This week's IndieInk Writing Challenge comes to me from Trish, who asks what I have done that I didn't think I could do. This is not an easy question for me- I have done very little, and I think I am capable of even less. I never learned to ski, or play the piano, or play the piano on skis. But challenges are to make us stretch, so stretch I will. (My challenge will be answered by Alyssa.)
I don't know how to approach this through the front door. I'm not a inspirational person by nature. I don't dislike inspirational stories- you will find no bigger fan than me of Randy Pausch's "The Last Lecture" (the book, the audiobook, or the lecture itself). But I have trouble translating inspirational stories into the blood and sinew and bounced check fees and library overdue fines of my own life. I read it and feel inspired, but when I come away from it, the lessons don't seem real.
I'd like to tell you about a big goal I set, worked hard for, and achieved. That seems to be the point here- dreaming a big dream, then achieving it. I guess having a child suffices- that certainly wasn't hard to achieve for us, but the nature of it as an achievement is questionable. Graduating college, maybe- I certainly had my doubts I could do that, and I did. But that was less a matter of achievement than one of stubbornness- I graduated because I was too stubborn not to.
So once again, I'm going to attempt a bank shot. I'm doing this because I can't think of what else to do, and I'm doing this because I have an instinctive distaste for talking about myself. (Strange quality in a blogger, I admit.) In truth, I am doing this because it feels like the only thing I can do. What follows is fiction.
"Chase? Chase? Are you listening to me?"
"Yes, love."
"I don't think I can do this."
"Of course you can do it."
"No, no...I really don't think I can."
"Why?"
"It's so big. Such a big thing to do. Bigger than anything. It's too large for anyone to handle. I know it's natural, and it's normal. But it is too much for me to handle. Too much work, too much stress, too much."
"People handle it all the time."
"I know. I feel like a freak for saying so, but I'm scared. I'm scared of what this will to do me, what it will do to us."
"I know," Chase said. "I'm scared, too. But I'm here for you. With you, You don't have to do it alone."
"Believe me, I appreciate that. I do. But there are parts- like this part- I have to do by myself. You can't do this for me."
"I know." Chase was quiet.
After a few minutes, she spoke again. "Chase?"
"Yes?"
"It doesn't matter if I'm ready or not, does it?"
"No, it really doesn't. This is happening whether or not we're ready. But I think we're ready. We're as ready as anybody is, doing this."
"I don't think we're ready. I don't feel ready. There's so much to know."
"We'll figure it out."
"We don't have a lot of time. Any time."
"No, no we don't," Chase said.
"Don't you feel guilty? I mean, don't you feel like we should be better prepared? It's our fault she is here."
"I know. But we'll learn."
"I can't help but think we should have gotten ready. Read a book or took a class or something."
"Maybe. But we're here now. We know what we know, and what we don't know, we'll learn. But I'll be with you, every step of the way. I'm not going to abandon you."
"OK," the doctor said. "Time to push!"
Wednesday, April 06, 2011
Sunday, April 03, 2011
Explain The Unexplainable: "New Kid In Town"
I have been a fan of Chuck Wendig's weird and wonderful writing site, Terrible Minds, for a while now. While decidedly NSFW, Chuck has a lot of interesting things to say about the craft and how it's done. He has been posting flash fiction challenges, and while I have tried a couple of times, I never had anything worth putting up until now. This week's is based on a set of truly horrifying stock photographs, available here, and the challenge, issued here, is to write a story based on one of the pictures. My story, New Kid In Town, is based on picture number 40.
Amanda Heymann opened the door, then shut it just as quickly. She didn't, Amanda thought in foot high letters across her eyelids. Another part of her brain reminded her that her mother, obviously, had. She had told her mother that her first birthday in her new town didn't mean anything- that she needn't bother, that it didn't matter, that she wouldn't care. She had seen, in the flash of color and riot of smell and sound when she had opened their front door, that her mother had bothered.
Amanda thought briefly about leaving- simply taking off, walking back down the driveway. She didn't have anywhere to go, of course- no boyfriend, no sympathetic older sister with a car to drive her to safety. She could just walk, going down sidewalk after sidewalk in flight from the party, but that would bring attention and concern. Amanda wanted that even less than she wanted this.
She opened the door and stepped inside. Her mother Nancy was coming out of the kitchen, adding a plate full of what looked like Geno's Pizza Rolls. There were maybe 15 or 20 faces she knew from her new school, scattered around her living room in clumps of 2 and 3 and 4.
"Honey, you're home," Amanda's mother said, "I just couldn't stand the thought of not doing anything for your birthday, so your teachers helped me find some of your school friends to have a little party. Isn't that fun?" She used her high, tight, overly cheerful tone, the tone of voice that sounds like glossy photographs look. It was her tone when she was trying to convince herself of whatever she was trying to tell you.
Amanda walked across the carpet, measuring her steps carefully. To her right was Sara, she knew, a willowy blonde who seemed above the earthly concerns of mortals, along with a tall, athletic boy who kept one hand on her whenever he possibly could. She saw Zane, a dark haired boy she would admit only to herself she wanted to get to know, along with a bitter, gossipy trio from her Spanish class she called "The Harpies" inside her head. She saw on her dining room table that the food her Mom had come up with was at least being eaten- so they couldn't tease her about that, she reasoned. More was gone than sheer politeness would require.
She saw Jane, a short, dark-haired girl who seemed a tiny bit frightening and intense, talking with a broad, expansive redhead, making the taller girl laugh softly, as if she was used to choking off her natural reactions. Amy was alone by the table, chewing excessively on a tortilla chip with salsa while an overweight boy she knew sat in her math class seemed to be telling her the denouement of a long, complicated story.
Amanda kept walking. Her mother had plugged her iPod into the little speakers attachment a thoughtful uncle had sent, and she imagined that her musical taste was drawing little snickers from around the room. She saw balloons, and streamers, and thought that the only thing that proved that she was no longer 8 years old was the taller party guests and the absence of a piƱata.
She looked around at them, huddled in their groups and their private worlds. Why did they even come? She felt sweat starting to trickle down her back, and her skin itched under her black hair. No one spoke to her, continuing their conversations as if she had never come in. Her mother was bustling away in the kitchen again. She finally reached the door to the laundry room, opening it and stepping through, closing it behind her quietly.
It was an insane thing to do, she thought. There were probably a few eyes on the back of the door now, and without a doubt her mother would drag her out of here in another minute. It was one of those things that made sense for just a moment. She had to be away, even for mere seconds, from the judgment in their eyes. She couldn't believe her mother had done this. It was like so many things she did- sweet, well meant, but utterly wrong.
There was a single pink balloon that drifted in here from the living room, and Amanda grabbed it and pulled it down. She looked at the decorative ribbon curled around her fist with its chipped nail polish and patches of itchy skin. She felt dizzy, nauseous and uncomfortable, holding on to a single pink balloon, abandoned in a room by itself. She felt another sudden, sad impulse- suddenly imagining stripping off her clothes, climbing into the dryer and sitting there, her face buried against her own knees, like she did when she was 6 and just needed so desperately to be apart.
Amanda stood there, balloon in her tightly clenched fist, tears making silent hot tracks down her cheeks, when she heard the knocking, gentle at first, then more insistent. "'Manda?," her mother was saying in a voice that she thought was soft, "You need to come out and be with your friends." She had no idea, Amanda thought, her body sliding down until she was sitting on the floor, how wrong every part of that sentence was.
Amanda Heymann opened the door, then shut it just as quickly. She didn't, Amanda thought in foot high letters across her eyelids. Another part of her brain reminded her that her mother, obviously, had. She had told her mother that her first birthday in her new town didn't mean anything- that she needn't bother, that it didn't matter, that she wouldn't care. She had seen, in the flash of color and riot of smell and sound when she had opened their front door, that her mother had bothered.
Amanda thought briefly about leaving- simply taking off, walking back down the driveway. She didn't have anywhere to go, of course- no boyfriend, no sympathetic older sister with a car to drive her to safety. She could just walk, going down sidewalk after sidewalk in flight from the party, but that would bring attention and concern. Amanda wanted that even less than she wanted this.
