Sunday, August 14, 2011
More Slushy Goodness
Matt Potter, minister without portfolio for the Department of Awesome, has published another story of mine, "4:26 AM", in his web magazine Pure Slush. Like the last story of mine he was kind enough to put up, it is a bit of a departure for me, a character that is unlike any I have ever come up with. Feel free to go forth and partake, but fair warning: the story implies that adult humans sometimes have sex.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Flash Fiction Friday: My Little Town
This week, Flash Fiction Friday invites you to write about your hometown. I don't know how close I came, but here's my story, "My Little Town" (Note: As with everything I write, this is a melange of truth and falsehood. While all these people really exist (the men, anyway), the events depicted herein never happened.)
The court was at the end of a strip of long, pure blacktop- new and fresh and almost soft. We weren't allowed to be there- it was absolutely private property, the edge of a parking lot that belonged to a rapidly shrinking tech firm that expanded to our small town a half decade ago in the mistaken belief that trees grow to the sky. Their security guards had evolved into a live and let live attitude towards our presence on their property- they pretended they didn't see us, and we pretended we didn't see them.
The six of us were friends, but we were friends in the sense that men are friends, which is to say, not really. We didn't talk about anything other than sports and music, teased each other gently, and walked back into our lives alone. Whether townie, like Tom, Chuck, or Jeff and his brother Dave, or technology boom transplants like my brother and I, we came back to our little town, gathered at the basketball court above the highway, and said the things we couldn't say.
The town was here before any of us- it sent troops to the Battle of Concord during the Revolutionary War. The town was becoming congested, the highway and the new millionaires filling the treelined streets and antique shops and good suburban schools with transplants like my family, heading west to ruin other suburbs after their own are overrun. It is attached to major highways, but you can turn off of them and be in heavily wooded sections where there are no signs because all the natives know where everything is.
We gathered after a series of phone calls, cars pulling up one by one as jobs let out or parents returned home to watch younger siblings. Some brought bottled water or Gatorade, and the older ones, Tom, Jeff and I, strapped on knee braces to protect our already aging bodies. The first arrivals shoot by themselves, arcing jump shots and driving layups to get cool muscles accustomed to the night's exertions.
Basketball is something to do, something for those of us who aren't popular enough to go to parties or date. It beat driving down the same streets, listening to the Eagles or Led Zeppelin, wishing you were brave enough to call a girl. We weren't daring enough to get in any real trouble- no drugs, no violence, very little sex, just young men without purpose, gathering in the twilight, waiting for our real lives to begin.
Some nights we could actually get ten people, actual real life five on five games, but that night it was just the core six, Tom and Chuck pulling in last, the rest of us still lazily shooting. They joined our merry band, warming up quickly, then dividing sides. We didn't need shirts and skins, knowing each other well enough. The game was half court, scoring team keeps possession, gentleman's agreement on fouls.
It started well, both teams tossing in a few long shots, before settling into a battle of attrition. We had been playing all summer, to the point where you knew who wanted to take the shot at the elbow, versus who would try to get by you for a layup. You knew who couldn't dribble to their left, and you knew who would bite on a spin move or a back door cut. We had all played basketball for our town's team, but this reflected more of a lack of interest than any special ability.
The game struggled upwards, as the traffic home from other suburbs died away and it got harder to see. The highway was less a murmur now than a sudden rush and rumble when an eighteen wheeler headed for New Hampshire roared by. At 19-18, fatigue began to affect both sides, shots that usually go in rimming out, layups skittering away instead of dropping through. We made ourselves play on, the game becoming a test of toughness- we would finish no matter how long it took.
I had caught the ball, Tom defending me eagerly. With his height advantage, I would usually pass off when he guarded me, and accordingly, my brother curled and gained a step on his defender, giving him a clear path to the basket and a score that would put us one point away from victory. I felt Tom lag, knowing he saw the gap and was trying to fill it, and took advantage. I sold the bounce pass, getting Tom and my brother's lagging defender to converge, and went up instead, draining a jump shot for a 20-18 advantage. Pumping my fist, I went back behind the three point line to set up for the hopefully final possession.
Suddenly I noticed Stacy. I had heard about Tom and Stacy, seeing them leave the grocery store as I went into it, or seeing them in a movie theater lobby. It wasn't a big deal, and not that unusual, but it was like seeing a dead deer at the side of the road- an inappropriateness violation. She wasn't beautiful by any standards, kind of mousy with an overbite, but, as I was sure he would point out, she was better than the nonexistent girlfriends any of us had.
Tom was walking towards Stacy, who had pulled her car, a forest green Dodge, right up to the court. I had been waiting for the ball to be passed out to me, but now we were all watching Tom, walking away from us, towards her small face and simultaneously thin and pudgy frame. I could see the curve of a pot belly under a Def Leppard t shirt, pointing right at Tom like a gun. He came up to her and bent his head down as they talked.
"I have to go, guys," was all Tom said, his voice thin and high. He moved to get into the Dodge's passenger side. We all felt frozen for a second- a move that should have brought catcalls, Tom's abandoning us for a girl, brought a stunned silence. I had asked everyone about coming to my house after the game (and a much needed shower) to watch Monty Python movies and eat popcorn, my parents being in Manchester for a weekend of square dancing. I was sure Tom, a recent no show, would have gone in for that, but I took his noncommittal answer as the "no" that it clearly was.
I loved Tom- we all loved Tom, in the way we could. He had a wicked sense of humor, was brilliant and wise and could expound on Buddhism and the Higgs boson in the same paragraph. I thought he was settling for Stacy, but never said so, and I felt Tom's loss, suddenly, even as he rode away in Stacy's car. I had the unmistakable impression he was gone, even as we could still follow her brake lights as they disappeared around the corner into the woods.
"I guess you guys win," Jeff, the captain of the other team suggested.
Nobody agreed.
The court was at the end of a strip of long, pure blacktop- new and fresh and almost soft. We weren't allowed to be there- it was absolutely private property, the edge of a parking lot that belonged to a rapidly shrinking tech firm that expanded to our small town a half decade ago in the mistaken belief that trees grow to the sky. Their security guards had evolved into a live and let live attitude towards our presence on their property- they pretended they didn't see us, and we pretended we didn't see them.
