic.
"Sad, mostly," I said. "It's a parody of sexuality, everything out front. Loud, aggressive. Lots of 80s hair metal and hardcore rap. But they were satisfied."
"You had to bring them there?," she asked. She walked down the hall towards the kitchen. She had a pair of pink sweatpants on. She tugged them up as she walked. I followed her.
"You know we do. We need them to go home happy, so they will report back that we're doing well and leave us alone."
"You said that," she said. She started bending low to take dishes out of the dishwasher. I removed my jacket, hanging it across the back of a chair. I waited for her to straighten up, then reached in for a dish.
"I can do it," she insisted. I took the dish anyway and moved over to stand behind her, waiting for my turn in the cabinet. When she stretched out to reach high, her shirt rode up even higher across her chest. I wanted to run my hand over the perfect hard roundness that showed there. It seemed too large for her, straining at her silhouette like something was about to explode.
I put the dish away as she turned back to get more.
"I thought you werent supposed to go there anymore."
"We're not. Greg paid for it on his personal card, and he's going to get it reimbursed as a restaurant trip somehow."
"Grace wasn't with you?"
"No, her daughter is home sick and she wanted to be with her."
"And the visitors were OK with that?"
"Yeah."
'I guess they didn't want her spoiling the party."
"You're probably right- if she was along we probably would have really gone to the steakhouse." I took a pan out of the lower drawer, running a towel over it quickly and sliding it into its home. She took out a glass, running a towel over it deliberately.
"How was it?"
"I told you. Sad. Lonely. Pathetic."
"You didn't get excited? At all?" She turned to set the glass into the cabinet. Her shirt gapped again, revealing a sliver of bare skin as she twisted. She tugged at the waist of her pants again, trying to cover the space. Her bare feet were tan on the dark wood floor.
"Well, I am human, hun. Seriously. There were naked women there."
She took out another glass, holding it in front of her like an artifact. "So you're horny?" She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"No," I said quickly. I thought about the impassive faces of the executives, looking out over the sea of skin and improbable nipples. It was love as a commodity, sex as an object. We were ATMs to these girls. I thought about the lanky redhead with the sad eyes who seemed to spend half the night brushing against my side as she walked past..
"Come on," she said. "It's OK. I understand. You're only a man."
"I'm not," I insisted.
She took out another glass, checking the rim for spots. She saw one, and made an irritated face as she rubbed at it.
"Do you wish I looked like them?" She put the clean glass away, then inspected another.
"Oh stop," I said quickly. "You know I don't. I love you. You know that."
"I know you didn't insist that you had to get home to your pregnant wife. I know that." She sounded bitter, biting off the end of each word.
"I had to be there," I said.
"Grace didn't." She put two more glasses away.
"What do you want me to say?," I said plaintively.
"The truth."
"I am telling you the truth. I could have told you we just went to that new Brazilian steakhouse."
"Your face would give you away." She twisted again to put a wineglass away.
"The point is, I didn't lie to you."
"No, that's not the point."
"What is the point, then?"
"The point is that you went. The point is that you went there, and you stared, and one of them got close enough to you to leave some glitter on your face. I know you didn't cheat. In a strange way, I'd almost rather you did. That I could understand. I'm not pinup material, even before this." She put the last glass away.
"The point is that I don't know what you're thinking about now. Are you thinking of me, or of one of them? I don't know where your loyalty is, where your thoughts go when you daydream. I know things are different now, and I know you can't help your biology, but I have to know whose side you're on. Where your heart is. That is the fucking point."
She bent down low, reaching for the door to the dishwasher. I looked at the way her breasts hung down inside her top, looking somehow inappropriately oversized. I saw her belly looming under it, heavy and hard like she was carrying a medicine ball around. She stood up, slamming the dishwasher shut with a bang that rattled the plastic trays inside it. I watched her walk down the hall to her room, tugging at her recalcitrant sweats as she walked.
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Jake Durkin challenged me with "'Good God!' she screams when she lays her eyes upon me, 'What the hell is wrong with your face?!'" and I challenged SAM with "'The lesson I take from this place is that the person who wishes for peace does not hide even a needle as a weapon. Even when driven into the need for self defense, if you have a weapon, you are qualified to fight-maybe-but you are not qualified to pray for peace.' -Dr. Paul Nagai, atomic bomb survivor"
Thursday, April 12, 2012
100 Word Song: "Reunited"
Funk Soul Brother Number One, My Main Hombre Lance, along with his trustworthy robot pal Leeroy, renew the 100 Word Song Challenge this week with Ben Harper's "The Woman In You". This story is called, "Reunited".
They were supposed to be playing songs from the 1980s, but I didn't remember any of them.
I saw her from across the room. Her hair was cut short now, emphasizing the simon pure whiteness of her neck. She looked like most of the women there, shadows of the girls they were, thickened and made coarse by time and children and pain. I walked over, waiting for her to pause, remembering sitting on the hard wooden dock, thinking about the future, holding her hand.
"Some things never change," I said admiringly.
"Some things never stay the same," she replied.
They were supposed to be playing songs from the 1980s, but I didn't remember any of them.
I saw her from across the room. Her hair was cut short now, emphasizing the simon pure whiteness of her neck. She looked like most of the women there, shadows of the girls they were, thickened and made coarse by time and children and pain. I walked over, waiting for her to pause, remembering sitting on the hard wooden dock, thinking about the future, holding her hand.
"Some things never change," I said admiringly.
"Some things never stay the same," she replied.
Trifecta Writing Challenge: "____________________"
My new friends at the Trifecta Writing Challenge issue a weekly call to arms centered around (surprise!) the number three. This week involves the third definition of the word "scandal", and must be between 33 and 333 words. My story is called "Motherfucker".
The young woman in the modest blue dress, pearls, and low heels was used to public speaking, being a teacher. But she didn't speak before groups of adults like this, so her voice wavered a little bit as she began.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the school board, I was told that you wanted me to appear before you in order to address the issue of certain reading material I assigned. I appreciate the gravity of this situation. I am your employee, and you can discharge me at will, a possibility that is not far from my mind. But I am also an educator, and I would rather be unemployed and in possession of my scruples than continue to work for you and destroy an ideal I hold very dear."