She opened the door and stepped inside. Her mother Nancy was coming out of the kitchen, adding a plate full of what looked like Geno's Pizza Rolls. There were maybe 15 or 20 faces she knew from her new school, scattered around her living room in clumps of 2 and 3 and 4.
"Honey, you're home," Amanda's mother said, "I just couldn't stand the thought of not doing anything for your birthday, so your teachers helped me find some of your school friends to have a little party. Isn't that fun?" She used her high, tight, overly cheerful tone, the tone of voice that sounds like glossy photographs look. It was her tone when she was trying to convince herself of whatever she was trying to tell you.
Amanda walked across the carpet, measuring her steps carefully. To her right was Sara, she knew, a willowy blonde who seemed above the earthly concerns of mortals, along with a tall, athletic boy who kept one hand on her whenever he possibly could. She saw Zane, a dark haired boy she would admit only to herself she wanted to get to know, along with a bitter, gossipy trio from her Spanish class she called "The Harpies" inside her head. She saw on her dining room table that the food her Mom had come up with was at least being eaten- so they couldn't tease her about that, she reasoned. More was gone than sheer politeness would require.
She saw Jane, a short, dark-haired girl who seemed a tiny bit frightening and intense, talking with a broad, expansive redhead, making the taller girl laugh softly, as if she was used to choking off her natural reactions. Amy was alone by the table, chewing excessively on a tortilla chip with salsa while an overweight boy she knew sat in her math class seemed to be telling her the denouement of a long, complicated story.
Amanda kept walking. Her mother had plugged her iPod into the little speakers attachment a thoughtful uncle had sent, and she imagined that her musical taste was drawing little snickers from around the room. She saw balloons, and streamers, and thought that the only thing that proved that she was no longer 8 years old was the taller party guests and the absence of a piƱata.
She looked around at them, huddled in their groups and their private worlds. Why did they even come? She felt sweat starting to trickle down her back, and her skin itched under her black hair. No one spoke to her, continuing their conversations as if she had never come in. Her mother was bustling away in the kitchen again. She finally reached the door to the laundry room, opening it and stepping through, closing it behind her quietly.
It was an insane thing to do, she thought. There were probably a few eyes on the back of the door now, and without a doubt her mother would drag her out of here in another minute. It was one of those things that made sense for just a moment. She had to be away, even for mere seconds, from the judgment in their eyes. She couldn't believe her mother had done this. It was like so many things she did- sweet, well meant, but utterly wrong.
There was a single pink balloon that drifted in here from the living room, and Amanda grabbed it and pulled it down. She looked at the decorative ribbon curled around her fist with its chipped nail polish and patches of itchy skin. She felt dizzy, nauseous and uncomfortable, holding on to a single pink balloon, abandoned in a room by itself. She felt another sudden, sad impulse- suddenly imagining stripping off her clothes, climbing into the dryer and sitting there, her face buried against her own knees, like she did when she was 6 and just needed so desperately to be apart.
Amanda stood there, balloon in her tightly clenched fist, tears making silent hot tracks down her cheeks, when she heard the knocking, gentle at first, then more insistent. "'Manda?," her mother was saying in a voice that she thought was soft, "You need to come out and be with your friends." She had no idea, Amanda thought, her body sliding down until she was sitting on the floor, how wrong every part of that sentence was.
Friday, April 01, 2011
Flash Time!
The Flash Fiction gang has another batch of stories up, this time on the theme "Another World". I was once again denied entrance to this sacred castle, but given the quality contained herein, I'm not terribly surprised. Go forth and read, dear friends.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Where's Da Baseball?
In the unlikely event you are coming here for baseball coverage, I have made the executive decision to move baseball talk onto a separate blog, available here. You're welcome.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
100 Word Challenge: Year End Review
Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge would have made the Final Four easily, if not for those pesky rules about having to be a college basketball team. This week's word is "Voice" and my story is called "Year End Review"
"All your trend lines are down," she said to me in a soft tone, "even your Voice of the Client Feedback, which was always good. Can you tell me what's going on?"
I don't care, I wanted to say. You've pounded me with pointless directives, initiatives to do this, followed immediately by orders to do the opposite. I know my life, and my family's life, depends on remaining in your favor- but I'm finding it difficult to continue to care.
"Gee, boss," I said as sincerely as I could. "I'll try to do better."
"All your trend lines are down," she said to me in a soft tone, "even your Voice of the Client Feedback, which was always good. Can you tell me what's going on?"
I don't care, I wanted to say. You've pounded me with pointless directives, initiatives to do this, followed immediately by orders to do the opposite. I know my life, and my family's life, depends on remaining in your favor- but I'm finding it difficult to continue to care.
"Gee, boss," I said as sincerely as I could. "I'll try to do better."
IndieInk Writing Challenge: "In The Room"
This week's IndieInk Writing Challenge was presented to me by lovely Lilu, who asked me to watch this and "write a horror piece with a single element from the clip. Anything that caught your eye." My own challenge will be responded to over here.
This is not an easy thing for me. I am not a horror person- I find life is plenty scary enough. Anything beyond an action sequence in a suspense movie gives me the willies. (Strangely, I have very little problem with gore in a Jason Bourne or James Bond film. But if the protagonist is more normal, as they are in many horror films (as far as I know), I can't take it for some reason. I used to read Stephen King, like a lot of teenagers, but I sort of drifted away from him. (The last thing of his I read was an excerpt that Esquire magazine printed.) )
But I watched the clip, which is a little gruesome. It's kind of hard to follow- being, of necessity, a clip, a smaller part of a larger whole, you don't know who the people are and what their relationships and antagonisms are. But I watched it. As seems to be the norm for me with these Challenges, one idea grabbed me almost immediately and wouldn't let go. In the beginning of the clip, the younger woman is in a room that looks somewhat like a police station's interrogation room. (Or, at least, what they look like on television. I have never been inside a police interrogation room.) (So far.) That's what wound up grabbing me, and, for good or ill, here it is.
The room was a square, about 20 feet on each side. Nobody ever measured it, but if you asked anyone who had been in there, they would say it was about 20 feet on each side. The floor was plain cement, without the same tan tile with that weird marbling pattern that the rest of the building had. The walls were more cement, painted a uniform gray, leading up to a tan ceiling made of soundproof tile and a single light bulb, trapped behind an iron cage. There were no windows, and a single door, which slammed shut with the finality of a tomb whenever anyone left. The lock clicked as the door shut, reminding whoever was left in there that they weren't going to leave until the people in charge decided they would.
There was a very slight slope to the room. One barely noticed it until you walked around the perimeter and started to feel the slight downward slant, the room terminating in one corner with a solid metal grate on the floor. It was a curious property of the room until you realized that the slant, and the grate that allowed liquid to pass, but not solids, allowed the room to be hosed down if necessary. In the center of the room was a table, with a few lightweight plastic chairs around the room. When you went into the room, you could be on the moon, or on a battleship in the Aegean Sea, or 2 miles underground- part of the effectiveness of the room was the feeling you got that you were far from anyone who knew or cared about where you were.
The room had been host to all of the liquids a human body could produce, from excretory to reproductive and everywhere in between. In darker times, people were encouraged to admit their guilt through the violent application of club to temple, or forehead to tabletop, spurting jets of blood that would be rinsed away into the sewers. A woman had actually gone into labor in the room, giving birth right there on the unforgiving hard floor when her insistence that she needed medical attention was ignored for the last time. Drunks and addicts had let their bowels and bladders go here, either in insensate gloom or haughty defiance.
The room had heard confessions of all kinds- embezzlers, car thieves, fraudsters and cheats and runaway fathers and mothers and children. People had admitted to every manner of coupling- fathers with daughters, mothers with sons, uncles with nephews, teachers with students- as well as every variety of killing. The dead eyed stare of the young killer, just out for the contents of a wallet or a cash register, or the manic, wide eyed jabber of the serial rapist, striking because the voices told him to. The accountant with wire rimmed glasses and a careful, precise accent who recounted skimming millions from the charity he monitored. The new mother, her red rimmed eyes wide as she insists to them she had no idea how her new baby ended up at the bottom of a full bathtub. The wife who couldn't take it anymore, the husband who couldn't stand the contemptful glare of a once beloved companion, the child who didn't want to spend one more night terrified of the opening of the bedroom door.