The six of us were friends, but we were friends in the sense that men are friends, which is to say, not really. We didn't talk about anything other than sports and music, teased each other gently, and walked back into our lives alone. Whether townie, like Tom, Chuck, or Jeff and his brother Dave, or technology boom transplants like my brother and I, we came back to our little town, gathered at the basketball court above the highway, and said the things we couldn't say.
The town was here before any of us- it sent troops to the Battle of Concord during the Revolutionary War. The town was becoming congested, the highway and the new millionaires filling the treelined streets and antique shops and good suburban schools with transplants like my family, heading west to ruin other suburbs after their own are overrun. It is attached to major highways, but you can turn off of them and be in heavily wooded sections where there are no signs because all the natives know where everything is.
We gathered after a series of phone calls, cars pulling up one by one as jobs let out or parents returned home to watch younger siblings. Some brought bottled water or Gatorade, and the older ones, Tom, Jeff and I, strapped on knee braces to protect our already aging bodies. The first arrivals shoot by themselves, arcing jump shots and driving layups to get cool muscles accustomed to the night's exertions.
Basketball is something to do, something for those of us who aren't popular enough to go to parties or date. It beat driving down the same streets, listening to the Eagles or Led Zeppelin, wishing you were brave enough to call a girl. We weren't daring enough to get in any real trouble- no drugs, no violence, very little sex, just young men without purpose, gathering in the twilight, waiting for our real lives to begin.
Some nights we could actually get ten people, actual real life five on five games, but that night it was just the core six, Tom and Chuck pulling in last, the rest of us still lazily shooting. They joined our merry band, warming up quickly, then dividing sides. We didn't need shirts and skins, knowing each other well enough. The game was half court, scoring team keeps possession, gentleman's agreement on fouls.
It started well, both teams tossing in a few long shots, before settling into a battle of attrition. We had been playing all summer, to the point where you knew who wanted to take the shot at the elbow, versus who would try to get by you for a layup. You knew who couldn't dribble to their left, and you knew who would bite on a spin move or a back door cut. We had all played basketball for our town's team, but this reflected more of a lack of interest than any special ability.
The game struggled upwards, as the traffic home from other suburbs died away and it got harder to see. The highway was less a murmur now than a sudden rush and rumble when an eighteen wheeler headed for New Hampshire roared by. At 19-18, fatigue began to affect both sides, shots that usually go in rimming out, layups skittering away instead of dropping through. We made ourselves play on, the game becoming a test of toughness- we would finish no matter how long it took.
I had caught the ball, Tom defending me eagerly. With his height advantage, I would usually pass off when he guarded me, and accordingly, my brother curled and gained a step on his defender, giving him a clear path to the basket and a score that would put us one point away from victory. I felt Tom lag, knowing he saw the gap and was trying to fill it, and took advantage. I sold the bounce pass, getting Tom and my brother's lagging defender to converge, and went up instead, draining a jump shot for a 20-18 advantage. Pumping my fist, I went back behind the three point line to set up for the hopefully final possession.
Suddenly I noticed Stacy. I had heard about Tom and Stacy, seeing them leave the grocery store as I went into it, or seeing them in a movie theater lobby. It wasn't a big deal, and not that unusual, but it was like seeing a dead deer at the side of the road- an inappropriateness violation. She wasn't beautiful by any standards, kind of mousy with an overbite, but, as I was sure he would point out, she was better than the nonexistent girlfriends any of us had.
Tom was walking towards Stacy, who had pulled her car, a forest green Dodge, right up to the court. I had been waiting for the ball to be passed out to me, but now we were all watching Tom, walking away from us, towards her small face and simultaneously thin and pudgy frame. I could see the curve of a pot belly under a Def Leppard t shirt, pointing right at Tom like a gun. He came up to her and bent his head down as they talked.
"I have to go, guys," was all Tom said, his voice thin and high. He moved to get into the Dodge's passenger side. We all felt frozen for a second- a move that should have brought catcalls, Tom's abandoning us for a girl, brought a stunned silence. I had asked everyone about coming to my house after the game (and a much needed shower) to watch Monty Python movies and eat popcorn, my parents being in Manchester for a weekend of square dancing. I was sure Tom, a recent no show, would have gone in for that, but I took his noncommittal answer as the "no" that it clearly was.
I loved Tom- we all loved Tom, in the way we could. He had a wicked sense of humor, was brilliant and wise and could expound on Buddhism and the Higgs boson in the same paragraph. I thought he was settling for Stacy, but never said so, and I felt Tom's loss, suddenly, even as he rode away in Stacy's car. I had the unmistakable impression he was gone, even as we could still follow her brake lights as they disappeared around the corner into the woods.
"I guess you guys win," Jeff, the captain of the other team suggested.
Nobody agreed.
Sunday, August 07, 2011
Indie Ink Writing Challenge: Hotel Illness
The IndieInk Writing Challenge comes from Leslie, and asks me to write about a bikini, an annoying boss, and a fake illness. My challenge goes to Ixy, who I am asking to tell us about being five.
Alexa woke up with nausea already boiling in her gut. It was Monday, which explained part of it. She had begun to really hate her job, which was part of it, too. But this morning, staring at the mute red numbers on her cheap alarm clock, Alexa knew she couldn't face it. Her Monday clothes hung on her armoire, the shadow of her skirt, blouse, and jacket lingering there like a bad smell.
Her job was to make Charles look good. To have the information he needed for him, to do the calculations that made him look brilliant. To look good in a suit, to listen to his rants when things aren't going well, to be seen and not heard. Alexa went to college and worked hard, and she has wound up as a well dressed number cruncher. "Be glad you have a job," Stacy said, and the numbers of her college friends who posted about unemployed spouses or selves seemed to climb every week. It was constant stress- whatever she provided, it wasn't what he needed, or it was too slow, or it wasn't accurate enough.