"I am told a member of this board objected to a book I chose for your children to read because it contains a certain word. It is not a pleasant word, and not one I choose to use regularly. But it is a word that is chosen because the book contains descriptions of soldiers, and it is a word that soldiers use. It is a word I have used in the past, and it is a word I can guarantee you everyone in this room has used. And it is a word, sadly, our students use."
"That word, ladies and gentlemen, is motherfucker."
"You pay me to educate your children, and that is something I take very seriously. I expose them to different ideas and ways of thinking, and thus prepare them to be good citizens, and, hopefully, gentler and less warlike than my generation and yours has been. Sometimes that involves them learning something unpleasant. I show them these parts of life not for any prurient thrill, but because I am not doing my job if I don't."
"In short, the only scandal here is the presence of closed minded idiots in the educational process."
"Thank you."
The young woman in the modest blue dress, pearls, and low heels was used to public speaking, being a teacher. But she didn't speak before groups of adults like this, so her voice wavered a little bit as she began.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the school board, I was told that you wanted me to appear before you in order to address the issue of certain reading material I assigned. I appreciate the gravity of this situation. I am your employee, and you can discharge me at will, a possibility that is not far from my mind. But I am also an educator, and I would rather be unemployed and in possession of my scruples than continue to work for you and destroy an ideal I hold very dear."
"I am told a member of this board objected to a book I chose for your children to read because it contains a certain word. It is not a pleasant word, and not one I choose to use regularly. But it is a word that is chosen because the book contains descriptions of soldiers, and it is a word that soldiers use. It is a word I have used in the past, and it is a word I can guarantee you everyone in this room has used. And it is a word, sadly, our students use."
"That word, ladies and gentlemen, is motherfucker."
"You pay me to educate your children, and that is something I take very seriously. I expose them to different ideas and ways of thinking, and thus prepare them to be good citizens, and, hopefully, gentler and less warlike than my generation and yours has been. Sometimes that involves them learning something unpleasant. I show them these parts of life not for any prurient thrill, but because I am not doing my job if I don't."
"In short, the only scandal here is the presence of closed minded idiots in the educational process."
"Thank you."
Monday, April 09, 2012
Real Toads Challenge: "Ready Or Not"
Thanks to Maid Marian at Runaway Sentence, I learned about the fine folks at Real Toads, who issue, you'll never guess, prompts for writerly inspiration. The inspiration is Vic Chestnutt's song "Granny", and this piece is called "Ready Or Not"
I kept thinking, "it's too soon." It wasn't too soon. When it happens, it happens. There isn't any real age when it's time to, exactly. People try to say that there's an ideal age for it, and there probably is, but once you're in it, you're in it. It's too late to cry about it, but you often do that anyway.
I had whipped up some snacks, little finger foods like pizza rolls and crab puffs along with some potato chips and sodas. Simple stuff, easy and quick, but in all honesty, all I could afford and all I had time for. I laid it all out as people started to arrive, then basically stood out of sight as she opened gifts and oohed and aahed and fluttered about.
There was a lot of fluttering, raised voices and animated conversation. I tried to stay out of the way, but our small living space quickly filled with her friends, filling our apartment with skinny jeans and fashionable boots. My daughter was the first or second girl she knew to get pregnant, which made a visual contrast, all their flat bellies and tight shirts making her swollen form stand out.
When you have children, you learn before anything else that it is no longer about you. You share your body with them, and then they are this separate entity, but they never really leave you. Every defeat wounds you, every heartbreak punches you in the gut. I watched her socialize, laughing and letting them rub her belly, and I thought about all the versions of her I had known. I wanted to yell out that this cannot be, that this is all happening too fast, that the little girl who stamped her foot when her shoes wouldn't stay tied can't be old enough to have a child.
I left her to her crowd, and went back into the kitchen. The red wine I had poured for myself was still half full. I brought it to my lips and swallowed. I'm not ready to be a grandmother, just like I wasn't ready to be a mother. But just like the first time, it's coming at me full speed, ready or not.
I kept thinking, "it's too soon." It wasn't too soon. When it happens, it happens. There isn't any real age when it's time to, exactly. People try to say that there's an ideal age for it, and there probably is, but once you're in it, you're in it. It's too late to cry about it, but you often do that anyway.
I had whipped up some snacks, little finger foods like pizza rolls and crab puffs along with some potato chips and sodas. Simple stuff, easy and quick, but in all honesty, all I could afford and all I had time for. I laid it all out as people started to arrive, then basically stood out of sight as she opened gifts and oohed and aahed and fluttered about.
There was a lot of fluttering, raised voices and animated conversation. I tried to stay out of the way, but our small living space quickly filled with her friends, filling our apartment with skinny jeans and fashionable boots. My daughter was the first or second girl she knew to get pregnant, which made a visual contrast, all their flat bellies and tight shirts making her swollen form stand out.
When you have children, you learn before anything else that it is no longer about you. You share your body with them, and then they are this separate entity, but they never really leave you. Every defeat wounds you, every heartbreak punches you in the gut. I watched her socialize, laughing and letting them rub her belly, and I thought about all the versions of her I had known. I wanted to yell out that this cannot be, that this is all happening too fast, that the little girl who stamped her foot when her shoes wouldn't stay tied can't be old enough to have a child.
I left her to her crowd, and went back into the kitchen. The red wine I had poured for myself was still half full. I brought it to my lips and swallowed. I'm not ready to be a grandmother, just like I wasn't ready to be a mother. But just like the first time, it's coming at me full speed, ready or not.
100 Word Song: "Retreat"
My buddy Lance, whose blog is more than willing to accept an 8 seed in the Stanley Cup Playoffs as long as it gets a chance to beat up your blog, renews the 100 Word Song Challenge with Jefferson Starship's "Runaway". This doesn't really have much to do with the song except the title, but I nonetheless submit it. I call it "Retreat".
The captain told us, listening to the explosions and the angry bees of bullets zipping near us, that anyone who deserted would be hung. Right after he said that, his throat exploded, and he made a gurgling sound and fell over onto his back in the brown dirt. I looked at Stevenson, and he looked back at me. The whole world seemed to pause for a second, and I thought about home and the way Momma's bacon used to fill the whole house with that smell, and then suddenly I was running. I heard yelling, and I kept running.