The room had heard lies- fantastic stories of rooms full of people who would swear someone was where they were not, bartenders and boyfriends who could prove that they couldn't have been where the act had occurred. Escorts who would say they were with the suspect, say without question knew where he was that night. Stories about masked men who forced them to do unspeakable things, kidnapped cousins or blackmailed spouses forcing people to do what they didn't wish to do. The room had heard truth, too- cases of mistaken identity that went unbelieved until it was too late. The room had been witness to every manner of human perversion- rotten thoughts, black acts, unnatural drives, hideous cruelty. The room revealed nothing, said nothing, told nothing- for all the acts, private and public, small and large, that had occurred or been described within its walls, it bore silent, gray witness, the chamber that held its secrets forever.
This is not an easy thing for me. I am not a horror person- I find life is plenty scary enough. Anything beyond an action sequence in a suspense movie gives me the willies. (Strangely, I have very little problem with gore in a Jason Bourne or James Bond film. But if the protagonist is more normal, as they are in many horror films (as far as I know), I can't take it for some reason. I used to read Stephen King, like a lot of teenagers, but I sort of drifted away from him. (The last thing of his I read was an excerpt that Esquire magazine printed.) )
But I watched the clip, which is a little gruesome. It's kind of hard to follow- being, of necessity, a clip, a smaller part of a larger whole, you don't know who the people are and what their relationships and antagonisms are. But I watched it. As seems to be the norm for me with these Challenges, one idea grabbed me almost immediately and wouldn't let go. In the beginning of the clip, the younger woman is in a room that looks somewhat like a police station's interrogation room. (Or, at least, what they look like on television. I have never been inside a police interrogation room.) (So far.) That's what wound up grabbing me, and, for good or ill, here it is.
The room was a square, about 20 feet on each side. Nobody ever measured it, but if you asked anyone who had been in there, they would say it was about 20 feet on each side. The floor was plain cement, without the same tan tile with that weird marbling pattern that the rest of the building had. The walls were more cement, painted a uniform gray, leading up to a tan ceiling made of soundproof tile and a single light bulb, trapped behind an iron cage. There were no windows, and a single door, which slammed shut with the finality of a tomb whenever anyone left. The lock clicked as the door shut, reminding whoever was left in there that they weren't going to leave until the people in charge decided they would.
There was a very slight slope to the room. One barely noticed it until you walked around the perimeter and started to feel the slight downward slant, the room terminating in one corner with a solid metal grate on the floor. It was a curious property of the room until you realized that the slant, and the grate that allowed liquid to pass, but not solids, allowed the room to be hosed down if necessary. In the center of the room was a table, with a few lightweight plastic chairs around the room. When you went into the room, you could be on the moon, or on a battleship in the Aegean Sea, or 2 miles underground- part of the effectiveness of the room was the feeling you got that you were far from anyone who knew or cared about where you were.
The room had been host to all of the liquids a human body could produce, from excretory to reproductive and everywhere in between. In darker times, people were encouraged to admit their guilt through the violent application of club to temple, or forehead to tabletop, spurting jets of blood that would be rinsed away into the sewers. A woman had actually gone into labor in the room, giving birth right there on the unforgiving hard floor when her insistence that she needed medical attention was ignored for the last time. Drunks and addicts had let their bowels and bladders go here, either in insensate gloom or haughty defiance.
The room had heard confessions of all kinds- embezzlers, car thieves, fraudsters and cheats and runaway fathers and mothers and children. People had admitted to every manner of coupling- fathers with daughters, mothers with sons, uncles with nephews, teachers with students- as well as every variety of killing. The dead eyed stare of the young killer, just out for the contents of a wallet or a cash register, or the manic, wide eyed jabber of the serial rapist, striking because the voices told him to. The accountant with wire rimmed glasses and a careful, precise accent who recounted skimming millions from the charity he monitored. The new mother, her red rimmed eyes wide as she insists to them she had no idea how her new baby ended up at the bottom of a full bathtub. The wife who couldn't take it anymore, the husband who couldn't stand the contemptful glare of a once beloved companion, the child who didn't want to spend one more night terrified of the opening of the bedroom door.
The room had heard lies- fantastic stories of rooms full of people who would swear someone was where they were not, bartenders and boyfriends who could prove that they couldn't have been where the act had occurred. Escorts who would say they were with the suspect, say without question knew where he was that night. Stories about masked men who forced them to do unspeakable things, kidnapped cousins or blackmailed spouses forcing people to do what they didn't wish to do. The room had heard truth, too- cases of mistaken identity that went unbelieved until it was too late. The room had been witness to every manner of human perversion- rotten thoughts, black acts, unnatural drives, hideous cruelty. The room revealed nothing, said nothing, told nothing- for all the acts, private and public, small and large, that had occurred or been described within its walls, it bore silent, gray witness, the chamber that held its secrets forever.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
From the ash heap of history...
Two rejections from 52/250 Land this morning. The first one is on the theme, "Broken Shells", and the second on the theme "Another World". Presented without further comment.
In The Dirt
Alonzo Fairchild was eating roasted peanuts out of a wrinkled paper bag. Alonzo took out the peanut with one hand, expertly shed the outside with his thumb, popped the innards into his mouth, dropped the husk onto the ground. The twilight held onto the day's heat like a bad rumor. His granddaughter came down the rickety stairs behind him and onto their postage stamp front lawn. He remembered her as a helpless infant, now she was growing round with her own child, a fact that made him feel impossibly ancient.
"You're making a mess, Grandpappy," she said in her little girl's voice. I don't care, he thought. I don't care about making messes. The world is just a squalling, ugly, dirty mess of babies being born and people drawing their last. There isn't any point in caring, because after it all gets counted up, you're just as dead as those peanuts. It doesn't matter what you do, everything you are and everything you know and everything you did ends up in the dirt.
"I'm sorry, baby," he said. He reached down from his lawn chair with difficulty, starting to gather up the leavings.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Grandpappy," she said happily, and walked down the sidewalk to catch the bus. Alonzo waited until she had rounded the corner, shelled a fresh peanut, and let the outside fall onto the ground.
Dreamland
She was beautiful. It was a word I used too much, which tended to dull its impact, but she wasn't just regular person beautiful, she was movie star beautiful. She was literally the most beautiful person I had ever seen. Even her flaws were beautiful. She had long, wavy black hair pulled into a pony tail, with skin the color of tea with a lot of milk in it. Her skin was flawless, and her curves seemed to beg for a cocktail dress and high heeled shoes. She didn't dress up at all- just khakis and simple flat sneakers, but she looked glamorous, better than other people without looking like she was trying to be. She had a certain familiarity- I didn't know her, but I had seen her before, and every time I did, my breath stopped and my brain froze. We apparently shopped at the same places, and now here she was, shopping where I worked. I drunk her in- brown eyes, pert nose, mouth bemused like she was laughing at a joke no one else can hear. I wanted to run off with her, just go someplace where I could sit and read to her under a tree and watch boats come into the harbor.
I snapped back into myself, suddenly hearing the silence and feeling the stares of people waiting behind her.
"I'm sorry?"
"I have an order to pick up. Baker?"
"Ah. Got it."
In The Dirt
Alonzo Fairchild was eating roasted peanuts out of a wrinkled paper bag. Alonzo took out the peanut with one hand, expertly shed the outside with his thumb, popped the innards into his mouth, dropped the husk onto the ground. The twilight held onto the day's heat like a bad rumor. His granddaughter came down the rickety stairs behind him and onto their postage stamp front lawn. He remembered her as a helpless infant, now she was growing round with her own child, a fact that made him feel impossibly ancient.
"You're making a mess, Grandpappy," she said in her little girl's voice. I don't care, he thought. I don't care about making messes. The world is just a squalling, ugly, dirty mess of babies being born and people drawing their last. There isn't any point in caring, because after it all gets counted up, you're just as dead as those peanuts. It doesn't matter what you do, everything you are and everything you know and everything you did ends up in the dirt.
