Remiss

I would be remiss if I did not point out that the inordinately generous Matt Potter has seen fit to publish a story of mine, $534.67, at his marvelous "Pure Slush" site.

I would also like to add that my two blogs that no one was reading, my baseball blog "Trautwein and Cheese" and my political blog "A Minority of One", are pretty much shutting down until further notice. I decided it is better if I mismanage one blog instead of three.

Terrible Minds Challenge: "My Slowpocalypse"

Chuck Wendig, aside from being a jack of all trades and a master, well.... of some of them, regularly posts flash fiction challenges when he isn't busy wiping butts (or changing his infant son's diaper). This week's challenge is to write about an apocalypse, but to write about it in a new and different way- a way that hasn't been covered a million other times. I'm not sure how close I got, but here it is, anyway: "My Slowpocalypse"









I had to assume it happened for me the same way it happened for everyone else. You have to assume that about everything. You can never know if Kobe Bryant feels the way you do when he swishes a 20 footer, or if Phil Mickelson feels the same as you do when he knocks a 5 iron within inches of the flag. You can't know if your wife's headache is worse than yours, or if your kidney stone hurts worse than her experience of childbirth. You can't know how anyone feels about anything.

But I can assume, pretty safely, that everyone is pretty miserable at the moment.

It started, as you might expect, with the very fastest among us- people who had to make split second decisions. Elite athletes, race car drivers, pilots, all suddenly found their honed reflexes off by just enough to cause disaster. The first story I heard on the news was of a crash at JFK- an absolutely normal flight from London, due to get in early on an ordinary Wednesday, suddenly does a face plant into the ground at 100+ mph. From there, the news multiplies, a total of 34 crashes worldwide within 30 minutes before panicked authorities close the skies. At a Formula One practice lap outside of Calais, France, a driver with 23 years experience suddenly misses a turn, plowing into a safety barrier without warning. In Philadelphia, a Mets-Phillies game is cancelled when pitchers can no longer even lob the ball over home plate.

The Internet is alive with speculation- it's a chemical weapons attack, it's a vision destroying virus. Rumor follows upon speculation, officials urging calm while citizens show anything but, raiding the grocery stores and sending markets gyrating wildly. Every TV channel has its own experts, who were holding forth on contrails, and ultraviolet radiation, and time warps, and whatever theory they could cook up on such short notice.

As the chaos continued, the answer emerged, as so many things do, from YouTube. A 14 year old kid calling himself "clarkgriswold" played a video of himself, one month ago, racking up a high score on "Guitar Hero". He then cued up the same song again, "My Apocalypse", and the viewer could then hear the atonal beeps and snorts as the game proceeded to register his inability to mash the colored buttons in time with the music. "I think," the fuzzy lipped Memphis teen said haltingly, "everything is moving at the same speed it always was, except, like, people."

It was the first theory that was easy to grasp and simultaneously explained what was happening. The authorities met it with derision and disdain, until first one scientist, then another, began running simple tests against known quantities or recorded performances that proved the kid right. YouTube filled with other teens repeating "clarkgriswold"s work, just as the traffic accidents began to pile up, thousands dead before authorities closed the roads and only police vehicles were left to slide into ditches, unseen and with noone coming to their aid.

I turned off the TV about that point, unwilling to watch and listen to the spreading chaos, and it wasn't long after that when the power went out. I assumed some tiny adjustment- shifting burden from one system to another, or regulating load on one part of the city versus another, had gone awry, and the slowed reactions of the human who was supposed to catch the error couldn't move quick enough. I started to notice it in my own movements, too- my brain would tell me to get out of the chair, and a minute later, I would rise. It didn't feel any different, it was just that every motion, every effort I made was suddenly, impossibly, exponentially harder. You adapted subtly- you know you can't do something, so you stop trying.

It was oddly quiet- the power was never restored, and my neighbors, similarly afflicted, could do nothing to make noise. You would hear the occasional crash, as someone made their way to a car and tried to drive, only to find out that their dull senses couldn't negotiate even the slightest curve. Sometimes you could hear someone screaming, or the crackling of another building consumed by fire. First the bathroom became too far, and then the kitchen. I started fading in and out of consciousness, too tired to do anything but endlessly breathe.

As I sat there, everything collapsing around me, I was thinking about my high school chemistry teacher, Mr. Turner. He used to talk about all sorts of things that weren't on the syllabus, and one of the things he used to quote to us was from an old movie, "Ferris Bueller's Day Off". "Life moves pretty fast," he used to say, "if you don't stop and look around once in a while, you might miss it."

Indie Ink Writing Challenge: How Do You Sleep?

On this week's Indie Ink Writing Challenge adventure, Stefan gives me "Some people wonder how I sleep at night. I tell them I just close my eyes,". I am challenging Tara.

(I don't think I should have to say this, but I will anyway. What follows is fiction. It is loosely based on the governor of the state that I reside in, but only in the sense that he was in my mind's eye as I was writing it. I hasten to add that I do not feel the way this character feels- it would be much more accurate to say that I feel the exact opposite way that he does.)