The captain told us, listening to the explosions and the angry bees of bullets zipping near us, that anyone who deserted would be hung. Right after he said that, his throat exploded, and he made a gurgling sound and fell over onto his back in the brown dirt. I looked at Stevenson, and he looked back at me. The whole world seemed to pause for a second, and I thought about home and the way Momma's bacon used to fill the whole house with that smell, and then suddenly I was running. I heard yelling, and I kept running.
Sunday, April 08, 2012
Indie Ink Writing Challenge: "Visiting Hours Are Over"
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Sir challenged me with "You remove your fear of the abyss by spending time looking into it." and I challenged Brad MacDonald with "'A story has no beginning or end.' -Graham Greene"
"They say when you look into the abyss, it looks back into you," I said. I looked at her. She was watching the TV screen above her head. It was something that popped into my head, apropos of nothing, sitting in a hard plastic chair and not reading the book I had brought.
"Who says that?" Her voice was weak, thready, like she had to clear her throat.
"I say that," I said. It was a cheap joke, but I made it anyway.
"No, that's not what I meant. I know you said it. Who said it before you?" She looked annoyed.
"Nobody important." The sun was high in the sky, slanting through the curtains and making patterns on the floor.
"Come on, somebody famous said that. Who was it?"
"Nietzsche. I think." I dimly remembered that from a philosophy class.
"He was an asshole." She said that like she knew him.
"Nietzsche?"
"Yes, Nietzsche. You know he was. He was the one philosopher frat boys could get into, because he always said it was OK to do whatever you wanted." There were noises out in the hall, and I looked at the door, thinking someone was about to come in. No one did.
"I think it was a little more complicated than that," I said. I hope she didn't press me, because I don't know how it is more complicated. I was just proud I pulled the name.
"Of course it was! Remember that scene from 'A Fish Called Wanda'? Kevin Kline says he's not an ape because apes don't read philosophy? Then Jamie Lee Curtis says, 'Yes, they do. They just don't understand it.' ? Remember?" She remembered everything.
"Yeah, I remember. Good movie." We used to watch it on videotape, sitting together on the floor, eating homemade bread with imported cheese, laughing at jokes we had already heard a dozen times.
"It was. That's why I say Nietzsche is an asshole, because he's a tool that dumb people use to make excuses for the dumb things they do. He makes dumb people think they sound smart." That seemed unfair, but I let it stand.
"That's not really Nietzsche's fault, though." She hated selfishness, which was what I had always thought Nietzsche boiled down to. But I wasn't totally sure.
"Yeah, but he's dead. I'm sure he doesn't care if I call him an asshole." She said the word dead flatly, like she was tossing a hot dog wrapper into the trash. I winced when she said it.
"What?," she said. She was looking at the four o'clock news, watching the anchor in a purple dress explain how to get 20% off of a manicure.
"I don't like that word."
"Asshole?," she said, smiling.
"No, not that." I looked out the window, watching a truck back up to a loading dock.
"You mean dead?"
"Yeah."
"You don't want me to talk about the Grateful Dead? Or 'Dawn of the Dead'? Or the Mexican Day of the Dead?," she said, smirking.
"You're not helping," I said. "But no, no I don't."
"Why? We both know I'm going to die. So are you. So is Dr. Perez, and that cute nurse you keep flirting with."
"I'm not flirting with her." She was tiny, absurdly tiny for an adult. Absolutely professional and smart and calm and very gentle, but just very very small. Shorter than me. I found her charming, but I wouldn't admit it.
"Oh, yes you are," she said triumphantly. "You know you are. You won't admit it. But you are."
I didn't say anything. That was often the best choice.
A busty Latin woman came in, wearing green scrubs and carrying what looked like a small fishing tackle box. "Hi honey," the newcomer said. "Time for some blood!"
"Seriously?," my wife said. She put out her arm. "That's like the seventeenth time today. I swear you're selling it to the blood bank." Always with the quip.
"You're so funny," she said, preparing her tools, the taut elastic, the vials and the stickers to label them.
"One thing about dying," my wife said. "At least I won't have to put up with this crap anymore," she said archly. She could make jokes about anything. She was already asking nurses if they had any single sisters, because, as she put it, "I have to help him pick out his next wife. He can't even pick his own clothes."
The woman in green had a name tag around her neck that said Rosa. "Oh no," she said. "You hurt my feelings when you say that, honey."
"You know I'm kidding, Rosa. It's not your fault." Rosa finished and bandaged the spot.
"You're not going to die, honey."
"Yeah, Rosa, I am. It's OK."
"No," Rosa said, sterner. "I prayed for you last night. You're not going to die, honey. I know it."
"Thank you," she said, and Rosa left without another word.
It was mostly quiet. If you listened, you could hear a phone ring, or an alarm chime. But those noises became part of the background. You mostly didn't hear them.
"I wonder if this woman knows it isn't prom night," she said to the screen. The news anchor was walking across the studio as they prepared to sign off. Her dress did look a little formal for a news anchor, but I supposed she would know better than I would.
"You better go," she told me. "You have to work early tomorrow."
"I know that," I said. I didn't move. I looked down at the library book in my lap. It was about Imperial Japan at the end of the Second World War, when everything started to come apart all at once.
"I'll be fine," she said. "I think I want to close my eyes for a little while."
"You don't need anything else?," I asked.
"No, you got me those magazines," she said, yawning. "I'm good."
I sat there and watched her for a while, ready to be upbraided for not obeying. But she didn't say anything, so I just sat there and listened to her breathe. I remembered something else Nietzsche said, that the living are just a species of the dead. I knew about ashes to ashes and dust to dust, that everyone who had ever lived would die. Babies are just adults to be, and living people are just corpses to be.
There was a difference, though, between knowing something was true, and really feeling it, knowing it all the way to your core. That was what I did when I thought about death-I knew it without knowing it. I read my Vonnegut, and my hyper smart science fiction stories about the perils of living forever, and I knew that human life was just an eyeblink in the lifespan of the universe. But something deep inside me made me feel like these rules didn't apply to me, that I was special. I watched her breathe, long after she fell asleep, listening to the tinny audio from the TV tell about catastrophe and war and sadness. I watched, and I wished and prayed for a reprieve that I knew would never come, until the sun finally set and I got up and went home to an empty house.
"They say when you look into the abyss, it looks back into you," I said. I looked at her. She was watching the TV screen above her head. It was something that popped into my head, apropos of nothing, sitting in a hard plastic chair and not reading the book I had brought.