"I'm sorry, baby," he said. He reached down from his lawn chair with difficulty, starting to gather up the leavings.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Grandpappy," she said happily, and walked down the sidewalk to catch the bus. Alonzo waited until she had rounded the corner, shelled a fresh peanut, and let the outside fall onto the ground.
Dreamland
She was beautiful. It was a word I used too much, which tended to dull its impact, but she wasn't just regular person beautiful, she was movie star beautiful. She was literally the most beautiful person I had ever seen. Even her flaws were beautiful. She had long, wavy black hair pulled into a pony tail, with skin the color of tea with a lot of milk in it. Her skin was flawless, and her curves seemed to beg for a cocktail dress and high heeled shoes. She didn't dress up at all- just khakis and simple flat sneakers, but she looked glamorous, better than other people without looking like she was trying to be. She had a certain familiarity- I didn't know her, but I had seen her before, and every time I did, my breath stopped and my brain froze. We apparently shopped at the same places, and now here she was, shopping where I worked. I drunk her in- brown eyes, pert nose, mouth bemused like she was laughing at a joke no one else can hear. I wanted to run off with her, just go someplace where I could sit and read to her under a tree and watch boats come into the harbor.
I snapped back into myself, suddenly hearing the silence and feeling the stares of people waiting behind her.
"I'm sorry?"
"I have an order to pick up. Baker?"
"Ah. Got it."
Monday, March 21, 2011
IndieInk Writing Challenge: "Shout"
It is IndieInk Writing Challenge time again, that time of week where people you don't know ask you things you don't understand in hopes that you will produce something you couldn't have done on your own. Feel free to join the party!
My challenge was issued by the aptly named Sunshine, who writes here and asks "What is one thing you definitely could live without for the rest of your life? (Something you hate, you're tired of, and would be happy if you never had to deal with again.)" My challenge went out to LiLu, who will answer it here.
"Shout, shout, let it all out-
These are the things I can do without-"
Tears for Fears, "Shout"
What can I do without? Lord, where to start? Like most people, I have a laundry list of people, institutions, groups, concepts, practices, theories, and laws I would readily condemn to the ash heap of history, had I dominion over time and space. (A short summary: Sarah Palin, vegetables, unnecessary stop signs, hair loss, the New York Yankees.) That's an easy, jokey way to answer a challenge, and, while I've never been one to turn from the easy way out, that doesn't seem right somehow.
I have tended to lean fictional in these Challenges so far, and while I am pretty sure I could make that work, that just doesn't feel right either. The answer sprung to mind as soon as I read the challenge, and though it makes me distinctly uncomfortable, the thing I really should be writing at is nagging at me. So therefore, to quiet that voice, I will write the piece my brain is telling me to write, despite my misgivings. This might be the most personal piece you've ever seen here, so strap in.
I write. Like a lot of writers, I am melancholic. Negative, pessimistic, glass half empty. Cynical, world weary, beaten down. I have believed for a long time my late father had untreated depression, and indeed, one could argue I'm actually depressed, too. I'm not going to say you're entirely wrong. I am currently not being treated for depression.
I have felt more or less the way I do now for almost 30 years, dating almost exactly to the death of a friend in high school. While certainly in part genetic, I feel pretty strongly that was the precipitating factor in my temperament becoming what it is today. I hesitate very much to admit this, but a small part of my being this way is both habit- I've always been this way, and I don't know any other way to be- and choice- being this way gives me advantages that I don't want to give up.
That- instinctive, instant cynicism, melancholy, and depressive tendencies- is what I think I could live without. To accept things at face value, just punching a clock, working hard, and enjoying my weekends, to be able to just watch a stupid sitcom and not think, think, think about Japan and my health and my son's future and my bills and relationships I'm ignoring and where my life is headed and what it all means and what it's like to be dead and what's that ache I just felt?
What is it like to be like this? If you're not this way, I think describing it is kind of like trying to explain what labor feels like to someone without a uterus. It's a cautious life- you feel your way along like someone testing for land mines with their toe. In my wife's memorable phrase, you assume the worst- you're seldom disappointed, and when you are, it's a pleasant surprise. You assume plans are going to fail, your efforts will go unrewarded, your mail will not be delivered.
It hurts. It feels like everything and everyone is arrayed against you. You see your existence as a cosmic joke. You see the size and weight of existence, and your own puny weight leaning again Shakespeare, Darwin, and even Katy Perry, and you feel foolish for even trying. And you select information- your friends and family and coworkers can tell you that you are valued until they are blue in the face, and you don't believe it. You rule out the good news, and you see those who love you as victims of the shell game. You've managed to seem competent and funny and lovable to them, and you know you're really not.
A bride is a future divorcee, a baby is just going to grow up and leave you alone. Nature is out to kill you. There is a scene in the Simpsons when Bart goes to leave the building he's in, and as soon as the door opens, a sunny, warm day turns instantly into a dark, rainy maelstrom. When you're melancholic, it's always raining, and there's always a dark side.
There's another side, though. Melancholics understand other melancholics. They won't tell you to "suck it up", and they won't tell you "it's not that bad" or "the grass is always greener" or any of the other stupid cliches people use. They won't tell you it's OK, because it's not, but they'll sit there and listen to you, because they know how bad it hurts to be ignored.
"I believe with Schopenhauer that one of the strongest motives that lead men to art and science is to escape from everyday life with its painful crudity and hopeless dreariness, from the fetters of one's own ever-shifting desires."
-Albert Einstein
I think melancholia makes me write, makes me understand (or try to) other people and be able to sympathize with them and write about them. I'm functioning (well, sort of), which makes me think I'm not really depressed. As hard as it can be, I think being melancholic makes me a better writer, and a better person. So even though I'm supposed to be telling you about something I want to get rid of, and even though there are times I would love dearly to just turn my brain off and watch reality TV- that's not what I am. And on balance, melancholy gives more than it takes.
My challenge was issued by the aptly named Sunshine, who writes here and asks "What is one thing you definitely could live without for the rest of your life? (Something you hate, you're tired of, and would be happy if you never had to deal with again.)" My challenge went out to LiLu, who will answer it here.
"Shout, shout, let it all out-
These are the things I can do without-"
Tears for Fears, "Shout"
What can I do without? Lord, where to start? Like most people, I have a laundry list of people, institutions, groups, concepts, practices, theories, and laws I would readily condemn to the ash heap of history, had I dominion over time and space. (A short summary: Sarah Palin, vegetables, unnecessary stop signs, hair loss, the New York Yankees.) That's an easy, jokey way to answer a challenge, and, while I've never been one to turn from the easy way out, that doesn't seem right somehow.
I have tended to lean fictional in these Challenges so far, and while I am pretty sure I could make that work, that just doesn't feel right either. The answer sprung to mind as soon as I read the challenge, and though it makes me distinctly uncomfortable, the thing I really should be writing at is nagging at me. So therefore, to quiet that voice, I will write the piece my brain is telling me to write, despite my misgivings. This might be the most personal piece you've ever seen here, so strap in.
I write. Like a lot of writers, I am melancholic. Negative, pessimistic, glass half empty. Cynical, world weary, beaten down. I have believed for a long time my late father had untreated depression, and indeed, one could argue I'm actually depressed, too. I'm not going to say you're entirely wrong. I am currently not being treated for depression.
I have felt more or less the way I do now for almost 30 years, dating almost exactly to the death of a friend in high school. While certainly in part genetic, I feel pretty strongly that was the precipitating factor in my temperament becoming what it is today. I hesitate very much to admit this, but a small part of my being this way is both habit- I've always been this way, and I don't know any other way to be- and choice- being this way gives me advantages that I don't want to give up.
That- instinctive, instant cynicism, melancholy, and depressive tendencies- is what I think I could live without. To accept things at face value, just punching a clock, working hard, and enjoying my weekends, to be able to just watch a stupid sitcom and not think, think, think about Japan and my health and my son's future and my bills and relationships I'm ignoring and where my life is headed and what it all means and what it's like to be dead and what's that ache I just felt?
What is it like to be like this? If you're not this way, I think describing it is kind of like trying to explain what labor feels like to someone without a uterus. It's a cautious life- you feel your way along like someone testing for land mines with their toe. In my wife's memorable phrase, you assume the worst- you're seldom disappointed, and when you are, it's a pleasant surprise. You assume plans are going to fail, your efforts will go unrewarded, your mail will not be delivered.