Sara leaned her head in my office door. Her ponytail, coming undone after her day's exertion, was starting to fray. I could see the blond hairs clearly against the dark cherry wood. "Was there anything else, Governor?" It was nice to hear a somewhat friendly voice- it seemed like everyone had been mad at me today.

"No, Sara," I told her. "You can go." With that, she ducked her head out, letting the door latch gently behind her. She was my right hand, aide de camp and all purpose problem solver. Some days, I saw more of her than I did of my long suffering wife. Ann and I heard the whispers about Sara sleeping her way into my office- it wasn't true, but I couldn't deny it felt a little good that people thought it might be.

My wife Ann would never put up with an affair- she'd be on Good Morning America before I got my pants on. Right now, she is furious at me, but thankfully, not about that. Her dander is up about the cuts I made in this year's budget: after school programs, food programs, health care. The last time we spoke about it at any length, she roared at me, "How do you SLEEP at night?" I didn't answer. Her side of the bed didn't get slept in that night.

Back in the 1980s, when I was starting out, there was a marginally famous standup comic named Bill Hicks, and I remember he had a routine where he described a ritual he imagines every new president goes through. The president is led into a room where there is a long conference table, where a number of portly industrialists are sitting. The industrials play for the new president a full color print of the Zapruder film from the opposite angle, thus implying they can easily have the new president eliminated if he doesn't toe the line.

Once I got into politics seriously, I learned how close to the truth that was. Nothing that serious, but you very quickly learn who controls the purse strings. And as the new Golden Rule goes, those who have the gold make the rules. So I cut taxes, first, last and always, the way the people who donate to my campaign want me to, and then cut services that few people notice to make the books balance. I'm not proud of it. I always shift a little uncomfortably in my seat when Father O'Brien intones about Jesus serving the downtrodden and despised. But I do it, because this game that I play, pitting both sides against the middle, is the only thing I'm really good at.

Raising taxes doesn't create any jobs, right? And if some older folks have to cut back here and there, and some kids don't get to go to preschool, that's just the way it goes. What part of broke are you having trouble understanding? If preschoolers were that important, they'd have a lobbyist the way Green Chemical and the O'Brien Auto Group do. People have to understand, we have to tighten our belts.

I hear them, believe me. Calling me a monster, a butcher, a whore of the rich and powerful. I see the signs. I read the editorials, calling me short sighted, greedy, a tool of powerful interests. I listen to the radio, hearing the well fed professors telling us about the doom that will befall us when Willie can't go to preschool. Well, that's a shame- but the numbers are what they are. I can't change them to what I'd like them to be. And to all those protestors- your boss? He loves that I cut his taxes again.

So in terms of sleep, Ann? I sleep fine. Not that you'd know. And if I want to continue sleeping where I sleep now, I cut what they say to cut. It's not very Christlike, but who wants to be a Christian if you have to act like Jesus? That guy was broke all the time anyway.

Memorable Quote: "History of A Suicide"

"I did not fully understand that individuals are not always the authors of themselves....Some, more sensitive, cannot arm themselves with the necessary skills to find work or pursue an education; and when the pain is all-consuming, they cannot build a wall of protection. Phrased another way, perhaps not all of us are able to survive natural selection."

Jill Bialosky, "History of a Suicide"


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100 Word Challenge: Dance Class

Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge wishes they all could be California Girls. This week's word is "Split", and this story is called "Dance Class".











I tried not to stare, but it was hard not to marvel at the physicality of what she made her tiny body do. She was so light I could carry her like a child, but the floorboards would still vibrate with force when she jumped, splitting her legs to an impossibly wide angle then landing precisely where she wished. When she finished, she came into the office. She smelled like sweat and effort, sharp and clean, her hair pulled back in a bun. My heart pounded happily.

"You don't mind driving me home?," she asked.

"Absolutely not," I said.

Indie Ink Writing Challenge: We Can Work It Out

This week in IndieInk land there is no All Star Break, as Chelsea gives me "we tried to work it out", and I give to Sunshine "I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues".

What follows is fiction- as of yet, I have stabbed no one, and I have not been stabbed. (My capacity to annoy someone into a homicidal state is pretty extraordinary, though, so as the great Jack Palance put it in the movie "City Slickers", "Day's not over yet.") (I did nearly cause myself to bleed to death, but that's another story. And that was an accident.) (The accident is actually mentioned here on This Blog, but if you have the patience to go find it, you are a better person than This Blog.) Fair warning: this is less than pleasant reading.

This is called "We Can Work It Out"








It always worked, at first.

He'd try a new drug, and he'd be calm for a while. Or we'd try marriage counseling again, and he'd improve for a time. We'd be calm with each other, explaining how we feel, allowing the other one to talk, conceding the small issues, swallowing some past hatreds. It would be harmonious for a week, maybe two.