Alexa knew that was true, but she still felt sick. The idea took hold at the bottom of her brain, and suddenly it was all she thought of. Call in sick. Why not? She knew the big meeting wasn't until Wednesday, and she had plenty of time to use. Temperatures in the upper 80s today, the first really warm day of the spring, combined with no real loss to her absence? A day away from ringing phones, conflicting demands, and unwanted eyes on her as she walked away from his desk.
The idea becomes irresistible the more she thinks about it. A day by the river, sunning herself, reading and watching people? Why not indeed. Alexa dialed into Charles' office, the number that she would usually answer. She reached into her drawer for her black bikini, already picturing the warm sun on her bare legs. She would have to go in tomorrow, but she was already relishing the hours of freedom. She waited for the voice mail to pick up.
"Hello?" Charles usually wasn't in for an hour after she got there. He sounded sleepless, almost manic.
"Ch-Ch-Charles? I didn't think you'd be in yet."
"Well, I haven't been home yet. Something's happened."
Alexa's blood froze. "What? What's happened? Why didn't you call me?"
"I can't say just yet," Charles said.
"I can be there in an hour," Alexa said quickly, her stomach now churning full force.
"No, no. There's not much you can do, right now. What were you calling for?"
Alexa swallowed hard. "I don't feel...I wasn't feeling...,"
"You're sick? No problem, hon. Take the day off. I'll talk to you tomorrow." He hung up quickly. Alexa stared at her phone, the screen reminding her that the call had ended. Her stomach tightened in a spasm. Now, she thought, I do feel sick.
Alexa woke up with nausea already boiling in her gut. It was Monday, which explained part of it. She had begun to really hate her job, which was part of it, too. But this morning, staring at the mute red numbers on her cheap alarm clock, Alexa knew she couldn't face it. Her Monday clothes hung on her armoire, the shadow of her skirt, blouse, and jacket lingering there like a bad smell.
Her job was to make Charles look good. To have the information he needed for him, to do the calculations that made him look brilliant. To look good in a suit, to listen to his rants when things aren't going well, to be seen and not heard. Alexa went to college and worked hard, and she has wound up as a well dressed number cruncher. "Be glad you have a job," Stacy said, and the numbers of her college friends who posted about unemployed spouses or selves seemed to climb every week. It was constant stress- whatever she provided, it wasn't what he needed, or it was too slow, or it wasn't accurate enough.
Alexa knew that was true, but she still felt sick. The idea took hold at the bottom of her brain, and suddenly it was all she thought of. Call in sick. Why not? She knew the big meeting wasn't until Wednesday, and she had plenty of time to use. Temperatures in the upper 80s today, the first really warm day of the spring, combined with no real loss to her absence? A day away from ringing phones, conflicting demands, and unwanted eyes on her as she walked away from his desk.
The idea becomes irresistible the more she thinks about it. A day by the river, sunning herself, reading and watching people? Why not indeed. Alexa dialed into Charles' office, the number that she would usually answer. She reached into her drawer for her black bikini, already picturing the warm sun on her bare legs. She would have to go in tomorrow, but she was already relishing the hours of freedom. She waited for the voice mail to pick up.
"Hello?" Charles usually wasn't in for an hour after she got there. He sounded sleepless, almost manic.
"Ch-Ch-Charles? I didn't think you'd be in yet."
"Well, I haven't been home yet. Something's happened."
Alexa's blood froze. "What? What's happened? Why didn't you call me?"
"I can't say just yet," Charles said.
"I can be there in an hour," Alexa said quickly, her stomach now churning full force.
"No, no. There's not much you can do, right now. What were you calling for?"
Alexa swallowed hard. "I don't feel...I wasn't feeling...,"
"You're sick? No problem, hon. Take the day off. I'll talk to you tomorrow." He hung up quickly. Alexa stared at her phone, the screen reminding her that the call had ended. Her stomach tightened in a spasm. Now, she thought, I do feel sick.
Saturday, August 06, 2011
Standard And Potter
Matt Potter has published another one of my stories over at casa del Pure Slush. It's a little bit of a departure for me.
In today's news, Standard and Poor's has downgraded the debt of the United States, an unprecedented move that has shaken people around the world. It makes me wonder, though. Standard and Poor's are the same people who told us all that bonds backed by fraudulent mortgages were perfectly safe and OK to purchase, helping lead us all into the global economic meltdown we have all been enjoying. Why, exactly, should anyone believe anything they say about anything?
In today's news, Standard and Poor's has downgraded the debt of the United States, an unprecedented move that has shaken people around the world. It makes me wonder, though. Standard and Poor's are the same people who told us all that bonds backed by fraudulent mortgages were perfectly safe and OK to purchase, helping lead us all into the global economic meltdown we have all been enjoying. Why, exactly, should anyone believe anything they say about anything?
Thursday, August 04, 2011
Terrible Minds Challenge: "EBay From Hell"
Chuck Wendig is, among other things, dope on the floor and magic on the mic. His Terrible Minds Flash Fiction Challenge this week involves a story about a flea market in some way, shape or form. This is mine, called "EBay from Hell".
He stopped. Again. That's how it was- stop, wait, look, think, then move on, walking a few more steps, then stopping, looking again. All the while, I waddled along behind him, feeling like a water buffalo among the cheetah.
I sighed and took a step back. Big as I was, there was no place left to stand where I wasn't in the way. I tried to stay out of the traffic flow, not blocking any of the other stands while not preventing people from streaming by on their way to somewhere else. We were at the Washington Township Flea Market, an event where they turn the parking lot of our minor league hockey team's home arena, every Saturday all summer, into a giant, open air, EBay From Hell. People were there selling everything you could imagine- bootleg t shirts, books, jewelry, computer software, lawn decorations, trading cards. My hips began to ache as I walked along one of the long aisles between stands. I craved the air conditioned cool of our apartment.
A number of food trucks had set themselves up here on the steamy blacktop, and one of them, a teriyaki stand, served enormous cups of iced tea with lemon slices. I eagerly bought one as soon as we entered the maze of card tables and tents, and, already feeling warm as the humid morning started to assert itself, I sucked on the straw greedily. I felt out of place and awkward. I hated being out, walking around and being sweaty, but I also felt an intense need to be wherever he was, too.