It hurts. It feels like everything and everyone is arrayed against you. You see your existence as a cosmic joke. You see the size and weight of existence, and your own puny weight leaning again Shakespeare, Darwin, and even Katy Perry, and you feel foolish for even trying. And you select information- your friends and family and coworkers can tell you that you are valued until they are blue in the face, and you don't believe it. You rule out the good news, and you see those who love you as victims of the shell game. You've managed to seem competent and funny and lovable to them, and you know you're really not.
A bride is a future divorcee, a baby is just going to grow up and leave you alone. Nature is out to kill you. There is a scene in the Simpsons when Bart goes to leave the building he's in, and as soon as the door opens, a sunny, warm day turns instantly into a dark, rainy maelstrom. When you're melancholic, it's always raining, and there's always a dark side.
There's another side, though. Melancholics understand other melancholics. They won't tell you to "suck it up", and they won't tell you "it's not that bad" or "the grass is always greener" or any of the other stupid cliches people use. They won't tell you it's OK, because it's not, but they'll sit there and listen to you, because they know how bad it hurts to be ignored.
"I believe with Schopenhauer that one of the strongest motives that lead men to art and science is to escape from everyday life with its painful crudity and hopeless dreariness, from the fetters of one's own ever-shifting desires."
-Albert Einstein
I think melancholia makes me write, makes me understand (or try to) other people and be able to sympathize with them and write about them. I'm functioning (well, sort of), which makes me think I'm not really depressed. As hard as it can be, I think being melancholic makes me a better writer, and a better person. So even though I'm supposed to be telling you about something I want to get rid of, and even though there are times I would love dearly to just turn my brain off and watch reality TV- that's not what I am. And on balance, melancholy gives more than it takes.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Too Crowded For Me
Here is this week's 52/250 stories, on the theme "Crowd". My story was not included this week, which is fine- it's their dojo, I'm just a squirrel trying to get a nut. But you should go there anyhow, because there's a heap of good writing to be found.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
100 Words: "Where I Want To Be"
Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge doesn't mind if you call it baby, but you should never, ever put it in a corner. This week's word is "Sleek", and my story is called "Where I Want To Be":
They were beautiful creatures- fat and ungainly on land, but when you watched them on a nature film sea lions, ideally formed for their environment, fairly fly underwater, blubbery rolls becoming sleek, rippling lines. Amy was watching them cavort noisily on an outcrop of rocks that stuck out defiantly into San Francisco Bay. It must be nice, she thought, shrugging deeper into a sweatshirt that couldn't keep out the morning chill, to be able to go someplace that suited you in every way. John might be wondering where I am, she thought resignedly, and turned back towards their house.
They were beautiful creatures- fat and ungainly on land, but when you watched them on a nature film sea lions, ideally formed for their environment, fairly fly underwater, blubbery rolls becoming sleek, rippling lines. Amy was watching them cavort noisily on an outcrop of rocks that stuck out defiantly into San Francisco Bay. It must be nice, she thought, shrugging deeper into a sweatshirt that couldn't keep out the morning chill, to be able to go someplace that suited you in every way. John might be wondering where I am, she thought resignedly, and turned back towards their house.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
IndieInk Writing Challenge: "The River"
The indisputably marvelous coterie of smartyboots at IndieInk.org have issued another week of challenges to we bloggery sorts. Everyone is free to join in- just check out the link for details, and you don't need to be especially good, or especially anything, really, other than willing, to be part of the challenge. (And longtime readers of this space will no doubt agree that this blog is not especially anything. Other than maybe long winded.) There are a couple of rules, but they're not hard. Everything is acceptable, pretty much- poetry, fiction, non fiction, collages, elaborate interpretive dance. Well, maybe not that last one.
This week I have issued the challenge "Eight Hundred" to San Diego Momma, and I have been given a challenge by wondrous Wendryn to describe either a utopian or dystopian society from the point of view of the lowest member of that society.
I have gone the fiction route once again, and I won't say anything more than that- the story should pretty much speak for itself. It's called "The River", after the Bruce Springsteen song, but it doesn't really have anything to do with that song. It's a good song, though. For what it's worth. (I did also watch the Denzel Washington/John Travolta movie "The Taking Of Pelham 123" last night. While that doesn't really have anything to do with the story, either, since it doesn't happen on a train or anything like that, there's no doubt that it influenced where my mind went after reading Wendryn's prompt this morning.) I also hasten to add that, for someone who said he wasn't going to say anything more than that, I sure am having trouble shutting up. Ladies and Gentlemen, "The River".
"Mr. Thomas? Are you there? Can you hear me?"
"Yeah. I'm here. What?"
"Talk to me, Mr. Thomas. What's happening in there? How did this happen? How did we end up here?"
"Ha! How did we end up here? God, I don't know. No, actually, no- I do know. It was all because of one mistake. Like a Springsteen song. It's like, you do one thing wrong, and then your life starts to just come apart. Like a thread on a t shirt, you know? You pull, and you pull, and suddenly you've got this huge hole, and the whole thing is ruined. And you've just got to throw it all away. It's kind of like a river, flooding and coming into your basement. You let a little bit of water in, and then more comes in, more and more, more than you can handle, and then it just washes everything away. How did it start? It was Wendy, first. My wife. It's not her fault- not at all- but it all starts with her. I mean, she's still beautiful now, but, you should have seen her then, man. She was catnip. High school. Everybody loved her. EVERYBODY. And she loved me. Just me. Do you remember how that felt? Do you? You feel like a god, like nothing can hurt you. And we were kids, you know? You're 17, and this beautiful girl, so pretty, such a perfect body, she is hanging all over you, and you feel ten feet tall. We did something dumb, but we were kids. People told us not to, we knew better, and we were always, always careful, and then, one time, we just weren't. Nothing special. We just slipped up. She didn't say no, and I didn't ask any questions, and then it was done. We made one mistake, and then another one follows that one naturally, and before you know it, you're just gone, man. Gone. It happened, and I asked her to marry me, and then we were at the courthouse, doing it. We moved into a place, and I was working all summer. I tried college, sure, they told me I should, and I wanted to, but I just couldn't stop thinking about her, and then about both of them, and then I just couldn't concentrate anymore. So I quit. I just left, and you know what? I don't want anything free from nobody. Nothing. Just give me a chance, and I'll earn my keep. So I started working, and things were OK. I made my bed, time to lie in it, right? It wasn't perfect, but it was working. Wendy had the baby, and then she tried to work, you know, tried to pitch in, but it was hard for her, she couldn't make much part time, but I was making OK money, and then things just got expensive, you know? Medicine, and clothes, and shoes, and Wendy wants to go to a movie once a month, you know? That's not too much to ask, I don't think. I keep hearing on the radio all this stuff about freedom, you know? How we're so free, and how all these other countries want to be like us because we're so free and because everything's so great here? Well, it seems to me you're a lot more free when you're on top of the heap then when you're on the bottom. They talk about cutting taxes, and how unfair it is that they've got to pay for people they don't even know. And I guess that's right, you know- you should be able to keep what you make, right? So I'm in Mickey D's to get a coffee once, I'm so tired, I'm dead on my feet, and there's this paper on the table, so I look at it, and it talks about how this banker guy spent like hundreds of thousands of dollars to decorate his office, right? Like, to put up pictures and get furniture and stuff like that? So I start thinking about that kind of money, like even a hundred thou? What I could do with money like that is, like, I could breathe. For once, I wouldn't be in this