But like mold taking over an orange that you left out too long, the bitterness would creep back in. The sarcastic comments began, the casual implications of money ill spent, respect not given. His criticisms of my parenting, spending, and behavior were occasional, and then constant, and then unrelenting. "You're not really sick!", and "Can't you do anything right?", and "Do I have to do EVERYTHING?", every word dripping with venom. We'd blow up, erupting into a massive, screaming row, and we were back onto the hate cycle again, apologies and recriminations and promises to do better.

He never hit me- he was smarter than that, knowing I'd be on the phone to the police in seconds. But he may as well have. His words flayed me like a whip, removing chunks of skin and bone with every "why can't you..." and every declaration that he never should have married me. He was right. Our union was star crossed, doomed from the outset, now that it is far too late to do anything about it. We had been together nearly half our lives, and I'm sure he wondered, like I did, what the hell we were thinking.

The twins were hypnotized by one of those Japanese cartoon shows where monsters battle for supremacy, with plenty of yelling and cartoon gore amid commercials for the accompanying action figures and trading cards. He came in from work as I was wrestling with one of their plastic toys, a red lizard that was supposed to roar and start walking when you pushed the button. I was intent on removing one of those tiny recessed Phillips head screws, trying to get at the battery, so I didn't really register his arrival until his head flew suddenly into my peripheral vision.

"Finally decided to DO something today, huh?," he said mockingly. He had bent over, sticking his head right next to mine in an attempt to frighten me. He knew I hated being startled. It was a migraine trigger, and it was too redolent of my childhood, constantly being afraid of what was going to happen. I knew that he knew that, and I knew that he enjoyed knowing how much I hated it. I could hear the glee in his tone.

I turned to defend myself, bringing both hands towards my head while simultaneously jerking away from him. I heard a wet slap of liquid, then felt a warm spray down my arm, red blood fountaining out of his neck where the screwdriver now rested, buried to the hilt, right through a vein. He made a sound like "Gawwwwk..." and scrambled for purchase against the back of the couch before falling to the floor with a thump.

I looked down at my arm as if it belonged to someone else, a thick red swath of liquid splashed on it looking for all the world like ketchup. I heard him struggling to breathe behind the couch, hearing the bubbling as more air and blood leaked out of him. On the screen, an elaborately armored rhino roared at its enemy, a black bird which was crumpled at its feet, "I have VANQUISHED you!"

100 Word Challenge: Protect This House

Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge is proud to announce that it does not recieve one dime of Federal funding and will not be a victim of government cutbacks. This week's word is "Forward", and my story is "Protect This House".







James looked down, breathing hard. James knew his role from the first time he strapped on skates. He showed his worth in the corners, doing the dirty work, checking and being checked, letting the glamour boys soak up the goals. Being a fourth line forward, you hit who they say to hit, fight when they say to fight. He was as gentle as a March breeze with his twin girls, but in order to keep the paychecks that fed his daughters coming in, he had to make his living, and to do that, he had to dole out the misery.

Indie Ink Writing Challenge: Moving On

The Indie Ink Writing Challenge comes at me this week from Steffani, who asks me about moving unexpectedly. I am challenging Kat.

As luck would have it, the novel (a sequel to my first book, conveniently available for sale on the sidebar) I have just begun involves someone who moves suddenly for reasons somewhat beyond his control. Here is an excerpt, called "Moving On". It might make a little more sense if you read the entry previous to this one, a response to Chuck Wendig's Terrible Minds Challenge. It might make even more sense than that if you read the novel.

But it might not, too.








Emmeline came down from the deck and walked back across the grass towards me. She stepped delicately, like the ground was studded with land mines, her shoes making perfect, tiny U shaped impressions in the lush grass under the hot sun. She wore heels a lot, because years of dance made flat shoes impossible for her. But today's shoes were modest, gentle sloping curves of a very light, dusty pink.

"Are you sure you don't want a beer?" she asked.

"Nope," I said, and drained the bottled water I had been working on. I didn't drink, but that was more out of fear than anything. I was afraid I'd like it. I was afraid I'd love it, honestly.

I watched several women sliding out of coverups and into the pool, as the gaggle of 3 and 4 year olds clambered in. There were more than enough adults nearby, but I kept my eye peeled until I saw Angela slide into the water, hovering around Kate protectively. She had been through a lot, but their bond was strong, as irritating as a little one could sometimes be.

Emmeline was standing with me again, her body angled to mine. The gentle, hot breeze ruffled the hem of her dress. It was one of those moments, when whatever I said was probably going to be wrong. I didn't say anything. She looked vaguely intimidating behind dark sunglasses in John Lennon frames. I watched Kate splash and grin in the pool with Angela.

Em was the first person I met up here. After Kate's sudden, tragedy tinged emergence into our world, we had barely reached equilibrium again when Mom Mom's sudden transfer into the Pacific Northwest resulted in a second crisis. She, Angela and the baby had to go- the opportunity was too great, and the upside too large, to turn down. But the question was me- having no ties, really, to any of them, could I tear up what few ties, references and connections I had left?