"Who says that?" Her voice was weak, thready, like she had to clear her throat.
"I say that," I said. It was a cheap joke, but I made it anyway.
"No, that's not what I meant. I know you said it. Who said it before you?" She looked annoyed.
"Nobody important." The sun was high in the sky, slanting through the curtains and making patterns on the floor.
"Come on, somebody famous said that. Who was it?"
"Nietzsche. I think." I dimly remembered that from a philosophy class.
"He was an asshole." She said that like she knew him.
"Nietzsche?"
"Yes, Nietzsche. You know he was. He was the one philosopher frat boys could get into, because he always said it was OK to do whatever you wanted." There were noises out in the hall, and I looked at the door, thinking someone was about to come in. No one did.
"I think it was a little more complicated than that," I said. I hope she didn't press me, because I don't know how it is more complicated. I was just proud I pulled the name.
"Of course it was! Remember that scene from 'A Fish Called Wanda'? Kevin Kline says he's not an ape because apes don't read philosophy? Then Jamie Lee Curtis says, 'Yes, they do. They just don't understand it.' ? Remember?" She remembered everything.
"Yeah, I remember. Good movie." We used to watch it on videotape, sitting together on the floor, eating homemade bread with imported cheese, laughing at jokes we had already heard a dozen times.
"It was. That's why I say Nietzsche is an asshole, because he's a tool that dumb people use to make excuses for the dumb things they do. He makes dumb people think they sound smart." That seemed unfair, but I let it stand.
"That's not really Nietzsche's fault, though." She hated selfishness, which was what I had always thought Nietzsche boiled down to. But I wasn't totally sure.
"Yeah, but he's dead. I'm sure he doesn't care if I call him an asshole." She said the word dead flatly, like she was tossing a hot dog wrapper into the trash. I winced when she said it.
"What?," she said. She was looking at the four o'clock news, watching the anchor in a purple dress explain how to get 20% off of a manicure.
"I don't like that word."
"Asshole?," she said, smiling.
"No, not that." I looked out the window, watching a truck back up to a loading dock.
"You mean dead?"
"Yeah."
"You don't want me to talk about the Grateful Dead? Or 'Dawn of the Dead'? Or the Mexican Day of the Dead?," she said, smirking.
"You're not helping," I said. "But no, no I don't."
"Why? We both know I'm going to die. So are you. So is Dr. Perez, and that cute nurse you keep flirting with."
"I'm not flirting with her." She was tiny, absurdly tiny for an adult. Absolutely professional and smart and calm and very gentle, but just very very small. Shorter than me. I found her charming, but I wouldn't admit it.
"Oh, yes you are," she said triumphantly. "You know you are. You won't admit it. But you are."
I didn't say anything. That was often the best choice.
A busty Latin woman came in, wearing green scrubs and carrying what looked like a small fishing tackle box. "Hi honey," the newcomer said. "Time for some blood!"
"Seriously?," my wife said. She put out her arm. "That's like the seventeenth time today. I swear you're selling it to the blood bank." Always with the quip.
"You're so funny," she said, preparing her tools, the taut elastic, the vials and the stickers to label them.
"One thing about dying," my wife said. "At least I won't have to put up with this crap anymore," she said archly. She could make jokes about anything. She was already asking nurses if they had any single sisters, because, as she put it, "I have to help him pick out his next wife. He can't even pick his own clothes."
The woman in green had a name tag around her neck that said Rosa. "Oh no," she said. "You hurt my feelings when you say that, honey."
"You know I'm kidding, Rosa. It's not your fault." Rosa finished and bandaged the spot.
"You're not going to die, honey."
"Yeah, Rosa, I am. It's OK."
"No," Rosa said, sterner. "I prayed for you last night. You're not going to die, honey. I know it."
"Thank you," she said, and Rosa left without another word.
It was mostly quiet. If you listened, you could hear a phone ring, or an alarm chime. But those noises became part of the background. You mostly didn't hear them.
"I wonder if this woman knows it isn't prom night," she said to the screen. The news anchor was walking across the studio as they prepared to sign off. Her dress did look a little formal for a news anchor, but I supposed she would know better than I would.
"You better go," she told me. "You have to work early tomorrow."
"I know that," I said. I didn't move. I looked down at the library book in my lap. It was about Imperial Japan at the end of the Second World War, when everything started to come apart all at once.
"I'll be fine," she said. "I think I want to close my eyes for a little while."
"You don't need anything else?," I asked.
"No, you got me those magazines," she said, yawning. "I'm good."
I sat there and watched her for a while, ready to be upbraided for not obeying. But she didn't say anything, so I just sat there and listened to her breathe. I remembered something else Nietzsche said, that the living are just a species of the dead. I knew about ashes to ashes and dust to dust, that everyone who had ever lived would die. Babies are just adults to be, and living people are just corpses to be.
There was a difference, though, between knowing something was true, and really feeling it, knowing it all the way to your core. That was what I did when I thought about death-I knew it without knowing it. I read my Vonnegut, and my hyper smart science fiction stories about the perils of living forever, and I knew that human life was just an eyeblink in the lifespan of the universe. But something deep inside me made me feel like these rules didn't apply to me, that I was special. I watched her breathe, long after she fell asleep, listening to the tinny audio from the TV tell about catastrophe and war and sadness. I watched, and I wished and prayed for a reprieve that I knew would never come, until the sun finally set and I got up and went home to an empty house.
Wednesday, April 04, 2012
Indie Ink Writing Challenge: "Strong Like Tungsten"
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Wendryn challenged me with "You've been keeping a bottle of champagne for five years, waiting to celebrate something specific. Tell the story leading up to finally getting to drink the champagne." and I challenged SAM with "?"Art imposes order on life, but how much more art will there be?" -Bob Dylan"
I was never a drinker. It wasn't that I had anything against it. I didn't have an allergy, or any moral compunctions about it. I have never had a drinking problem. I didn't get drunk easily. I just never enjoyed it. It never became a habit. I kept some on hand for entertaining on holidays, but it generally just sat there until the next celebration rolled around. I always felt like I had to apologize for this.