constant panic. I could get Wendy some stuff, sure, and put some away for my daughter's college, and all kinds of stuff, and this rich guy throws it away on chairs and stuff? I don't get it. I mean, I guess he was free to, and I guess he's entitled to, and I guess the bank must have made lots of money that year. So I guess it's OK that he has nice stuff, and all that. But I doubt, you know, I really doubt he would last very long bagging groceries, or hammering nails, or pouring concrete, or landscaping, or the stuff I do. It doesn't seem like sitting in a big chair in a comfy chair and telling people what to do is all that hard, not like I do. The stuff I did? See, I worked. I always worked. I never asked for nothing. Wendy told me a couple of weeks ago that my brother had been sending her money, you know? And my mom? And I appreciate it, sure, but it's just that, well, a man wants to feed his family himself, you know? So I worked, right, after I quit school? I did all kinds of stuff. Construction, and landscaping, and lawns, and all that. I worked, you know? All day, every day, whatever I could pick up. So I'm working on this house, a year ago, and I just turn the wrong way, and I fall. Not far, like six feet, maybe, and I land on my back. I go to the hospital, and it just never stops hurting after that. Never. I try the pills, and they don't work so good and I feel all foggy if I take them, and I try the exercises, and a back brace, and stretching, and nothing really works. Not for long. So I go to this lawyer, and it's more doctors, and more pills, and more bitching. Arguing, and court, and I keep hustling, and I try to do some stuff on the side, keep some money coming in, but I can't, it just hurts so damn much. So I finally get a little money out of the company, and then we can breathe a little bit again, but it don't last, and the lawyer takes a lot of it, and then the company goes under and stops paying. So there's more bills. I try to keep working, but it just hurts so bad, you know. I take every job I can, but it just hurts so bad, and I get surly and mean with the customers, not because I'm mean, just because it hurts, and they let me go. So I try to get disability, but I'm not hurt bad enough, and I get unemployment, but it ain't much, and then it runs out. So I'm trying, right? I mean, I made bad choices. We both did. And I own that- I did what I did. And I'd undo them if I could, I swear to God I would. I would. I love Wendy. I love my kid. But it would have been so much easier if she had come along a couple of years later. That's all. I did what I did. I made my choices. And I had the freedom to make other choices, you know? And I didn't, and I have to live with that fact. But I'm just tired. So tired of hurting all the time, and tired of hurting so damn much, and tired of being broke, and tired of being tired. So I run into Roger, who I knew from a couple of jobs ago, and he asks me if I'm looking, and he tells me he needs help on a job. He tells me where to show up, and not to tell Wen. He was always kind of sharp, the guy who plays the angles. Not dirty, just willing to do almost anything for a buck. So it sounds fishy, but I need the money, right? I just need it. I want to breathe again, not be constantly scrambling. So I show up, and Roger explains what we're doing on the way over. And I didn't expect this, you know? I mean, I figured maybe it would be a little shady, you know, some roofing tiles that fell off a truck, you know what I'm saying? But nothing like this. So we're on the way over, and he says that the other guy didn't show, so I have to walk in with him. And I don't want to, but I'm there, and I figure I'm guilty of something already, so why not try to make sure it goes right, you know? So we walk in, and then there's a cop in line, and he shoots Roger and Roger shoots him, and there's blood all over the floor, and I pick up the gun, I mean, I've never even held one, before, and then you call me, and now, you know, we're here. I mean, I made my choices. This country is all about freedom, right? But you're a heck of a lot freer if you're the guy who owns the bank than the guy who works in one. A heck of a lot freer. It's all about freedom, freedom for the rich to get richer and the companies, and the banks, and the courts and the lawyers, and the whole thing, to screw little guys like me, but when we try to get a little freedom of our own, we get nothing. I mean, I'm not saying give it to me, I'm not saying give me a handout. No free lunch. Just let me work for it, let me earn it. Give me a chance. It seems to me no matter how hard I try, no matter how free I am, it never adds up to nothing. People probably say, well, you had your chance. You made your choices. Now you got to live with the consequences of what you chose. And I get that. I do. And I am living with them, you know? I live with them every day. I do. But I was a kid, too, right? I was a dumb kid, and I made a dumb choice, then another one, and then another one, and then I'm here. I don't think you should be punished for the rest of your life for being dumb when you were a kid. People probably say, well, other people have it as bad as you. Even worse. And they don't do what you did. And that's true. I own what I did- every decision from high school right up until now, I did it. I didn't have to. But I did. You get to a point where you feel trapped, though. You are free to do what you want, but school costs money, and your wife needs her pills now, and your kid needs vitamins, or that antibiotic when she gets sick, or new shoes, or glue and posterboard for school, and it all costs money, and nothing gets any cheaper, not bread, not milk, not gas. Nothing. Yeah, I made choices, but I just wanted a little breathing room, some time to think, you know? And I never got any. Not once. I just don't think that's right. What's that song say? 'Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose?' My high school English teacher told us about that song. I mean, I love this country. I do. I love the fact that you can be anything you want to be. But the thing is, the thing I never got, the thing I could never explain to anybody, was that sometimes, you can't be what you want to be. Sometimes that job is filled, and you have to be who you are, instead. Freedom's great. It beats, like, not being free. But it's got another side. You're free in this country, sure, everybody is, but people with money? They're more free. Or it's a different kind of free. They can do what they want, and if they do make a mistake or something, it doesn't matter. They can recover from it, or buy another chance, or just adjust. I'm not asking for all of it. I just want a little bit. I just wanted enough so I could sleep and stop worrying so much. It felt like I was drowning in it, drowning in life, just swept away by the current. So many people have so much, and I just wanted a little. And I did what I did, and now I end up here........Anyway, I'm going to stop talking, now. My mouth is real dry. I want you to do something for me, though. Can you do something for me? Can you tell my wife that I love her. Tell Wendy that I'm sorry. Tell her, and tell my kid, that I tried, that I really, really tried, and I just made some dumb decisions. Tell my kid not to make any dumb decisions. Not even one. Tell her that. And tell her that I love her. Tell them both that. Tell them that I love them, and that I'm so, so sorry. I'm sorry I made mistakes."
"Mr. Thomas, are you coming out? Mr. Thomas? Are you there? Mr. Thomas? If you tell me you've put the gun down, the police won't shoot. I promise you. Just tell me you dropped the gun, that's all I need to hear. As long as you don't have the gun, we can talk about this. The police are here, but they don't want to shoot you. Just tell me you don't have the gun. Just leave it on the counter. That's all you have to do. That's all. Mr. Thomas? Are you there? Can you hear me? Mr. Thomas, just listen to me for one second. Mr. Thomas? Can you hear me? Are you there?"
This week I have issued the challenge "Eight Hundred" to San Diego Momma, and I have been given a challenge by wondrous Wendryn to describe either a utopian or dystopian society from the point of view of the lowest member of that society.
I have gone the fiction route once again, and I won't say anything more than that- the story should pretty much speak for itself. It's called "The River", after the Bruce Springsteen song, but it doesn't really have anything to do with that song. It's a good song, though. For what it's worth. (I did also watch the Denzel Washington/John Travolta movie "The Taking Of Pelham 123" last night. While that doesn't really have anything to do with the story, either, since it doesn't happen on a train or anything like that, there's no doubt that it influenced where my mind went after reading Wendryn's prompt this morning.) I also hasten to add that, for someone who said he wasn't going to say anything more than that, I sure am having trouble shutting up. Ladies and Gentlemen, "The River".
"Mr. Thomas? Are you there? Can you hear me?"
"Yeah. I'm here. What?"
"Talk to me, Mr. Thomas. What's happening in there? How did this happen? How did we end up here?"