With a baby in your life, reflection is a virtue you seldom have, and in the end, it wasn't any decision at all. Whether I was loving a ghost or not, Kate became part of my life. I began to expect the sleepless nights, the constant cries for food and water and diapers and other forms of distress. I couldn't not continue to be in her life. Moving was simpler than I thought- I closed up shop at the university, giving my students to others to watch over their work, handing in my research for someone else to continue. I had no close friends, although my ex Nicole gamely insisted I would be back because I couldn't resist her. My guitar students, other than the one who was coming with me, found other homes, and my boss, while he would miss watching Kate for me, was understanding of what I needed to do. So I sold what I couldn't carry, and we were gone, trooping to the northwest together. It was either a sign that I had few strings attached any more, or a sign I had trouble letting go. It was a sign, certainly.

Em was working behind the counter at a stationery store. I had unpacked my few possessions into graduate student housing, and I went out in search of some writing paper and notebooks. Em was seated, working with some sort of program on a PC. From what I could gather, she was laying out some sort of fancy invitation, for a wedding perhaps. Once I had made my purchases, she stood up, elegant and cool in a pretty, though not fancy dress, and made the sale.

"I don't see many men in here," she offered.

"Well, I'm kind of a pen geek," I said. "I love pens. Can't get enough of them."

"Oh, me too. Fountain?"

"No,no," I said. "I'm too chicken. But I'll write with Cross forever."

It wasn't my intention, but phone calls became letters which became more phone calls. A relationship bloomed almost without my knowing it, and Em's roots in the art crowd, became my entree into a world of cool people. Before long, she was another worshipper at the Temple of Kate, loving her as we all did, and our weird foursome became a fivesome. As the old song goes, I became accustomed to her face.

I was watching her watching the chaotic scene. Finally, I couldn't stand the silence.

"Are you OK?"

"No," she said firmly. "We have to talk. Not here, not now. But we have to talk."

"OK," I said warily. "Is this about Kate?"

"Everything is," she said, her voice getting soft. "You know I'm nuts about her. You're nuts about her. That's not the problem. I love you, and I'm pretty sure you love me. That's not the problem either."

"Well, at least we know what the problem isn't."

"Shut up. I said not now. But since you won't stop giving me the puppy dog eyes, the problem, in short, is when do I get you. All of you, not just the parts Kate doesn't want. And when you're going to stop mourning a girl you barely knew. And don't answer any of that, because you can't, and I don't want to talk about it right now."

Kate had emerged, trailed by Angela, who bent low to wrap the little one in a towel with Tinkerbell on it. Kate padded quickly over to us.

"Em! Em!"

Emmeline bent down, crouching like a catcher. "Yes, darling?"

"I swimmed, Em, I swimmed!"

"Yes you did, baby girl. Yes, you did." Emmeline scooped up the wriggling parcel, holding her close. Mom mom came up, still in her elegant, casual dress, to stand with us. Her eyes shone.

"We all ready?"

"Yup," the girls chorused, and we said our goodbyes, packed up our things, and got into the car. After Kate was settled, I reached back, being the designated driver, to hand back a storybook.

"Give it to Em," Kate said firmly. "Em reads better."

"She certainly does," I agreed, and started the car to bring us home.

Terrible Minds Challenge: "Hello Goodbye"

Herr Chuck Wendig, the new Dad and Head Penmonkey over at the Terrible Minds Website/Zombie Army Recruitment Center, has issued a 1000 Word Flash Fiction challenge involving that most imminent of all holidays, Independence Day.

This is actually a sequel/continuation/postscript to my novel, which I haven't talked much about since its publication lo these many months ago. You don't need to have read it to get the story, although if you have read it, the characters and their relationships will be a lot clearer. (And should you want to, purchasing information is conveniently located on the sidebar.) But there's enough exposition here that you'll get the important parts, even if you haven't read it. (Which puts you in good company- 99.99% of the other life forms on planet Earth haven't read it, either.) (And, in the unlikely event you have read it, don't fret- there is a character in here who isn't in the novel. So you're not losing your memory.)

The story is called "Hello Goodbye"













It was a weird situation, but we liked it. I watched Kate run, thundering after a group of other wet, squirming preschoolers, following her with one eye while trying to stay focused on the conversation around me. It was just like they taught you in basketball- when you guard someone who doesn't have the ball, you follow the ball with one eye while following your opponent with the other. You get holistic- you try to take in the whole scene, trusting your instincts to tell you when it's time to focus.

I wasn't anything to Kate- not her father, though I was with her so often people assumed that. I didn't really mind- the truth was very hard to explain. Angela, her aunt, all legs and teenage awkwardness, was no relation to me whatsoever. Angela's mother, and Wendy's, who we all took to calling "Mom-Mom" because of her antipathy for "Grandmother", was also not my relative. But we were a family, a 20th century amalgam of those who loved this sweaty, bathing suited blond who was now involved in trying to catch the family dog, a friendly greyhound who put up with the little grabbing hands with equanimity.

