The Indie Ink Writing Challenge comes to me from Kelly, who asks me about fractured living. I issued a challenge to Karla.
I'm not at all sure about this one. But it's what came to me, so here it is: "Scenes In An Elevator"
***
IN
***
those guys were up long after me, yet the room was empty this morning...where the fuck did they go...good not too many people on the elevator...am I the only person who thinks about the cable snapping and plummeting to the ground? the impossible physics of being so damn high with only a steel cable holding this metal cage in the air?...yeah, im probably the only one...jeremy was so gung ho to have his bachelor party in a casino...he was probably imagining some wild "the hangover" type adventure...instead he gets the same four idiots he's known since the fourth grade all blowing their bankrolls the first day and spending the rest of the time watching games in the sports book and eating crappy takeout pizza...ah well, your boys are your boys, right? for better or worse...heh, that's funny- "for better or for worse"...with jeremy gone, that makes me the last one...last of the mohicans, my father would say...everyone thinks you're gay when you're my age and not married yet...im not..."not that there's anything wrong with that!"...im just, i don't know, not ready yet, i guess...something...my life is ok as it is, i think...missing something, but i'll find it...how hard can it be, if that asshole did it?
***
god, my knee is killing me...here comes somebody...oh, it's just one guy...bachelor party, i bet...he looks a little out of it and hungover...doesn't look that tough...a suburban softy...even at my age, i could take him...it's nearly noon, son, shape up!...oh stop it. you're just a old man, out of touch, irrelevant and pathetic...do you have to do this, constantly remaining on guard all the time?...what the hell is the matter with you...that indian doctor at the va says its from the war, but marjorie would have said its just being a prick...dear marjorie...goddamn it, its been seven years and it still hurts like it happened this morning...she'd tell me to shut up and stop being a sentimental old man...the doctor asked me if i was having trouble controlling my impulses, and i thought about telling him about the gambling, but then i thought why bother...it's none of his goddamned business...besides, i know exactly how much i have left...and what do i have to save it for?...the kids?...they call on christmas and my birthday, but i hardly hear from them otherwise...ah well...its going to be a rude awakening for them when i kick and there's nothing for them...oh well...i didn't spend 34 years assembling transmissions to make them rich...a few more minutes, im back at the table, and all i care about is the cards...those damned, stupid, beautiful cards...
***
jacob is so fucking earnest, i just want to punch him sometimes...up before the damn birds, and downstairs hitting the elliptical, like I should be...now he's probably sipping on some juice smoothie thing, feeling healthy and wholesome...looking at the 23 year old Korean who poured it...asshole...no, stop. i shouldnt be so bitchy...he set this whole thing up for me...for us, he would say...he arranged for the kids, one at my mom's, two sleeping over at the neighbor's, so we could spend 36 hours acting like newlyweds...well, we certainly lived up to that...my thighs are killing me....maybe i do need that elliptical work...after all that last night, i better not be pregnant...there is no way, no way in hell, that i am going through that again...i dont think i am...i better not be...we cant afford it even if i wanted it...i better look up the name of that pill the comedian talked about....i love him, i do, but sometimes its like he's my worst enemy...
***
where are you supposed to stand?...i usually just stand near mom...i cant believe she is letting me go down and get my own orange juice...my legs are cold...i should have put some leggings on like mom said...i hate it when shes right...its wierd standing here with all these adults...it feels like im pretending...i wish somebody would talk...its so wierd just listening to the rattles and chunks as it takes us down, down, down...janie was so jealous when i told her where we were going...she has two brothers so her mom says they cant afford to go anywhere...being an only child is kind of boring, but it can be awesome too...i can feel the ac blowing under my dress...its so ticklish and cold...i wonder if anyone famous is here...i read in that magazine that the blonde girl on that show wants to have her birthday here...i wonder if shes really gonna...shes like 19 though so she'd probably go to that club...i remember seeing all the people lining up to get in there when we came in from the show last night...all the pretty dresses...like a prom...so glamorous...i wonder what its like to be famous...
***
there are like no single men here, none...wait, here comes a guy...not bad...no ring...but guys his age always have someone...maybe jonathan will call me back?...its been two weeks...he's not going to call...you know he's not, i dont know why you keep thinking he will...jonathan was so perfect, rich and funny and cute and smart...why the hell did i ever let him go...it killed me going to his wedding, absolutely fucking killed me...god, my head hurts...i drank so damn much...i cant remember anything after about midnight...i hope i didnt do anything stupid...usually anna is the one who keeps us under control. i wonder where she's at...i woke up dressed, so that's something...god, these elevators are slow...maybe try to talk to that guy?...have to get something to eat...so hungry when we stay here for some reason...there goes that guy...another chance lost...someday you're going to be too old, you know, and they're going to stop looking...