I came with him out of a panicky sense of time slipping away. Steven was bent low over a plastic carton, flipping through cardboard backed comic books with a practiced eye. He had told me, gripping the wheel tightly as he played "Led Zeppelin III" in our ancient Subaru on the way over, what he was looking for, but I had already forgotten. Whenever I told my girlfriends at work about any weekend plans, the older ones clucked softly, reminding me that days like this, just the two of us gallivanting around, would soon be a thing of the past. I missed this, this "us", even before it was gone.
"Need a chair, hon?" The voice was coming from behind me, female, but gravelly with years of smoking. I half turned. She had a tanned, leathery face, with a tattoo high on her right shoulder of a heart with a scroll of names underneath it. She was smiling guardedly. The table in front of her was covered with what looked like Christmas ornaments- snowflakes, angels, wrapped presents- made out of what looked like hardened cookie dough.
I blushed. "Me? Oh, no. No, no. No thank you." She had startled me a little, and I felt my heart thrum briefly.
"OK. Just ask if you need it," she added. A young girl stopped in front of her wares, eyeing the ornaments suspiciously. She ran off, flip flops slapping the ground, free to move on to another adventure. I envied her.
"First one?," she said, gesturing towards my belly.
"Yup," I said.
"Boyfriend?," she said, her hand pointing vaguely at Steven, who was studying a single issue intently. Looking for flaws, I knew, folds or rips or holes that would make it less valuable to collectors.
"Husband," I said firmly. Why was it people never assumed I was married?
"You're good to put up with this," she said. "Husbands are crazy."
"Well, we take turns," I said. "Tonight, he has to sit on the couch and watch a movie with me."
"That's the way to do it," she said. "Give and take. My Freddie and me always did that. He had his model trains, and I had my ornaments."
"You had kids?" I asked her.
"Six." I gasped, trying to imagine going through this one more time, never mind five.
"It gets easier," she said, chuckling. I found that hard to believe. "And Freddie helped me. And you learn it as you go, too. It's a gradual thing. You'll never be good at it, but you'll get better, if that makes any sense."
Steven had one book under his arm, and was pawing for another.
"Mind a little more free advice, doll?," she added.
I did mind, but I didn't know how to refuse.
"Don't take anything for granted. Anything. Even this, out in the hot sun, perspiring in that cute dress like you are. Don't take your man for granted. Not once. My Freddie's been gone 8 years now, and I miss him every damn day."
Steven paid for his purchase, then walked over to me, a quizzical look on his face. "You OK?"
He said that a lot. "Yes, fine. You done? Or do you need to look some more?"
"I'm done," he said. He took my hand.
"Good luck, hon," she said to me.
"Thanks," I told her. "You too."
"Oh, no, hon," she said, chuckling again. "It's you that needs the luck now."
He stopped. Again. That's how it was- stop, wait, look, think, then move on, walking a few more steps, then stopping, looking again. All the while, I waddled along behind him, feeling like a water buffalo among the cheetah.
I sighed and took a step back. Big as I was, there was no place left to stand where I wasn't in the way. I tried to stay out of the traffic flow, not blocking any of the other stands while not preventing people from streaming by on their way to somewhere else. We were at the Washington Township Flea Market, an event where they turn the parking lot of our minor league hockey team's home arena, every Saturday all summer, into a giant, open air, EBay From Hell. People were there selling everything you could imagine- bootleg t shirts, books, jewelry, computer software, lawn decorations, trading cards. My hips began to ache as I walked along one of the long aisles between stands. I craved the air conditioned cool of our apartment.
A number of food trucks had set themselves up here on the steamy blacktop, and one of them, a teriyaki stand, served enormous cups of iced tea with lemon slices. I eagerly bought one as soon as we entered the maze of card tables and tents, and, already feeling warm as the humid morning started to assert itself, I sucked on the straw greedily. I felt out of place and awkward. I hated being out, walking around and being sweaty, but I also felt an intense need to be wherever he was, too.
I came with him out of a panicky sense of time slipping away. Steven was bent low over a plastic carton, flipping through cardboard backed comic books with a practiced eye. He had told me, gripping the wheel tightly as he played "Led Zeppelin III" in our ancient Subaru on the way over, what he was looking for, but I had already forgotten. Whenever I told my girlfriends at work about any weekend plans, the older ones clucked softly, reminding me that days like this, just the two of us gallivanting around, would soon be a thing of the past. I missed this, this "us", even before it was gone.
"Need a chair, hon?" The voice was coming from behind me, female, but gravelly with years of smoking. I half turned. She had a tanned, leathery face, with a tattoo high on her right shoulder of a heart with a scroll of names underneath it. She was smiling guardedly. The table in front of her was covered with what looked like Christmas ornaments- snowflakes, angels, wrapped presents- made out of what looked like hardened cookie dough.
I blushed. "Me? Oh, no. No, no. No thank you." She had startled me a little, and I felt my heart thrum briefly.
"OK. Just ask if you need it," she added. A young girl stopped in front of her wares, eyeing the ornaments suspiciously. She ran off, flip flops slapping the ground, free to move on to another adventure. I envied her.
"First one?," she said, gesturing towards my belly.
"Yup," I said.
"Boyfriend?," she said, her hand pointing vaguely at Steven, who was studying a single issue intently. Looking for flaws, I knew, folds or rips or holes that would make it less valuable to collectors.
"Husband," I said firmly. Why was it people never assumed I was married?
"You're good to put up with this," she said. "Husbands are crazy."
"Well, we take turns," I said. "Tonight, he has to sit on the couch and watch a movie with me."
"That's the way to do it," she said. "Give and take. My Freddie and me always did that. He had his model trains, and I had my ornaments."
"You had kids?" I asked her.
"Six." I gasped, trying to imagine going through this one more time, never mind five.
"It gets easier," she said, chuckling. I found that hard to believe. "And Freddie helped me. And you learn it as you go, too. It's a gradual thing. You'll never be good at it, but you'll get better, if that makes any sense."
Steven had one book under his arm, and was pawing for another.
"Mind a little more free advice, doll?," she added.
I did mind, but I didn't know how to refuse.