One of Kate's "friends" (at 3, do you really have friends?) was born on July 4, which, I reflected, had to be a miserable time of year to be 9 months pregnant. So the girl, a pig tailed wonder named Grace, wound up losing her birthday amid the traditional pomp and circumstance. Grace's mom, a super competent, frighteningly pretty dark haired mom of 5, has begun what she promises will be an annual ritual, a barbeque/pool party/Independence Day party/birthday party. Her plan worked, their frankly gorgeous house now thronged with friends of all her kids, their relatives, and seemingly anyone who drove by.

We weren't mixers by nature, this family that wasn't. Kate was, of course- at her age, all you cared about was what fresh adventure the next 15 minutes would bring. You loved hard, and lost hard, and whatever you wanted, whether it was lunch or the toy truck that little boy was holding, you wanted it NOW. She was exhausting, but a refreshing reminder that every moment was important.

I heard Kate's wail instantly, a mix of pain and surprise and fear. Mom Mom told me I would get like this: before you're a parent, which I wasn't biologically but was in every other sense, every kid cry sounds alike. But when it's yours, you can hear it from a hundred yards. Kate had misjudged a wet, muddy corner, her sandaled feet sliding out from under her. She landed on one hip, sliding as if she were stealing second for a yard or so.

I resisted the urge to go to her, as I had been taught. Mom Mom's wisdom from raising two daughters was to wait and see if they could sort it out on their own. Sometimes the joy of play overcame the discomfort and they would pick up and move on as if nothing had happened. Kate saw me look, and that brought her to her feet and over towards me. She probably sees the chance for some free sympathy. I was willing to give it. Mom Mom had heard the cry, drinking white wine with the other parents on the deck. She caught my eye, seeing that I had it controlled, and returned to her conversation.

One sandal unbuckled, Kate made her way over to me, full cheeks red with sun and anger. I crouched onto one knee, like I was in an on deck circle, fingers reaching for her tiny shoe. Since her birth, I had more experience with buckles, bows, and straps than I ever had before.

"Unca Ray," she began. I was Uncle until she was old enough to understand the truth. "I falled."

"Yes, you did fall," I told her, fastening her shoe in place. "Are you okay?"

She climbed eagerly onto my knee, wrapping both arms around my neck. She sniffled once.

"Yeah. I think I OK." She untangled herself and dashed off to rejoin the fray. I stood up. My T shirt, a silkscreen of a photo with the longhaired, bearded, about to break up Beatles, had a stain of grass, water, and mud across George Harrison's face. I had long since given up the expectation that any clothes of mine would remain unmarked.

Angela had wandered off in search of teen company, leaving Emmeline standing there to look at me bemusedly.

"You're so good with her," she said softly. She always spoke softly, almost like she was trying to make sure you cared enough to listen. She had on a pretty patterned dress, light and airy in the July heat. She looked lovely, perfectly able to fit in with the other moms at the party. But she was my age and childless.

The other parents are your age, too, I told myself.

"Thanks," I said, not knowing how else to respond.

"It's nice that she has you. I don't understand it, but it's good for her. She loves you."

"I'm not sure I understand it either. But it's there." I couldn't say it any clearer.

"I can't help but envy her."

"Em, she's three."

"I know, but she owns you. You're always there for her." Her words were curling at the edges now. She was biting them off.

"I'm there for you, too."

"I just know where I rank, is what I'm saying." Emmeline walked towards the porch, her wineglass empty. I watched her walk.

I thought about the Beatles. "You say goodbye, and I say hello."

100 Word Challenge: Pay Attention

Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge thinks "Cars 2" is unfairly maligned by critics- it is one of the best animated films about cars that takes place in England, Japan, and Rome that this online literary flash fiction challenge has ever seen. This week's word is "Resistance", and my entry is called "Pay Attention!"








Looking at her, brown hair with strands of gold, pert nose, and open, eager face, felt like worship. She was an exchange student from Norway. The collective response of the boys was awe, which made our female classmates deeply frustrated, all the more so because she was so charming and sweet with her English malapropisms.

I felt the silence before I heard it, looking quickly at my Physics teacher's expectant face.

"I'm sorry?"

"What property is described by the use of Ohm's Law?"

"Resistance?"

"Correct. Maybe you'll pay attention now?"

Attention? Yes, I'll pay attention.

Indie Ink Writing Challenge

The Indie Ink Writing Challenge comes from a plaid panted lass, who gives me "silence in black and white". My challenge goes to Ixy.












I still get the paper, the dead tree, old fashioned, thump on the driveway at 530am newspaper. It isn't very ecologically correct, nor is it logical in any way, since all of the information available in it is easily, and more quickly, retrievable elsewhere. But I am my father's son, and a day just doesn't seem like it has begun until I have sipped coffee with ink stained fingertips.