"Ha! How did we end up here? God, I don't know. No, actually, no- I do know. It was all because of one mistake. Like a Springsteen song. It's like, you do one thing wrong, and then your life starts to just come apart. Like a thread on a t shirt, you know? You pull, and you pull, and suddenly you've got this huge hole, and the whole thing is ruined. And you've just got to throw it all away. It's kind of like a river, flooding and coming into your basement. You let a little bit of water in, and then more comes in, more and more, more than you can handle, and then it just washes everything away. How did it start? It was Wendy, first. My wife. It's not her fault- not at all- but it all starts with her. I mean, she's still beautiful now, but, you should have seen her then, man. She was catnip. High school. Everybody loved her. EVERYBODY. And she loved me. Just me. Do you remember how that felt? Do you? You feel like a god, like nothing can hurt you. And we were kids, you know? You're 17, and this beautiful girl, so pretty, such a perfect body, she is hanging all over you, and you feel ten feet tall. We did something dumb, but we were kids. People told us not to, we knew better, and we were always, always careful, and then, one time, we just weren't. Nothing special. We just slipped up. She didn't say no, and I didn't ask any questions, and then it was done. We made one mistake, and then another one follows that one naturally, and before you know it, you're just gone, man. Gone. It happened, and I asked her to marry me, and then we were at the courthouse, doing it. We moved into a place, and I was working all summer. I tried college, sure, they told me I should, and I wanted to, but I just couldn't stop thinking about her, and then about both of them, and then I just couldn't concentrate anymore. So I quit. I just left, and you know what? I don't want anything free from nobody. Nothing. Just give me a chance, and I'll earn my keep. So I started working, and things were OK. I made my bed, time to lie in it, right? It wasn't perfect, but it was working. Wendy had the baby, and then she tried to work, you know, tried to pitch in, but it was hard for her, she couldn't make much part time, but I was making OK money, and then things just got expensive, you know? Medicine, and clothes, and shoes, and Wendy wants to go to a movie once a month, you know? That's not too much to ask, I don't think. I keep hearing on the radio all this stuff about freedom, you know? How we're so free, and how all these other countries want to be like us because we're so free and because everything's so great here? Well, it seems to me you're a lot more free when you're on top of the heap then when you're on the bottom. They talk about cutting taxes, and how unfair it is that they've got to pay for people they don't even know. And I guess that's right, you know- you should be able to keep what you make, right? So I'm in Mickey D's to get a coffee once, I'm so tired, I'm dead on my feet, and there's this paper on the table, so I look at it, and it talks about how this banker guy spent like hundreds of thousands of dollars to decorate his office, right? Like, to put up pictures and get furniture and stuff like that? So I start thinking about that kind of money, like even a hundred thou? What I could do with money like that is, like, I could breathe. For once, I wouldn't be in this constant panic. I could get Wendy some stuff, sure, and put some away for my daughter's college, and all kinds of stuff, and this rich guy throws it away on chairs and stuff? I don't get it. I mean, I guess he was free to, and I guess he's entitled to, and I guess the bank must have made lots of money that year. So I guess it's OK that he has nice stuff, and all that. But I doubt, you know, I really doubt he would last very long bagging groceries, or hammering nails, or pouring concrete, or landscaping, or the stuff I do. It doesn't seem like sitting in a big chair in a comfy chair and telling people what to do is all that hard, not like I do. The stuff I did? See, I worked. I always worked. I never asked for nothing. Wendy told me a couple of weeks ago that my brother had been sending her money, you know? And my mom? And I appreciate it, sure, but it's just that, well, a man wants to feed his family himself, you know? So I worked, right, after I quit school? I did all kinds of stuff. Construction, and landscaping, and lawns, and all that. I worked, you know? All day, every day, whatever I could pick up. So I'm working on this house, a year ago, and I just turn the wrong way, and I fall. Not far, like six feet, maybe, and I land on my back. I go to the hospital, and it just never stops hurting after that. Never. I try the pills, and they don't work so good and I feel all foggy if I take them, and I try the exercises, and a back brace, and stretching, and nothing really works. Not for long. So I go to this lawyer, and it's more doctors, and more pills, and more bitching. Arguing, and court, and I keep hustling, and I try to do some stuff on the side, keep some money coming in, but I can't, it just hurts so damn much. So I finally get a little money out of the company, and then we can breathe a little bit again, but it don't last, and the lawyer takes a lot of it, and then the company goes under and stops paying. So there's more bills. I try to keep working, but it just hurts so bad, you know. I take every job I can, but it just hurts so bad, and I get surly and mean with the customers, not because I'm mean, just because it hurts, and they let me go. So I try to get disability, but I'm not hurt bad enough, and I get unemployment, but it ain't much, and then it runs out. So I'm trying, right? I mean, I made bad choices. We both did. And I own that- I did what I did. And I'd undo them if I could, I swear to God I would. I would. I love Wendy. I love my kid. But it would have been so much easier if she had come along a couple of years later. That's all. I did what I did. I made my choices. And I had the freedom to make other choices, you know? And I didn't, and I have to live with that fact. But I'm just tired. So tired of hurting all the time, and tired of hurting so damn much, and tired of being broke, and tired of being tired. So I run into Roger, who I knew from a couple of jobs ago, and he asks me if I'm looking, and he tells me he needs help on a job. He tells me where to show up, and not to tell Wen. He was always kind of sharp, the guy who plays the angles. Not dirty, just willing to do almost anything for a buck. So it sounds fishy, but I need the money, right? I just need it. I want to breathe again, not be constantly scrambling. So I show up, and Roger explains what we're doing on the way over. And I didn't expect this, you know? I mean, I figured maybe it would be a little shady, you know, some roofing tiles that fell off a truck, you know what I'm saying? But nothing like this. So we're on the way over, and he says that the other guy didn't show, so I have to walk in with him. And I don't want to, but I'm there, and I figure I'm guilty of something already, so why not try to make sure it goes right, you know? So we walk in, and then there's a cop in line, and he shoots Roger and Roger shoots him, and there's blood all over the floor, and I pick up the gun, I mean, I've never even held one, before, and then you call me, and now, you know, we're here. I mean, I made my choices. This country is all about freedom, right? But you're a heck of a lot freer if you're the guy who owns the bank than the guy who works in one. A heck of a lot freer. It's all about freedom, freedom for the rich to get richer and the companies, and the banks, and the courts and the lawyers, and the whole thing, to screw little guys like me, but when we try to get a little freedom of our own, we get nothing. I mean, I'm not saying give it to me, I'm not saying give me a handout. No free lunch. Just let me work for it, let me earn it. Give me a chance. It seems to me no matter how hard I try, no matter how free I am, it never adds up to nothing. People probably say, well, you had your chance. You made your choices. Now you got to live with the consequences of what you chose. And I get that. I do. And I am living with them, you know? I live with them every day. I do. But I was a kid, too, right? I was a dumb kid, and I made a dumb choice, then another one, and then another one, and then I'm here. I don't think you should be punished for the rest of your life for being dumb when you were a kid. People probably say, well, other people have it as bad as you. Even worse. And they don't do what you did. And that's true. I own what I did- every decision from high school right up until now, I did it. I didn't have to. But I did. You get to a point where you feel trapped, though. You are free to do what you want, but school costs money, and your wife needs her pills now, and your kid needs vitamins, or that antibiotic when she gets sick, or new shoes, or glue and posterboard for school, and it all costs money, and nothing gets any cheaper, not bread, not milk, not gas. Nothing. Yeah, I made choices, but I just wanted a little breathing room, some time to think, you know? And I never got any. Not once. I just don't think that's right. What's that song say? 'Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose?' My high school English teacher told us about that song. I mean, I love this country. I do. I love the fact that you can be anything you want to be. But the thing is, the thing I never got, the thing I could never explain to anybody, was that sometimes, you can't be what you want to be. Sometimes that job is filled, and you have to be who you are, instead. Freedom's great. It beats, like, not being free. But it's got another side. You're free in this country, sure, everybody is, but people with money? They're more free. Or it's a different kind of free. They can do what they want, and if they do make a mistake or something, it doesn't matter. They can recover from it, or buy another chance, or just adjust. I'm not asking for all of it. I just want a little bit. I just wanted enough so I could sleep and stop worrying so much. It felt like I was drowning in it, drowning in life, just swept away by the current. So many people have so much, and I just wanted a little. And I did what I did, and now I end up here........Anyway, I'm going to stop talking, now. My mouth is real dry. I want you to do something for me, though. Can you do something for me? Can you tell my wife that I love her. Tell Wendy that I'm sorry. Tell her, and tell my kid, that I tried, that I really, really tried, and I just made some dumb decisions. Tell my kid not to make any dumb decisions. Not even one. Tell her that. And tell her that I love her. Tell them both that. Tell them that I love them, and that I'm so, so sorry. I'm sorry I made mistakes."
"Mr. Thomas, are you coming out? Mr. Thomas? Are you there? Mr. Thomas? If you tell me you've put the gun down, the police won't shoot. I promise you. Just tell me you dropped the gun, that's all I need to hear. As long as you don't have the gun, we can talk about this. The police are here, but they don't want to shoot you. Just tell me you don't have the gun. Just leave it on the counter. That's all you have to do. That's all. Mr. Thomas? Are you there? Can you hear me? Mr. Thomas, just listen to me for one second. Mr. Thomas? Can you hear me? Are you there?"