I had bought the champagne without telling Elin. If she noticed, she didn't say anything. I tucked it into the bottom of the dark wood wine rack in the corner of the basement, covering it with the bottles of moderately priced red and white wine that Paul at the liquor store had recommended. I let it rest there, my dark, cool secret behind the boxes of college textbooks and old tax returns.
I stared at the bottle, the black glass with fading beads of condensation, the pretentious looking French script, the expensive liquid slowly becoming flat and worthless inside. It actually didn't taste good, but I could feel the alcohol starting to take effect the more I swallowed. It had a pleasant, flattening effect. That was what I was looking for, so I kept tipping the bottle and taking in more of the fizzy liquid.
I had awakened this morning to unaccustomed silence. They told you never to go to bed angry, but we had, another variation on the theme that was driving a wedge into our ten year marriage. I opened my eyes to an empty bed, with her side of the closet yawningly empty, stripped of her suits and dresses. A note in her precise hand, left on a Hello Kitty post it note on her alarm clock, said only, "I can't do this any longer."
I didn't blame her. Once we had settled ourselves into mid adulthood, and our friends started to slip into the haze of parenting, Elin agreed that it was time. What followed was a nightmare of doctors and drugs, side effects and painful shots. We were tormented by friendly advice, colleagues and relatives advising vitamins and rest, nostrums and methods of all sorts. Nothing worked, and we both began to resent the onset of the bitter, coppery smell that came without fail, reminding us how we were failing to heed our genetic call.
It was a peculiar sort of feeling, faceless but infuriating. No one understood unless they were going through it, and if they were, they didn't want to talk about it any more than you did. Once you want something and you can't have it, suddenly you see it everywhere. Elin had it much worse, attending countless work showers and child parties, feeling like she had to explain herself constantly. I knew a version of the same struggle, smiling at children visiting the office, watching secretaries grow heavy with child, listening to meltdowns in the grocery store. I listened to the new father stories, swallowing my anger, pasting on a fake smile and grinning through it. You couldn't be angry at anyone, because it wasn't anyone's fault.
We tried everything our budget would allow, and stretched for a few that we couldn't. Elin's moods darkened as time went on. Her body darkened and swelled with fluid. She cried, raging at me behind closed doors, cursing her fate. I swallowed my own fury, our still new relationship unable to bear the weight of both of our angers. It was hard not to feel inadequate, despite every doctor claiming that we were healthy, that there wasn't anything more we could do except keep trying.
Both of us logic bound, college educated creatures, there had to be something, so we both engaged in research, adopting every maxim, every strategy, every technique and supplement. Nothing worked, our biology letting us down, over and over, day after day, month after month. We snarled at each other, talking leading to fighting, resorting to silences that kept the tense, wary peace. It became a presence between us, huge and unknowable, invisible, but strong as tungsten.
We still made love, the Holy Grail of my teenage years becoming a grim, joyless task. It was mechanical, following the plan, doing the deed at the appointed hour. It was no longer love, no longer expressing in sweat and sound our eternal bond. It was as mindless as excretion, as erotic as changing the oil in a car. We stopped talking about it, the way we stopped talking about everything.
Now she was gone. She was probably in her sister's spare room, sleeping on the couch in her office, watching our nephew Sam while Kate telecommuted to her marketing job. I could call her, try to explain, beg her to come back. But the champagne I had bought to celebrate a completion of this journey put a haze over my own needs and wants. I took another slug from the bottle, and set it down unevenly. It could have spilled, but it didn't, and I laid back, closing my eyes to a room that was too quiet and a house that was too empty.
I was never a drinker. It wasn't that I had anything against it. I didn't have an allergy, or any moral compunctions about it. I have never had a drinking problem. I didn't get drunk easily. I just never enjoyed it. It never became a habit. I kept some on hand for entertaining on holidays, but it generally just sat there until the next celebration rolled around. I always felt like I had to apologize for this.
I had bought the champagne without telling Elin. If she noticed, she didn't say anything. I tucked it into the bottom of the dark wood wine rack in the corner of the basement, covering it with the bottles of moderately priced red and white wine that Paul at the liquor store had recommended. I let it rest there, my dark, cool secret behind the boxes of college textbooks and old tax returns.
I stared at the bottle, the black glass with fading beads of condensation, the pretentious looking French script, the expensive liquid slowly becoming flat and worthless inside. It actually didn't taste good, but I could feel the alcohol starting to take effect the more I swallowed. It had a pleasant, flattening effect. That was what I was looking for, so I kept tipping the bottle and taking in more of the fizzy liquid.
I had awakened this morning to unaccustomed silence. They told you never to go to bed angry, but we had, another variation on the theme that was driving a wedge into our ten year marriage. I opened my eyes to an empty bed, with her side of the closet yawningly empty, stripped of her suits and dresses. A note in her precise hand, left on a Hello Kitty post it note on her alarm clock, said only, "I can't do this any longer."
I didn't blame her. Once we had settled ourselves into mid adulthood, and our friends started to slip into the haze of parenting, Elin agreed that it was time. What followed was a nightmare of doctors and drugs, side effects and painful shots. We were tormented by friendly advice, colleagues and relatives advising vitamins and rest, nostrums and methods of all sorts. Nothing worked, and we both began to resent the onset of the bitter, coppery smell that came without fail, reminding us how we were failing to heed our genetic call.
It was a peculiar sort of feeling, faceless but infuriating. No one understood unless they were going through it, and if they were, they didn't want to talk about it any more than you did. Once you want something and you can't have it, suddenly you see it everywhere. Elin had it much worse, attending countless work showers and child parties, feeling like she had to explain herself constantly. I knew a version of the same struggle, smiling at children visiting the office, watching secretaries grow heavy with child, listening to meltdowns in the grocery store. I listened to the new father stories, swallowing my anger, pasting on a fake smile and grinning through it. You couldn't be angry at anyone, because it wasn't anyone's fault.
We tried everything our budget would allow, and stretched for a few that we couldn't. Elin's moods darkened as time went on. Her body darkened and swelled with fluid. She cried, raging at me behind closed doors, cursing her fate. I swallowed my own fury, our still new relationship unable to bear the weight of both of our angers. It was hard not to feel inadequate, despite every doctor claiming that we were healthy, that there wasn't anything more we could do except keep trying.