I was reviewing the front page with SportsCenter on in the background when my wife moved past me into the kitchen. We didn't talk, but we didn't need to. She still had the glazed look of sleep, so I elected to wait until she had something to say.

The front page was still covering the echoes of Tuesday's plane crash- the kind of story that dominates the news when there's nothing else to talk about. A flight coming out of Iowa City simply dropped out of the sky, undergoing a catastrophic failure soon after takeoff that only 21 of 311 people survived.

Today's angle was apparently a woman with "local ties" who lost her life in the crash. I was hopping over the story idly as my wife began sleepily, "I had the weirdest dream last night. You were in a hotel somewhere, and I was sure you were..."

I saw the shape of her name before I was able to process it. Surely it couldn't be her, could it?

"...and Giada DeLaurentis was there, and I kept telling her..."

It was. The details matched. Her parents' names, her brother, the high school, everything. I felt my stomach lurch. She had tickets for San Francisco, and was about to marry a doctoral candidate in literature that she met backpacking in Chile.

"...but the colors were all wrong, but nobody would listen to me..."

My God, I thought, trying not to show emotion. I was over her, or, more properly, she was more than over me. We hadn't spoken since before Clinton was elected, so I couldn't properly say that I missed her. I missed who we were- the sad girl with long brown hair and the boy who was going to keep her safe.

"...and then there wasn't anyone working in the store, and no matter how loud..."

I loved her ferociously. I know now, with the wisdom of two decades, that it wasn't a relationship at all. She was an object of worship, and that's not a foundation for anything. But love her I did, and I felt her absence from the world.

"...and my Aunt Diana was there, and she had made pasta, which was weird..."

She was gone, ripped out of the sky in a panicked spasm of fire and failed engineering. I couldn't protect her then, and I couldn't protect her twenty years ago. You can't protect anybody, can you?
"...Are you listening to me?," my wife concluded, looking at me squarely.

"No, sorry," I said, closing the paper. "I was reading that story about the crash."

"Do you want some toast?," she said again.

"No, thank you," I said, folding the paper over once, and then again, as if I could disguise the news from myself.


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IndieInk Writing Challenge Pregame Show

The IndieInk Writing Challenge has thrown down the gauntlet once again. I am challenging Ixy with "Hell, it could be my fault" and I am being challenged by some plaid pants about "Silence in black and white".

I'm not ready to write my challenge yet, but my challenge to Ixy started my own juices flowing, so I wrote the following. I guess call it the PreGame Show to this week's challenge.











"Neither one of you is doing anything until I know who left those chips there," Mom said firmly. Her voice had that edge, that I'm-really-not-one-bit-kidding tone that made me feel a little queasy. I didn't do it. I knew I didn't do it. I don't even like those chips, the cheesy ones with the intense crispness and the biting cheddar. The plain ones were fine, super crunchy and jagged but with just the corn and salt taste. But there they were, a paper plate half full of cheddar ones with a gross looking grease stain off to one side of the plate.

I knew who did it. It wasn't Mom, and it wasn't the cat. It had to be Emily. She was my best friend, my constant companion, my only ally. There were still things that drove me crazy about her, though. She was taller than me, even though I was older, so she constantly got called the big sister, even though she wasn't. She didn't seem to care, would follow anyone anywhere, do any foolish thing because it seemed like fun. I hated that about her, the way I had to constantly be on the lookout. She had to know she did it. Why didn't she just say it so we could get our TV back?

I thought about saying it, just accusing her, straight out, "Emily HAD to do it. It wasn't me. I never eat those." But I knew how that went, "No I didn't!", "Yes you did!", until Daddy yelled, and everyone felt sad. I didn't want to go there, but I really wanted to watch TV. I thought about just saying I did, which was a lie, but might get us out of this circle faster. I didn't want to lie, but if it would work, maybe that was the best way.

I looked at Emily. I loved her. No one made me laugh like she did. No one understood me, what I was scared of, what I hated, like she did. She was literally the only person who knew what it was like to be me, because she had the same mommy and daddy. But she drove me crazy, too. She was sitting there, wearing a light purple shirt with these funny edges, all wavy and crinkled like the bottom of curtains. It looked like her arms were coming out of the edge of a cake. She looked through her glasses back at me. "Just say it," I told her in my head, "just say you did it, and this will be over." It drove me nuts, the way she just let the unfair punishment stand like this, when she could solve it so easy. I tried to push the thought at her, thinking it as hard as I could. "Say it, Emily. SAY IT!"

"Well, I didn't do it," Emily began. I knew that voice. She was trying to convince us of something, and so she was sounding extra persuasive, talking slow and saying each word carefully.

That's not true, my brain screamed at her. You did SO do it.