"Don't take anything for granted. Anything. Even this, out in the hot sun, perspiring in that cute dress like you are. Don't take your man for granted. Not once. My Freddie's been gone 8 years now, and I miss him every damn day."
Steven paid for his purchase, then walked over to me, a quizzical look on his face. "You OK?"
He said that a lot. "Yes, fine. You done? Or do you need to look some more?"
"I'm done," he said. He took my hand.
"Good luck, hon," she said to me.
"Thanks," I told her. "You too."
"Oh, no, hon," she said, chuckling again. "It's you that needs the luck now."
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Indie Ink Writing Challenge: I Want To Hold Your Hand
This week, the IndieInk Writing Challenge brings me "the apex of happiness" from Ms. Ixy. My challenge, "I've Got A Feeling", goes out to Angela. This week brings us yet another story from my Novel That Has No Name, Along With, Really, No Reason For Being. As before, the narrator is Ray, and this time he is trying to put to bed his willful 3 year old "niece", Kate. (They are not, in fact, related. For more details, please feel free to seek out my first novel, "Everybody Loves You Now," conveniently available in the sidebar.)
t was a battle, every time. It was a struggle of wills- two forces attempting to dominate and impose their agenda on the other. My opponent thought she was smarter than she was, and she thought I had forgotten the way this war went last time. Like in any skirmish, the question was not victory- I would win, because I was in charge- but instead how many losses I was willing to endure.
First it was weaning off of TV- one more episode, and then off for the evening. Then it was a story. Then another story. Then pajamas, brushing teeth, and brushing hair. Then it was a request for another story, gently, but firmly, denied. Then it was which bed- the soft couch or the big bed. I could sleep either place, so I let her choose- which meant first one, then the other.
Then the battle was really engaged. Too many pillows, then too few, and then too few blankets, then too many. Now it's too cold, now it's too hot. A sudden, raging thirst, then, of course, a bathroom trip. I settled into the couch cushions, listening to the sounds the mattress would make as she squirmed her way into comfort. She actually talked now and then, making those little happy sounds kids make, seemingly just to hear the sound of her own voice.
I didn't have trouble sleeping, but I couldn't rest until I thought that she was fully asleep. I knew I couldn't have the light on to read, and I certainly couldn't have the TV on, so I started making lists, papering the inside of my brain with Ten Best Left Handed Relief Pitchers, and Top Five Bass Guitarists. I heard the quiet hiss of summer rain beginning outside, hoping it would not bring thunder that would wake her up. Of course, it did, and as predictable as a 6-4-3 double play, she was at the foot of the couch in seconds.
"Unca Ray, it raining."
"Yes, Lovey, it is." Her hair was already disordered, tangled with sweat.
"Can you come lay on the big bed with me? I scared."
I sighed inwardly. "Sure." I knew she had to learn how to go to sleep by herself, but expedience won out over prudence. Plus I couldn't say no to that face.
She climbed into the bed, her body rigid with excitement. I climbed in as well, leaning on one side so I could watch her, hoping I could climb back out once she fell asleep.
"You really gonna sleep here the whole night?"
"Yes, honey. Shhh. Sleep time."
"OK, Unca Ray," she said in an exaggerated whisper.
She slid her hand towards me, and I covered it with my own. She sighed deeply, seeming to finally relax. I watched her breathing, her rib cage rising softly. Her face started to slacken as fatigue took over. The rain murmured outside the window, with a distant rumble of thunder causing her to grab my hand in response.
"It's OK, baby," I said softly. "I'm here." She was so easy to reassure, because the things she was afraid of were so distant.
She released her grip slightly. I stared at her in the shadows. She was so utterly dependent, so trusting. When she walked into a playground with other kids, she would constantly look back at me, as if to ask, "is this OK? Is it safe?" And it wasn't- not completely. There were driveways to skin knees on, stomach viruses to combat, and later, friendships made and broken in the internecine warfare of growing up girl. Much later, there would be boys lying to her, breaking her heart, making promises they can't or won't keep. And all through this, she looks to us for security, the only people she doesn't have to impress, the only people who will accept her utterly. Home: the place where, when she goes there, we will always take her in.
I wanted to warn her that I wasn't smart enough for this job, that I was in no way qualified to keep her safe from the world's dangers. I could make sure the rain didn't get her, and I could hold her hand when the thunder rolled, but I couldn't make things safe. No one could. I was grateful for her trust. Mystified by it, but grateful. She made me feel like I had some substance- her needs transformed me, making me better and more whole. As much of a pain in the neck as she was, she made me happier.
She would eventually realize that something horrible had happened to her, that her birthday itself was a measurement of tragedy as well. She had been robbed of something. At some point, this would make her furiously angry at anyone and everyone, and I knew those days would come. I could tell her that the same thing happened to me, but I at least had memories to hang on to. All she had was pictures and stories, and the fundamental unfairness of that would hit her like a ton of bricks. Someday.
But right now she believed. She knew that I would always be there, and her grandmother would, and each day just brought you new and different ways to be happy in a world that couldn't hurt you. As much as I knew that promise was a lie, just like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, I let her believe it, and to be able to provide someone that kind of security made me feel competent, in charge. I smiled in the dark, tired but happy. Her intense devotion to this false premise made me believe it, too. Almost.
t was a battle, every time. It was a struggle of wills- two forces attempting to dominate and impose their agenda on the other. My opponent thought she was smarter than she was, and she thought I had forgotten the way this war went last time. Like in any skirmish, the question was not victory- I would win, because I was in charge- but instead how many losses I was willing to endure.
First it was weaning off of TV- one more episode, and then off for the evening. Then it was a story. Then another story. Then pajamas, brushing teeth, and brushing hair. Then it was a request for another story, gently, but firmly, denied. Then it was which bed- the soft couch or the big bed. I could sleep either place, so I let her choose- which meant first one, then the other.
Then the battle was really engaged. Too many pillows, then too few, and then too few blankets, then too many. Now it's too cold, now it's too hot. A sudden, raging thirst, then, of course, a bathroom trip. I settled into the couch cushions, listening to the sounds the mattress would make as she squirmed her way into comfort. She actually talked now and then, making those little happy sounds kids make, seemingly just to hear the sound of her own voice.