Both of us logic bound, college educated creatures, there had to be something, so we both engaged in research, adopting every maxim, every strategy, every technique and supplement. Nothing worked, our biology letting us down, over and over, day after day, month after month. We snarled at each other, talking leading to fighting, resorting to silences that kept the tense, wary peace. It became a presence between us, huge and unknowable, invisible, but strong as tungsten.
We still made love, the Holy Grail of my teenage years becoming a grim, joyless task. It was mechanical, following the plan, doing the deed at the appointed hour. It was no longer love, no longer expressing in sweat and sound our eternal bond. It was as mindless as excretion, as erotic as changing the oil in a car. We stopped talking about it, the way we stopped talking about everything.
Now she was gone. She was probably in her sister's spare room, sleeping on the couch in her office, watching our nephew Sam while Kate telecommuted to her marketing job. I could call her, try to explain, beg her to come back. But the champagne I had bought to celebrate a completion of this journey put a haze over my own needs and wants. I took another slug from the bottle, and set it down unevenly. It could have spilled, but it didn't, and I laid back, closing my eyes to a room that was too quiet and a house that was too empty.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Indie Ink Writing Challenge: "The Things You Miss"
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Tara Roberts challenged me with "'Rhode Island is neither a road nor an island... discuss' Mike Myers in SNL skit 'Coffee Talk with Linda Richman'" and I challenged Brett Myers with "'The core is where you write, or do your thing. It's where artists come from.' -Joe Strummer"
We had tried listening to music, but she wasn't happy with that. An audiobook was next, but that wasn't any good either. I tuned in the baseball game, but she complained about that too. So we drove in silence, riding down the claustrophobic highway that runs through the state on the way to the airport. The buildings are unusually close to the road as you rush by them, as if the size of the state left them no room to spread out. It reminded me of Luke Skywalker flying into the tunnel, trying to destroy the Death Star.
"She came from Providence," I sang softly, "the one in Rhode Island-"
"I don't want to listen to you sing," she said flatly.
"Can I hum?," I asked.
"Shut up," she explained.
I slowed down as we approached a forest of brake lights. We had left ridiculously early, my father's prudent planning showing through. Even with traffic, we'd be at the airport 3 hours before her flight.
"I don't know why you insist I use Providence instead of Boston."
"It's nicer. It's cheaper. It's easier to get to. It's smaller."
"Bigger isn't always bad," she said.
I let that sit.
"Did you know there are counties in Texas bigger than Rhode Island?"
"Did you know I don't care?," she said.
The traffic loosened again and I went forward, only to have it slow down again. Progress by increments. Forward a little bit, then stop again. We listened to the little creaks and shifts and bumps that cars make when they are uncovered by silence.
"When do you think you can come back?," I said.
"I told you I don't know. It's going to take as long as it takes."
"I know you don't know. But when do you think?"
"Not for at least a month."
"You can call, right?"
"I'll call when I can," she said evenly. She half turned, looking out the window. "I'll be busy."
"I know. I just want you to know that I'll miss you." The traffic stopped again, right next to a billboard for a strip club. I thought about the time I went in one, congratulating a friend after he passed his boards, the parody of sexuality it was, love and sex and beauty reduced to a cold, unsentimental business transaction.
"I know that," she said.
"One of my father's friends was away from his wife for a year and a half once. And they survived."
"That doesn't help," she said softly. "Nothing helps, nothing makes it any better. We've said everything that there is for us to say. There isn't anything else. I don't want to do this, but I have to. I'll stay in touch as best I can. You'll write me, I'll write you. You'll miss me, I'll miss you. I just don't want to talk about it any more. I don't want to think about it anymore. I just want to get there, and get it done, and get back as quick as I possibly can so we can get back to our lives. That's it. That's all I want. I need this job, and we need the money. So just let me do it my own way. Don't comfort me. Don't tell me it's going to be OK. Because it's not."
We accelerated again, then stopped, creeping and beeping towards the airport exit. I could feel the seconds ticking by. She had been away before, and so had I. It had to be done. But it didn't get easier.
"I wish you didn't have to go," I said helplessly. She didn't say anything. I let a minivan move in front of me. "Marriage=1 Man + 1 Woman", the sticker on the bumper said. I wondered what kind of person insisted that nothing ever changes, that everything has to be the same forever. I could understand deriving some comfort from that notion, but it wasn't reality. Life wasn't like that.
"I'm going to miss the hell out of you," I said. I knew she didn't want to hear it, but I had to hear myself say it.
I found the airport exit, waited my turn, and then accelerated onto the ramp. This was it, a split in the path of our lives together, an onramp onto another part of our lives. The same, but also very different.
"I will be here when you get back," I said to her. She knew that, I'm sure, but she remained silent. When I pulled over at the curb, she got out without a word. I got out and helped her get her suitcases out, tipping the redcap as he spirited the bags away.
She slung her pink and black carry on over her shoulder, then turned to me, pressing against me, turning her head to one side and grabbing me tightly. I let my arms find her waist, and we stood there for a moment, among the chaos and the noises and the exhaust fumes. I eyed a cop warily, who looked like he was going to ask me to move along. He suddenly thought better of it.
"I'm sorry," she said into my chest.
"It's OK," I said.
"Goodbye," she said.
"Goodbye," I said, and she turned and walked into the terminal.
I got back into my car and moved back into the traffic pattern. I had lived alone before, and I could do it again. There would be less bickering about the television, and I could probably go to the movies more. Things would be different without her. But that was the thing about love. When you were in love, when you were part of something larger than yourself, you felt incomplete when your other half was gone. You missed the sound, the smell, the touch. You even missed the aggravation.
We had tried listening to music, but she wasn't happy with that. An audiobook was next, but that wasn't any good either. I tuned in the baseball game, but she complained about that too. So we drove in silence, riding down the claustrophobic highway that runs through the state on the way to the airport. The buildings are unusually close to the road as you rush by them, as if the size of the state left them no room to spread out. It reminded me of Luke Skywalker flying into the tunnel, trying to destroy the Death Star.
"She came from Providence," I sang softly, "the one in Rhode Island-"
"I don't want to listen to you sing," she said flatly.
"Can I hum?," I asked.
"Shut up," she explained.
I slowed down as we approached a forest of brake lights. We had left ridiculously early, my father's prudent planning showing through. Even with traffic, we'd be at the airport 3 hours before her flight.
"I don't know why you insist I use Providence instead of Boston."