"But I'll clean it up. Is that OK, Mommy?" I felt a bolt of anger. That means she's covering for ME. And that's not right, because I didn't DO it! I hate those cheesy chips! My stomach flipped again. I wanted to yell, "That's not true!". I knew what would happen if I did, but the words came to my lips. I was just about to say them, then I swallowed them back, feeling like I had to force them down into my stomach, which lurched unhappily.

We both looked at Mommy, who looked down at us unhappily. She looked tired. All the moms I see look tired, I thought. Why are parents always so tired?
"Fine," she said to Emily uneasily. She looked a little mad, but she didn't say anything else.

Emily got up, unfolding her long legs like a spider, and picked up the plate and marched off into the kitchen. I looked at Mommy, who was watching Emily throw the plate away. I wanted to ask, but I was a little bit afraid to. It was so unfair- it looked like I did it now, when I didn't. I wanted to say that, but I didn't say anything.

"You can go outside now," Mommy said happily. I was up and at the front door like someone making a jailbreak, feeling Emily on my heels before I could see her.

100 Word Challenge: Rules To Live By

Velvet Verbosity herself may be on the DL, but her 100 Word Challenge, thanks to a little help from her friends, is on the 25 man roster and is playing every day. This week's word is "Game" and my entry is called "Rules To Live By"





There were rules to this game. Nobody told you, nobody wrote it down, but you just knew.

Don't be too happy, because Sara lost two in the last two years.

Don't be too sad, because Cindy has four and judges you if you're anything less than thrilled.

Don't be too matter of fact, because Andrea hasn't been able to have any of her own.

Don't be evasive, because Karen will grill you for every last detail.

Don't say that a tiny part of you wishes you weren't.

Just say "I'm pregnant".

A Barrel Of Awesome

The barrel of awesome that is Matt Potter's "Pure Slush" magazine has elected to publish a story of mine, "Campfire Story", a thankfully fictional work that you can read here.

Indie Ink Writing Challenge: Don't Be Cruel

This week, my challenge("New York City") goes out to the Cheshire Cat (and/or her smile) and I get the following from Transplanted x 3: "You (or your character) attend an auction for the left-over contents of a storage unit. You purchase one and discover 3 things. A dead body, a suitcase filled with money and a box of love letters from Elvis Presley." I cheated a wee bit- the body's not exactly dead- but hopefully it's still a tale worth reading. I call it, naturally, "Don't Be Cruel".









Kayla was a screamer. Not that kind of screamer, you pervert.

Wait. Well, she was that kind of screamer, too, if you must know, but this isn't that sort of story.

Let me start again.

Kayla screamed a lot. She screamed if she saw a spider, or a mouse, or a dead animal by the road. She watched those crime shows where someone gets killed in the first five minutes, and she would scream when they showed the body, every single time, even though anyone who watched those shows more than twice knew it was coming. She startled easily, and when she was startled, she screamed. She was a screamer, so it wasn't shocking when we pulled up the grey corrugated steel door, and she screamed.

She had been sealed up in our room, playing "Darkness at the Edge of Town" over and over, working on finishing the latest version of her novel. I was content to let her be. I could watch all the sports I wanted while she was shut away, and she could be a bit cranky when the juices were flowing. We ate our meals together, and she emerged to help me with dishes, trash, and laundry, but otherwise, we just kept to ourselves. I figured that was the way she wanted it- and when she wanted to be touchy and girly again, she knew where to find me.

So it was novel behavior when she was pulling on a short blue dress and dressy sandals early that Saturday morning. I was staring at the morning SportsCenter, hoping the Royals' 9-3 loss last night would have somehow changed by the next morning. She told me that her father Claude, a squat, intimidating man who always had money but never seemed to have a job, had an abandoned storage unit sale to go to this morning and wanted her help. She proposed a joint trip, and having no more pressing task than mourning the Royals' losing streak, I joined in.

The auction was conducted blind- you bought the contents, sight unseen, and were responsible for taking or throwing away whatever was inside by the end of the day. We pulled up to a dozen or so people, from senior citizens to eager young people like ourselves, and we sidled up to Kayla's father, who was, as usual, silent.

"Here," he said to his daughter. "I already got 433. You two go down and check it out while I try to snag another one." She handed him a couple of legal looking papers, and the two of us were soon walking down the rows of evenly spaced orange and black buildings. We reached the fourth building, and then circled it until the unit came into view. The owner had snipped the padlock that held it shut, and Kayla was standing before it, waiting for me to pull the door up.

I knew how she was, so I stepped in front, pulling the door open, hearing the rattle and bang of the ancient mechanism. I had let go of the handle, letting it settle into place above my head, when she screamed.