I didn't have trouble sleeping, but I couldn't rest until I thought that she was fully asleep. I knew I couldn't have the light on to read, and I certainly couldn't have the TV on, so I started making lists, papering the inside of my brain with Ten Best Left Handed Relief Pitchers, and Top Five Bass Guitarists. I heard the quiet hiss of summer rain beginning outside, hoping it would not bring thunder that would wake her up. Of course, it did, and as predictable as a 6-4-3 double play, she was at the foot of the couch in seconds.
"Unca Ray, it raining."
"Yes, Lovey, it is." Her hair was already disordered, tangled with sweat.
"Can you come lay on the big bed with me? I scared."
I sighed inwardly. "Sure." I knew she had to learn how to go to sleep by herself, but expedience won out over prudence. Plus I couldn't say no to that face.
She climbed into the bed, her body rigid with excitement. I climbed in as well, leaning on one side so I could watch her, hoping I could climb back out once she fell asleep.
"You really gonna sleep here the whole night?"
"Yes, honey. Shhh. Sleep time."
"OK, Unca Ray," she said in an exaggerated whisper.
She slid her hand towards me, and I covered it with my own. She sighed deeply, seeming to finally relax. I watched her breathing, her rib cage rising softly. Her face started to slacken as fatigue took over. The rain murmured outside the window, with a distant rumble of thunder causing her to grab my hand in response.
"It's OK, baby," I said softly. "I'm here." She was so easy to reassure, because the things she was afraid of were so distant.
She released her grip slightly. I stared at her in the shadows. She was so utterly dependent, so trusting. When she walked into a playground with other kids, she would constantly look back at me, as if to ask, "is this OK? Is it safe?" And it wasn't- not completely. There were driveways to skin knees on, stomach viruses to combat, and later, friendships made and broken in the internecine warfare of growing up girl. Much later, there would be boys lying to her, breaking her heart, making promises they can't or won't keep. And all through this, she looks to us for security, the only people she doesn't have to impress, the only people who will accept her utterly. Home: the place where, when she goes there, we will always take her in.
I wanted to warn her that I wasn't smart enough for this job, that I was in no way qualified to keep her safe from the world's dangers. I could make sure the rain didn't get her, and I could hold her hand when the thunder rolled, but I couldn't make things safe. No one could. I was grateful for her trust. Mystified by it, but grateful. She made me feel like I had some substance- her needs transformed me, making me better and more whole. As much of a pain in the neck as she was, she made me happier.
She would eventually realize that something horrible had happened to her, that her birthday itself was a measurement of tragedy as well. She had been robbed of something. At some point, this would make her furiously angry at anyone and everyone, and I knew those days would come. I could tell her that the same thing happened to me, but I at least had memories to hang on to. All she had was pictures and stories, and the fundamental unfairness of that would hit her like a ton of bricks. Someday.
But right now she believed. She knew that I would always be there, and her grandmother would, and each day just brought you new and different ways to be happy in a world that couldn't hurt you. As much as I knew that promise was a lie, just like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, I let her believe it, and to be able to provide someone that kind of security made me feel competent, in charge. I smiled in the dark, tired but happy. Her intense devotion to this false premise made me believe it, too. Almost.
Friday, July 29, 2011
100 Word Challenge: No Myth
The Velvet Verbosity 100 Word Challenge is back from the brink and ready to take on all comers. This week's word is "Myth", and my story is called, "No Myth"
For Johnna
I had to time it just right, starting the song just as she started up the hill, so I'd be singing the right part when she got up to me. I was playing acoustic guitar, trying to stay in practice before I had to go do my grownup work. I didn't know her name, only the swinging rhythm of her walk, her caramel skin and long black hair. I looked at her, and as she looked away I sang-
"What if I were Romeo in black jeans-
What if I were Heathcliff, it's no myth-"
(The above lyric used without permission is from Michael Penn's "No Myth", a criminally underrated song from 1989. The video is included below for your amusement.)
For Johnna
I had to time it just right, starting the song just as she started up the hill, so I'd be singing the right part when she got up to me. I was playing acoustic guitar, trying to stay in practice before I had to go do my grownup work. I didn't know her name, only the swinging rhythm of her walk, her caramel skin and long black hair. I looked at her, and as she looked away I sang-
"What if I were Romeo in black jeans-
What if I were Heathcliff, it's no myth-"
(The above lyric used without permission is from Michael Penn's "No Myth", a criminally underrated song from 1989. The video is included below for your amusement.)
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Indie Ink Writing Challenge: Say Hello To Heaven
The Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week comes to me from wondrous Wendryn, who asks me to write about cooking something I love. Stereotype alert: I am both a terrible cook and awfully immature about what I eat. (Among other things!) If it were up to me, I'd have the same meal three times a day, and it would most likely be something nutirionally horrifying. (I have long maintained, and continue to do so, that if I were not married, I would be dead of cholesterol poisoning by now.)
So, that being said, here it is. It is yet another extract from my novel in progress, as yet untitled, which is a sequel to a novel no longer in progress, available for sale in this very sidebar, if you are so inclined.
For the unitiated, Kate is 3. The narrator is Ray, who has wound up, through a series of events described in the first book (available at a low low price right over to the right there), becoming one of Kate's primary caretakers. Mom Mom is Kate's grandmother, Ange (Angela) is Kate's aunt, and Wendy is Kate's mother.
(Amy got my challenge.)
I call this "Say Hello To Heaven".
"Can I watch TV?"
"Sure, kiddo," I said. Her mind, as creative as it was, sometimes seemed like a box with three raisins in it. She could hold onto a thought, but she was ever willing to exchange it for a more exciting or newer concept. PBS was showing Sesame Street, which amused her enough for me to get dinner started. As my apartment evolved into Kate's half home, I had learned to keep certain provisions close at hand- acetaminophen, band aids, juice, white bread, American cheese, frozen chicken nuggets.
"What do you want for dinner, Kate?" I waited for the words to settle through the TV haze. Like any kid, she went into another world when the idiot box was on. She didn't respond for a beat, so I went with choices. "Mac and cheese or grilled cheese, baby?"