"It's nicer. It's cheaper. It's easier to get to. It's smaller."
"Bigger isn't always bad," she said.
I let that sit.
"Did you know there are counties in Texas bigger than Rhode Island?"
"Did you know I don't care?," she said.
The traffic loosened again and I went forward, only to have it slow down again. Progress by increments. Forward a little bit, then stop again. We listened to the little creaks and shifts and bumps that cars make when they are uncovered by silence.
"When do you think you can come back?," I said.
"I told you I don't know. It's going to take as long as it takes."
"I know you don't know. But when do you think?"
"Not for at least a month."
"You can call, right?"
"I'll call when I can," she said evenly. She half turned, looking out the window. "I'll be busy."
"I know. I just want you to know that I'll miss you." The traffic stopped again, right next to a billboard for a strip club. I thought about the time I went in one, congratulating a friend after he passed his boards, the parody of sexuality it was, love and sex and beauty reduced to a cold, unsentimental business transaction.
"I know that," she said.
"One of my father's friends was away from his wife for a year and a half once. And they survived."
"That doesn't help," she said softly. "Nothing helps, nothing makes it any better. We've said everything that there is for us to say. There isn't anything else. I don't want to do this, but I have to. I'll stay in touch as best I can. You'll write me, I'll write you. You'll miss me, I'll miss you. I just don't want to talk about it any more. I don't want to think about it anymore. I just want to get there, and get it done, and get back as quick as I possibly can so we can get back to our lives. That's it. That's all I want. I need this job, and we need the money. So just let me do it my own way. Don't comfort me. Don't tell me it's going to be OK. Because it's not."
We accelerated again, then stopped, creeping and beeping towards the airport exit. I could feel the seconds ticking by. She had been away before, and so had I. It had to be done. But it didn't get easier.
"I wish you didn't have to go," I said helplessly. She didn't say anything. I let a minivan move in front of me. "Marriage=1 Man + 1 Woman", the sticker on the bumper said. I wondered what kind of person insisted that nothing ever changes, that everything has to be the same forever. I could understand deriving some comfort from that notion, but it wasn't reality. Life wasn't like that.
"I'm going to miss the hell out of you," I said. I knew she didn't want to hear it, but I had to hear myself say it.
I found the airport exit, waited my turn, and then accelerated onto the ramp. This was it, a split in the path of our lives together, an onramp onto another part of our lives. The same, but also very different.
"I will be here when you get back," I said to her. She knew that, I'm sure, but she remained silent. When I pulled over at the curb, she got out without a word. I got out and helped her get her suitcases out, tipping the redcap as he spirited the bags away.
She slung her pink and black carry on over her shoulder, then turned to me, pressing against me, turning her head to one side and grabbing me tightly. I let my arms find her waist, and we stood there for a moment, among the chaos and the noises and the exhaust fumes. I eyed a cop warily, who looked like he was going to ask me to move along. He suddenly thought better of it.
"I'm sorry," she said into my chest.
"It's OK," I said.
"Goodbye," she said.
"Goodbye," I said, and she turned and walked into the terminal.
I got back into my car and moved back into the traffic pattern. I had lived alone before, and I could do it again. There would be less bickering about the television, and I could probably go to the movies more. Things would be different without her. But that was the thing about love. When you were in love, when you were part of something larger than yourself, you felt incomplete when your other half was gone. You missed the sound, the smell, the touch. You even missed the aggravation.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Terrible Minds Challenge: "The Marianas Trench"
Chuck Wendig, owner of all things Terribly Minded and master of all he surveys, has another Flash Fiction Contest, this time about settings. I chose The Bottom Of The Ocean, and present to you "The Marianas Trench".
Even the waves sounded unsettled. The constant grumbling of water hitting the shore echoed my unsettled stomach. I was nervous. I really had no reason to be. The day had opened gray and surly, low clouds promising rain that they hadn't yet delivered. Everything was clothed in a fog so thick you could hear the ocean, but not see it. I didn't know what I expected to find here, but I was pretty sure that, whatever it was, it wouldn't live up to my expectations. Nothing ever did.
"Just walk along the path, along Ocean Boulevard, where those benches are, next to the beach, and I'll meet you. I run down that path every morning with my dog Sparky, before 7. I have no problem chatting for a bit." That was the message she had left me, next to a tiny picture of Sparky, when I saw it on my Facebook page this morning. Business had left me in her city with a morning to kill before my flight leaves.
I had found her at that 21st century watering hole, apologizing at length for the atrocious way I had treated her, 20 years and several lifetimes ago. "No worries, we were young," she said then. When I discovered I would be within a few miles of her home, I asked for the meeting, not being shocked that she didn't immediately respond. When I saw her note this morning, it jump started a frenzy of activity, packing my clothes and showering and taking a taxi to be on the path at the right time.
I saw her pop out of the murk. She had a light jacket over some sort of exercise top and tight running pants. I gawked. I couldn't help myself. She still had the firm body of a teenager. If you didn't know, she could pass for a tall undergraduate, her long hair swinging back and forth as she ran, her dog, a friendly looking beagle, happily trotting along beside. Her face was unmistakable, angular and sharp like the prow of a ship.
"Sarah?," I said when she came close enough.
"Oh! Oh!," she said softly. That was absolutely her. Her voice was almost a whisper. I knelt down to acquaint myself with her dog, resting my luggage on the ground. I let him sniff me, then scratched him behind his ears gently. "I didn't recognize you with a mustache, Jon." And with 50 more pounds, she didn't say.
"It's me," I said. I wasn't sure what else to say. My heart pounded. "Your dog is beautiful," I said. So are you, I didn't mention. Age gave her a seriousness she never had before. She didn't need me to protect her from anything now. Maybe she never did.
"You teach marine biology, huh?," I continued, grappling for a handhold on the conversation.
"Yes," she said. "We're leaving on a research trip this afternoon. Three weeks diving to the bottom of the ocean."
"Three weeks?," I said. "What happens to this guy?" Sparky looked up at me, as if he knew I meant him.
"He stays with Aunt Sherry here on land. One of my students."
"What are you studying?"
"Basically, the life forms at different levels of the sea, and how they interact." She was dancing back and forth on her toes, almost like she was a boxer. Everything she did was uncommonly graceful.
"Don't robots do that?"