There was a dead guy in what I could only describe as a sarcophagus- a full length, floor to ceiling, Plexiglas lined coffin, leaning so that he was the first thing you saw when you pulled the door open. You think a lot of things when you see a dead person, I found out. First, you feel guilty, even though, as much as you may have drunk the night before, you're pretty sure a murder would have stood out. The second thing is that you start cooking up your alibi, even though you didn't kill him, and you didn't have possession of the dead guy until about ten minutes ago. I looked him over closely. It was Elvis- a full bodied, fat Elvis, with the rhinestoned white jumpsuit and the greasy pompadour and the whole thing. It lent the whole thing an air of unreality, and I had a half second where I wondered whether the whole thing was real or not. But I could feel sweat trickling between my shoulder blades, and I could hear Kayla sucking in air to scream again.

I turned to her quickly, focusing in on her beautiful green eyes. If I held her gaze for a second, I could usually talk her in off of most ledges. "Kay? Baby? It's a mannequin, hon. Look at it. The skin isn't right, and the body would spoil, and, well, Elvis is buried in Memphis, baby." I didn't know that for a fact, but it certainly was the only logical conclusion. She looked at me curiously, her head shaking very slightly, like she was trying to say "no" without moving her head. But she wasn't screaming, so I was pretty sure I had her.

"Breathe, honey. Breathe. It's OK. It's just a mannequin, babe. Promise." I looked at it again. No question it was a mannequin, I thought. It has the Elvis wig, but the skin was plastic, fake and wrong looking in the morning sun.

I looked back at her. She took a deep, shuddering breath, color returning to her face under the super short haircut that she loved, I hated, and I knew better than to complain about. I stayed locked on her eyes until I was pretty sure she had her faculties again. "It's OK, hon. Kay? You alright?"

"Wow," she said weakly.

"Yeah," I agreed, stepping back to take her hand. "You want to go find your Dad? This suit alone probably pays for the cost of the whole thing."

"I bet it does, wow. Yeah. Um, in a minute, maybe. I'm kind of freaked out."

"OK, sure," I agreed. "You want me to wait here with you?"

"Oh, no," she said firmly. "He's going to want to know what else is in there. You better start going through it."

I did, looking through cartons of books, Elvis biographies and "As Told To" tomes from hangers on. There were boxes with video tapes, bootleg concerts and TV specials, and, of course, the movies, along with the beginnings of the same collection on DVD. Then there was the audio, albums, then cassettes, then remastered CD versions. Obviously, a pretty serious fanatic. I had my own obsessions, though, so I couldn't really judge.

One box had only a smaller box inside it, about the size of a shoe box, lined with soft fabric. Inside were torn envelopes with tissue thin paper inside. Love letters, obviously. I took one out and began to read,

"13 June 1957

Fraulein Maria-

I miss you terribly. Things are pretty crazy around here, but I think about you all the time. I wish we could be together here, live like man and wife the way we are supposed to-"

I stopped reading, my eyes jumping to the bottom, scrawled simply, "Love, E." I was staggered by the thought. Actual love letters written by Presley? If they were real, this could be worth thousands. I didn't know enough about the King to imagine what they would actually fetch, but the figure had to be enormous. There was also a suitcase, a black, hardened plastic thing that reminded me of the typewriter my father used to bang out science fiction stories on so he could add to his rejection letter collection.

There was a silver clasp at the top, and I released it, expecting to find the familiar, murder weapony heft of the ancient writing tool. This storage closet was not done surprising us, because inside was pile after pile of rubber banded stacks of what appeared to be hundred dollar bills.

"Holy shit," I gasped.

"What?," Kayla asked, her fear lessened enough to let her take a few steps into the container with me.

"Look," I said, and leaned back, letting her see the cash.

"Whoa," she said. "Can I see that?"

I lifted it onto a box full of Elvis records so she could see it more clearly. It was heavier than you thought it would be.

"Is that money?"

"Sure looks like it," I said.

"There must be...thousands," she said breathlessly.

"If they're all hundreds," I said. There was a shiver of nausea in the pit of my stomach. Something was wrong. That much money doesn't accumulate because of anything good.

Kayla shut the case and fastened it. "I'm going to go find my Dad," she said firmly.

"Well, leave that here, don't you think? Don't go showing it around."

"I'm not STU-pid," she said mockingly, swinging the case from one hand as she walked out of the storage unit. I watched her hips twitch under the short dress as she walked away from me.

When Claude walked in 10 minutes further on, I assumed she and her father had missed connections- she had walked in another direction, or she was looking by the exit while he stood over me, sweaty and tan. I showed him the haul, and he reprimanded me gently for handling the letter, but he was thrilled with the haul, as I knew he would be. He promised me a generous cut, and I was spending it in my head when I noticed our car missing from the lot at the storage complex. Claude shrugged his shoulders, and we commenced loading his truck with the treasures. He drove me back to our tiny apartment, and it finally came home to me what had happened when I saw that her toothbrush, her books, her clothes, and her laptop were all gone.

I was still trying to assemble the whole picture in my head, and trying to understand how I was going to tell Claude what had happened, when I saw it. On the back of one of my business cards, in the refrigerator leaning against a Rolling Rock bottle she knew I would go for, she had left a note.

In her simple, girlish hand, she wrote in purple ink, "Don't Be Cruel".