Friday, March 11, 2011
52/250: "As Ready As I'll Ever Be"
This week's 52/250 theme is "to the core", and my story that they included, available here, is called "As Ready As I'll Ever Be"
Wednesday, March 09, 2011
100 Word Challenge: "Shot Down"
Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge has been certified by the Sheen Institute to contain more Tiger Blood than any other writing challenge. The word this week is ample, and my entry is called "Shot Down".
"Wingman," I said under my breath. Ah well- beats staying home, right? I sidled up behind my mark, hovering just over her right shoulder. Trey set his sights on the willowy blond sipping wine, while Bri had the brunette who keeps hiding behind her bangs, eating a salad. I tapped my target on her shoulder, sighing inwardly as I checked out her ample thighs and considered my role in tonight's debauchery.
"Hey," I said to her smoothly. "I'm Samuel."
"Hi," she said, giggling. "I'm married." She indicated her blushing friends, as my friends plied their trade. "They're both single, though."
"Wingman," I said under my breath. Ah well- beats staying home, right? I sidled up behind my mark, hovering just over her right shoulder. Trey set his sights on the willowy blond sipping wine, while Bri had the brunette who keeps hiding behind her bangs, eating a salad. I tapped my target on her shoulder, sighing inwardly as I checked out her ample thighs and considered my role in tonight's debauchery.
"Hey," I said to her smoothly. "I'm Samuel."
"Hi," she said, giggling. "I'm married." She indicated her blushing friends, as my friends plied their trade. "They're both single, though."
Tuesday, March 08, 2011
IndieInk Writing Challenge: "Hungry Heart"
The fine folks at IndieInk.Org have begun another rondelet of Writing Challenges, wherein various and sundry bloggers (and, one must admit, there are few people as sundry as bloggers) issue challenges to others and are in turn themselves challenged. My challenge will reside here when my compatriot completes it, and my challenge, from the selfsame luminous Ms. Boorn, is "if you could have a day to do anything...".
I'm going to once again attempt a Tim Duncan style bank shot here. Rather than write literally about my perfect day (which would involve 20 hours of sleep, probably, followed by a meal and four hours of watching Ken Burns' "Baseball".), I'm going to take it as a fiction prompt. Not what the author intended, I'm sure. But things seldom come out as we intend, do they?
I emphasize once again, for those who may or may not be related to me, that this is fiction. Made up. 100% not true. Never happened.
The story is called "Hungry Heart".
"So what do you want to do today," she asked, looking at the ceiling. Her voice was thick with sleep.
"Same thing I want to do every day, Pinky," I said, my voice also raspy, looking at her out of one eye. "Try and take over the world."
She chuckled.
"No, really. It's your birthday. You're not working. We should do something you want you want to do." She cleared her throat. I understood what she meant, but the question still didn't make any sense.
She half turned towards me. Her body was between us. I reached my hand out, brushing her belly, touching her thigh. It was slightly prickly.
"Oh," she said, sounding grave and serious. "Oh, uh, no. I can't. No. Not...not now. OK?"
"Sure," I said. I ran my hand up and onto her hip.
"Besides, we can't just do that all day."
"We could try."
She chuckled again. "We'd have to eat."
"We'll order in," I said calmly.
"I'd have to pee eventually," she said lightly, stifling a laugh.
"I'll change the sheets," I said.
She laughed, coughed, and cleared her throat again.
"You're too funny. What do you want to do today, really? You won't have many more days like this."
I felt the word hit me like a slap. The thought of that shadowed my every move. "We could go see a movie."
"I can't get comfortable in those seats." She yawned and stretched. I watched the fabric strain as it was pulled taut.
"We could go shopping."
"You hate shopping."
"We could go shopping for books." I knew, even as I said it, I would feel too guilty to buy anything more expensive than an issue of "Rolling Stone".
"That isn't real shopping. Besides, my feet hurt when I stand up for too long."
"I can think of something that doesn't require any standing at all."
She giggled. "We already discussed that."
We were quiet for a minute. A car went by outside, the bass from their stereo audible through our walls. The car pulled away down the street.
"What do YOU want to do," she insisted, pushing herself upright. I rolled onto my back.
For months, that question had been as theoretical as "how are you going to spend your lottery winnings?". It doesn't matter what I want, it only matters what I have to do, I said silently. Want? I want to get a stack of CDs and a change of clothes and start driving west, singing along with Bruce Springsteen songs until my voice gets hoarse. I want to get away from need, from obligation, from guilt and money and fear and returned check fees and that sick feeling I get now when I look at her. I didn't know where to go, but the need to leave was so acute it was almost physical, vibrating in my limbs like a virus. My heart thumped loudly for a minute, then was quiet again.
She walked across the room, toward the bathroom, her stride ungainly and slow, her question hanging in the air between us. I saw her in profile, the person she was now and the person she was becoming all at once.
"How about I spend the day being with you?," I asked her back as she opened the door.
"That sounds awesome," she said, the smile in her tone as she shut the door without looking back at me. It clicked shut firmly. I looked up at the ceiling.
I'm going to once again attempt a Tim Duncan style bank shot here. Rather than write literally about my perfect day (which would involve 20 hours of sleep, probably, followed by a meal and four hours of watching Ken Burns' "Baseball".), I'm going to take it as a fiction prompt. Not what the author intended, I'm sure. But things seldom come out as we intend, do they?
I emphasize once again, for those who may or may not be related to me, that this is fiction. Made up. 100% not true. Never happened.
The story is called "Hungry Heart".
"So what do you want to do today," she asked, looking at the ceiling. Her voice was thick with sleep.
"Same thing I want to do every day, Pinky," I said, my voice also raspy, looking at her out of one eye. "Try and take over the world."
She chuckled.
"No, really. It's your birthday. You're not working. We should do something you want you want to do." She cleared her throat. I understood what she meant, but the question still didn't make any sense.
She half turned towards me. Her body was between us. I reached my hand out, brushing her belly, touching her thigh. It was slightly prickly.
"Oh," she said, sounding grave and serious. "Oh, uh, no. I can't. No. Not...not now. OK?"
"Sure," I said. I ran my hand up and onto her hip.
"Besides, we can't just do that all day."
"We could try."
She chuckled again. "We'd have to eat."
"We'll order in," I said calmly.
"I'd have to pee eventually," she said lightly, stifling a laugh.
"I'll change the sheets," I said.
She laughed, coughed, and cleared her throat again.
"You're too funny. What do you want to do today, really? You won't have many more days like this."
I felt the word hit me like a slap. The thought of that shadowed my every move. "We could go see a movie."
"I can't get comfortable in those seats." She yawned and stretched. I watched the fabric strain as it was pulled taut.
"We could go shopping."
"You hate shopping."
"We could go shopping for books." I knew, even as I said it, I would feel too guilty to buy anything more expensive than an issue of "Rolling Stone".
"That isn't real shopping. Besides, my feet hurt when I stand up for too long."
"I can think of something that doesn't require any standing at all."
She giggled. "We already discussed that."
We were quiet for a minute. A car went by outside, the bass from their stereo audible through our walls. The car pulled away down the street.
"What do YOU want to do," she insisted, pushing herself upright. I rolled onto my back.
For months, that question had been as theoretical as "how are you going to spend your lottery winnings?". It doesn't matter what I want, it only matters what I have to do, I said silently. Want? I want to get a stack of CDs and a change of clothes and start driving west, singing along with Bruce Springsteen songs until my voice gets hoarse. I want to get away from need, from obligation, from guilt and money and fear and returned check fees and that sick feeling I get now when I look at her. I didn't know where to go, but the need to leave was so acute it was almost physical, vibrating in my limbs like a virus. My heart thumped loudly for a minute, then was quiet again.
She walked across the room, toward the bathroom, her stride ungainly and slow, her question hanging in the air between us. I saw her in profile, the person she was now and the person she was becoming all at once.
"How about I spend the day being with you?," I asked her back as she opened the door.
"That sounds awesome," she said, the smile in her tone as she shut the door without looking back at me. It clicked shut firmly. I looked up at the ceiling.
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