"Grilled cheese, please?" That got through.
I started the oven. As a sop to a balanced diet, I was going to serve her chicken nuggets, too. That would start a little fight, but I was prepared for it. Kate was a monochromatic eater- she wanted one thing and one thing only on her plate. I admired the purity of her feelings. The empty old oven made little bangs and pops, as I imagined the metal changing shape very slightly as the heat built up. I took out a baking sheet, one of Mom Mom's old ones, and got out the bag of nuggets from the freezer. They were animal shapes, and I tried not to think about documentaries I've seen about how these little beauties are put together. I tore the bag open and spread the nuggets out amongst the ice shavings and bits and pieces of breading that came out.
"Unca Ray?" Kate had walked over to watch me.
"Yes, love?"
"Don't want chicken."
"I know, Kate. But we have to eat a balanced diet. We can't always have the same thing."
"But I like same thing." I couldn't argue with that logic.
"I know. But if we want you to grow up big and strong like your Auntie, you need to eat lots of things. Not just one thing."
"Don't like chicken."
"Now, Kate, I've seen you eat chicken a dozen times. You do like chicken."
"I don't." She frowned slightly and walked back to the TV. That move reminded me of her mother, the wounded retreat, but always getting in the last word. The chicken in the oven and the timer set, I turned my attention to grilled cheese. I had made grilled cheese since I was 12 years old, but there was a method to making it the way Kate wanted, which Mom Mom had dutifully showed me. She didn't like any of the characteristic brownness of a grilled cheese sandwich- Kate would pronounce that "burned" and refuse to eat it. She could show her mother's stubbornness when pressed, too.
I got out the equipment- battered frying pan (another refugee from Mom Mom's kitchen, blackened from long ago hamburgers), tub of butter, American cheese, and plain white bread. Simple, straightforward, pure. I let the pan heat up, and then added the first buttered slice of bread. There was something musical about the sizzle of butter on a hot frying pan. It promised that good things were about to happen. I built the sandwich quickly on top of the sizzling slice, cheese and then an opposite slice of buttered bread. It burbled away happily.
Kate stopped singing along with the television and marched over, watching me cook again.
"You not gonna burn it?"
"No, baby, Mom Mom taught me."
She seemed to think about that for a moment. "Ava said she's going to have a little baby sister soon." No segue, just another thought popping into place. Wheels were turning. I could see the thoughts working their way across her pensive face. "I wish I could have a little sister, too."
The sandwich was reaching its critical point. You had to let it get soft, but not to the point the butter would turn golden brown. I tried flipping it, smiling inwardly as I noted the moist whiteness of the bread. Not a hint of brownness. Perfect.
I held my voice in the steady, slightly cheerful tone I tried to always maintain with her. "I wish you could, too."
She didn't know how much I wished that. I missed her mother every day, someone who had lurked around my periphery, then entered my life suddenly, turning it inside out and disrupting it gloriously, then leaving, violently, as abruptly as she arrived. I had Kate, of course, and that was a million blessings. But to not be able to share it with Wendy was a constant dagger of regret sticking out of my back. As great as Joe DiMaggio was, he wasn't Babe Ruth- as special as Kate was, it wasn't the same as having her mother here.
The sandwich was done, and I slid it off, checking the bottom for brownness, and onto a plastic plate with a cheerful looking whale on it. She was back in front of the TV again. I wondered if she was going to continue along this line of questioning, or if I had satisfied her with that non answer. The nuggets were done, so I slid them out and added six to her plate. I knew she would only eat four, but I was optimistic. I quickly made another sandwich, properly browning each side and adding tomato slices from last night's takeout salad leftovers. Once I added the rest of the nuggets onto my side, our plates were complete. I added a circle of ketchup on Kate's, without being asked. Sometimes you just know.
I set the plates on the table, adding a glass of water for me and another juice box for her, and then came up behind her. Baby Bear, one of the more cloying Sesame Street characters, was in bed, being talked to soothingly by Mama and Papa Bear. I heard a sound effect clap of thunder, and sussed out that Baby Bear was frightened of the storm on Sesame Street. Kate was looking on, rapt. I watched the light from the screen reflect on her face, and she reminded me of her mother so much at times like this it felt like I would break.
"Unca Ray?" she said when the sketch ended.
"Yes?"
"Where's heaven?"
"Say that again?" Theology?, I thought, panicking.
"Mom Mom said my Mommy's in heaven. Where is heaven?"
Holy moly.
"Heaven? Well, nobody knows where it is, baby. I know it's safe there, and I know your Mommy can see us. I know she's watching you, because she used to talk about you all the time." I felt my voice breaking on the shoals of that sentence, and I steeled myself to continue. It was true- we had long conversations about proto-Kate, worrying about clothes and food and how life would change for all of us.
"Oh," she said softly. "Is dinner ready?" She could smell the cheese sandwiches, the smell of fat and bread, satisfaction and care. The apartment smelled like family.
"Yes, baby." Subject change, I thought jubilantly.
"Unca Ray, I'm not a baby."
"I know."
We sat down over the cooling plates.
"You make good dinner, Unca Ray."
"Thanks, kiddo." I felt satisfied, competent. We ate quietly, both of us missing Wendy in our own private way. Like any parent, I hoped I was doing the right thing, wound up, and threw the pitch, hoping for the best.
So, that being said, here it is. It is yet another extract from my novel in progress, as yet untitled, which is a sequel to a novel no longer in progress, available for sale in this very sidebar, if you are so inclined.
For the unitiated, Kate is 3. The narrator is Ray, who has wound up, through a series of events described in the first book (available at a low low price right over to the right there), becoming one of Kate's primary caretakers. Mom Mom is Kate's grandmother, Ange (Angela) is Kate's aunt, and Wendy is Kate's mother.
(Amy got my challenge.)
I call this "Say Hello To Heaven".
"Can I watch TV?"
"Sure, kiddo," I said. Her mind, as creative as it was, sometimes seemed like a box with three raisins in it. She could hold onto a thought, but she was ever willing to exchange it for a more exciting or newer concept. PBS was showing Sesame Street, which amused her enough for me to get dinner started. As my apartment evolved into Kate's half home, I had learned to keep certain provisions close at hand- acetaminophen, band aids, juice, white bread, American cheese, frozen chicken nuggets.