"Sometimes. Other times, we go down there."
"Down to the bottom of the ocean?" I thought about all that water, tons and tons and tons of it, pressing down on a fragile little cocoon of steel. I imagined her down there, her hair pulled back into a sensible bun, like she wore when she danced, checking items off a list or urgently typing on a laptop.
"Nearly," she said. She started stretching, trying to stay loose. She bent low from the waist and I peeked at her decolletage. It looked familiar. I remembered what she looked like 20 years ago without a top on, tiny, precious, and vulnerable, bones visible through the skin. She probably looked the same now.
"That must be scary. All that pressure bearing down on you."
"Well, it's like my boss says," she said, chuckling. "If anything goes wrong, there's nothing you can do about it, so there's no sense worrying. Nobody is coming to the rescue."
I felt a spasm of worry. Don't go, I wanted to say. Stay here. Stay with me. Let's find what we had before.
"You look great," I said, looking into her kind eyes, seeing how they were starting to wrinkle at the sides.
"Thank you," she said. "I try to stay in shape."
"We were something back then, weren't we?"
"Yes, we were," she said. "It was a long time ago. We were just kids. We didn't know what love was."
We know better now, I thought. Come back East with me. Let's make it happen again.
"I'm not sure I know now," I said.
"I'm not either," she said ruefully. "But I'm getting closer."
Sparky started to strain at his leash. A seagull was walking by, heedless of the danger.
"You have to catch your plane," she said.
"You're right," I said. I thought about her, alone under all that water, intent on her work, as far away from others as you can be. What kind of person does that? Clearly not the same girl who cried while I rubbed her aching legs. She didn't need anyone. Certainly not me.
"It was nice meeting you."
"You too."
"Good luck."
"Bye."
I watched her walk away, then break into a run, someone I was close to, now as distant as the very bottom of the Marianas Trench.
Even the waves sounded unsettled. The constant grumbling of water hitting the shore echoed my unsettled stomach. I was nervous. I really had no reason to be. The day had opened gray and surly, low clouds promising rain that they hadn't yet delivered. Everything was clothed in a fog so thick you could hear the ocean, but not see it. I didn't know what I expected to find here, but I was pretty sure that, whatever it was, it wouldn't live up to my expectations. Nothing ever did.
"Just walk along the path, along Ocean Boulevard, where those benches are, next to the beach, and I'll meet you. I run down that path every morning with my dog Sparky, before 7. I have no problem chatting for a bit." That was the message she had left me, next to a tiny picture of Sparky, when I saw it on my Facebook page this morning. Business had left me in her city with a morning to kill before my flight leaves.
I had found her at that 21st century watering hole, apologizing at length for the atrocious way I had treated her, 20 years and several lifetimes ago. "No worries, we were young," she said then. When I discovered I would be within a few miles of her home, I asked for the meeting, not being shocked that she didn't immediately respond. When I saw her note this morning, it jump started a frenzy of activity, packing my clothes and showering and taking a taxi to be on the path at the right time.
I saw her pop out of the murk. She had a light jacket over some sort of exercise top and tight running pants. I gawked. I couldn't help myself. She still had the firm body of a teenager. If you didn't know, she could pass for a tall undergraduate, her long hair swinging back and forth as she ran, her dog, a friendly looking beagle, happily trotting along beside. Her face was unmistakable, angular and sharp like the prow of a ship.
"Sarah?," I said when she came close enough.
"Oh! Oh!," she said softly. That was absolutely her. Her voice was almost a whisper. I knelt down to acquaint myself with her dog, resting my luggage on the ground. I let him sniff me, then scratched him behind his ears gently. "I didn't recognize you with a mustache, Jon." And with 50 more pounds, she didn't say.
"It's me," I said. I wasn't sure what else to say. My heart pounded. "Your dog is beautiful," I said. So are you, I didn't mention. Age gave her a seriousness she never had before. She didn't need me to protect her from anything now. Maybe she never did.
"You teach marine biology, huh?," I continued, grappling for a handhold on the conversation.
"Yes," she said. "We're leaving on a research trip this afternoon. Three weeks diving to the bottom of the ocean."
"Three weeks?," I said. "What happens to this guy?" Sparky looked up at me, as if he knew I meant him.
"He stays with Aunt Sherry here on land. One of my students."
"What are you studying?"
"Basically, the life forms at different levels of the sea, and how they interact." She was dancing back and forth on her toes, almost like she was a boxer. Everything she did was uncommonly graceful.
"Don't robots do that?"
"Sometimes. Other times, we go down there."
"Down to the bottom of the ocean?" I thought about all that water, tons and tons and tons of it, pressing down on a fragile little cocoon of steel. I imagined her down there, her hair pulled back into a sensible bun, like she wore when she danced, checking items off a list or urgently typing on a laptop.
"Nearly," she said. She started stretching, trying to stay loose. She bent low from the waist and I peeked at her decolletage. It looked familiar. I remembered what she looked like 20 years ago without a top on, tiny, precious, and vulnerable, bones visible through the skin. She probably looked the same now.
"That must be scary. All that pressure bearing down on you."
"Well, it's like my boss says," she said, chuckling. "If anything goes wrong, there's nothing you can do about it, so there's no sense worrying. Nobody is coming to the rescue."
I felt a spasm of worry. Don't go, I wanted to say. Stay here. Stay with me. Let's find what we had before.
"You look great," I said, looking into her kind eyes, seeing how they were starting to wrinkle at the sides.
"Thank you," she said. "I try to stay in shape."
"We were something back then, weren't we?"
"Yes, we were," she said. "It was a long time ago. We were just kids. We didn't know what love was."
We know better now, I thought. Come back East with me. Let's make it happen again.
"I'm not sure I know now," I said.
"I'm not either," she said ruefully. "But I'm getting closer."
Sparky started to strain at his leash. A seagull was walking by, heedless of the danger.
"You have to catch your plane," she said.
"You're right," I said. I thought about her, alone under all that water, intent on her work, as far away from others as you can be. What kind of person does that? Clearly not the same girl who cried while I rubbed her aching legs. She didn't need anyone. Certainly not me.
"It was nice meeting you."
"You too."
"Good luck."
"Bye."
I watched her walk away, then break into a run, someone I was close to, now as distant as the very bottom of the Marianas Trench.
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