"What do you want for dinner, Kate?" I waited for the words to settle through the TV haze. Like any kid, she went into another world when the idiot box was on. She didn't respond for a beat, so I went with choices. "Mac and cheese or grilled cheese, baby?"
"Grilled cheese, please?" That got through.
I started the oven. As a sop to a balanced diet, I was going to serve her chicken nuggets, too. That would start a little fight, but I was prepared for it. Kate was a monochromatic eater- she wanted one thing and one thing only on her plate. I admired the purity of her feelings. The empty old oven made little bangs and pops, as I imagined the metal changing shape very slightly as the heat built up. I took out a baking sheet, one of Mom Mom's old ones, and got out the bag of nuggets from the freezer. They were animal shapes, and I tried not to think about documentaries I've seen about how these little beauties are put together. I tore the bag open and spread the nuggets out amongst the ice shavings and bits and pieces of breading that came out.
"Unca Ray?" Kate had walked over to watch me.
"Yes, love?"
"Don't want chicken."
"I know, Kate. But we have to eat a balanced diet. We can't always have the same thing."
"But I like same thing." I couldn't argue with that logic.
"I know. But if we want you to grow up big and strong like your Auntie, you need to eat lots of things. Not just one thing."
"Don't like chicken."
"Now, Kate, I've seen you eat chicken a dozen times. You do like chicken."
"I don't." She frowned slightly and walked back to the TV. That move reminded me of her mother, the wounded retreat, but always getting in the last word. The chicken in the oven and the timer set, I turned my attention to grilled cheese. I had made grilled cheese since I was 12 years old, but there was a method to making it the way Kate wanted, which Mom Mom had dutifully showed me. She didn't like any of the characteristic brownness of a grilled cheese sandwich- Kate would pronounce that "burned" and refuse to eat it. She could show her mother's stubbornness when pressed, too.
I got out the equipment- battered frying pan (another refugee from Mom Mom's kitchen, blackened from long ago hamburgers), tub of butter, American cheese, and plain white bread. Simple, straightforward, pure. I let the pan heat up, and then added the first buttered slice of bread. There was something musical about the sizzle of butter on a hot frying pan. It promised that good things were about to happen. I built the sandwich quickly on top of the sizzling slice, cheese and then an opposite slice of buttered bread. It burbled away happily.
Kate stopped singing along with the television and marched over, watching me cook again.
"You not gonna burn it?"
"No, baby, Mom Mom taught me."
She seemed to think about that for a moment. "Ava said she's going to have a little baby sister soon." No segue, just another thought popping into place. Wheels were turning. I could see the thoughts working their way across her pensive face. "I wish I could have a little sister, too."
The sandwich was reaching its critical point. You had to let it get soft, but not to the point the butter would turn golden brown. I tried flipping it, smiling inwardly as I noted the moist whiteness of the bread. Not a hint of brownness. Perfect.
I held my voice in the steady, slightly cheerful tone I tried to always maintain with her. "I wish you could, too."
She didn't know how much I wished that. I missed her mother every day, someone who had lurked around my periphery, then entered my life suddenly, turning it inside out and disrupting it gloriously, then leaving, violently, as abruptly as she arrived. I had Kate, of course, and that was a million blessings. But to not be able to share it with Wendy was a constant dagger of regret sticking out of my back. As great as Joe DiMaggio was, he wasn't Babe Ruth- as special as Kate was, it wasn't the same as having her mother here.
The sandwich was done, and I slid it off, checking the bottom for brownness, and onto a plastic plate with a cheerful looking whale on it. She was back in front of the TV again. I wondered if she was going to continue along this line of questioning, or if I had satisfied her with that non answer. The nuggets were done, so I slid them out and added six to her plate. I knew she would only eat four, but I was optimistic. I quickly made another sandwich, properly browning each side and adding tomato slices from last night's takeout salad leftovers. Once I added the rest of the nuggets onto my side, our plates were complete. I added a circle of ketchup on Kate's, without being asked. Sometimes you just know.
I set the plates on the table, adding a glass of water for me and another juice box for her, and then came up behind her. Baby Bear, one of the more cloying Sesame Street characters, was in bed, being talked to soothingly by Mama and Papa Bear. I heard a sound effect clap of thunder, and sussed out that Baby Bear was frightened of the storm on Sesame Street. Kate was looking on, rapt. I watched the light from the screen reflect on her face, and she reminded me of her mother so much at times like this it felt like I would break.
"Unca Ray?" she said when the sketch ended.
"Yes?"
"Where's heaven?"
"Say that again?" Theology?, I thought, panicking.
"Mom Mom said my Mommy's in heaven. Where is heaven?"
Holy moly.
"Heaven? Well, nobody knows where it is, baby. I know it's safe there, and I know your Mommy can see us. I know she's watching you, because she used to talk about you all the time." I felt my voice breaking on the shoals of that sentence, and I steeled myself to continue. It was true- we had long conversations about proto-Kate, worrying about clothes and food and how life would change for all of us.
"Oh," she said softly. "Is dinner ready?" She could smell the cheese sandwiches, the smell of fat and bread, satisfaction and care. The apartment smelled like family.
"Yes, baby." Subject change, I thought jubilantly.
"Unca Ray, I'm not a baby."
"I know."
We sat down over the cooling plates.
"You make good dinner, Unca Ray."
"Thanks, kiddo." I felt satisfied, competent. We ate quietly, both of us missing Wendy in our own private way. Like any parent, I hoped I was doing the right thing, wound up, and threw the pitch, hoping for the best.
Further Remission
I would be further remiss if I did not note that Michael Week, a shocking omission from the nightly news last night, continues with Matt Potter's publication of a second story of mine, "Nugget".
Sunday, July 24, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
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."
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."
Sunday, July 17, 2011
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.
(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.
Friday, July 15, 2011
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"
- Posted using BlogPress
Jill Bialosky, "History of a Suicide"
- Posted using BlogPress
Thursday, July 14, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
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!"
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!"
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