***
OUT
***
ok, everybody out...he's walking away...you just have one chance to follow him...do it...now...oh, forget it...my head hurts too much anyway...i want breakfast more...
***
the lobby is so busy, all the noises and everything...mom says just act confident, and no one will say anything...this is a little scary...which way was that store with the OJ again?
***
finally, downstairs...god, im going to kill jacob...ok, now to find him...the health club is by the pool, right?...yeah, there it is....
***
ok, we're here...love that smell, the sound, the feel of the lobby...now to the poker room...it's showtime...
***
boy, that girl was cute...should have chatted her up...oh well...ok, coffee first, then go see where the other idiots ended up...see what kind of trouble we can get into.
Monday, September 05, 2011
Flash Fiction Friday: "Perfect Blue Buildings"
Our friends (well, maybe your friends-I'm not sure they are willing to be seen with me) at Flash Fiction Friday have posted a prompt about the "City of Lost Children", which, in 2011, is every city. Here's my shot, "Perfect Blue Buildings".
Antonio said he was gonna come back. He said I could watch Nemo and eat Cheese Its and he would come right back. Mama said I got to do what Antonio say so I sat on the floor and watched Nemo. I saw Nemo like a million times though so it a little boring. So I went and I looked out the window. It is dirty. Mama always says she gonna clean it but she never do that. When you put your head all the way on it you can look down the street and see the top of some of the buildings in the city. They look blue when the sun hit them, these perfect blue blocks in the sky.
Antonio said he had to go get some stuff from a guy on that street where the candy store is and he would be right back. So he left me watching Nemo by myself. Mama say he not supposed to leave me alone but Antonio said he had to do it and he would be right back so it okay. Sometimes Antonio he and that girl he with they let me watch TV while they go up to Antonio room but he say that don't count because he still with me even though he cant see me.
I ask Mama who live in the big blue blocks and she say that where she work. She clean floors for people there, important rich people who wear nice clothes and drive big expensive cars and trucks. She tell me that someday I gonna wear a nice shirt and work in that big blue building and make lots of money so Mama don't have to work no more. I hope that true because Mama work so hard and it make her tired all the time. That make me sad.
Antonio tell me to be brave and that he was gonna go to McDonalds to get lunch for me when he get back. I getting hungry now. Nemo already played all the way through to the end two times, even through all the music and the people names who made Nemo. I like Nemo, it my favorite. Antonio teach me how to hit the button with the triangles and then it go back to the start so I can watch it again by pushing the one with one triangle.
It lunch time and my tummy all growly. Antonio sometimes make me a grill cheese sandwich for lunch or mac and cheese but I like McDonalds best. I wanna have more juice but I drank it all already and Mama say she not have more until next week. Antonio teach me how to get water from the bathroom though so I keep drinking that while I wait for Antonio to come back like he say he will.
I know Antonio be back soon because he say he will, and Antonio always do what he say. I waited for the movie machine to stop making that sound, and then I hit the button with the one triangle and Nemo start again. I already watch it two times but it still a little funny. I hope Antonio back soon because I really want a cheeseburger and fries.
Mama say she comes home when I sleeping but I know it like 9-Oh-Oh because sometimes I stay up and wait for her. I hope I don't have to wait for Mama to have lunch because that mean Antonio in trouble and Mama yell at him and I hate when that happen.
I really hungry but I gonna just watch Nemo and Antonio will be back soon, because he say he will. It almost 3 Oh Oh now. I bet Antonio gonna get me my McDonalds first and then I can eat it here on the floor while I watch Nemo. I love Nemo. It my favorite movie. I wonder if those people in the blue buildings watch Nemo too? Maybe that why the buildings blue because they look like the ocean that way.
Antonio said he was gonna come back. He said I could watch Nemo and eat Cheese Its and he would come right back. Mama said I got to do what Antonio say so I sat on the floor and watched Nemo. I saw Nemo like a million times though so it a little boring. So I went and I looked out the window. It is dirty. Mama always says she gonna clean it but she never do that. When you put your head all the way on it you can look down the street and see the top of some of the buildings in the city. They look blue when the sun hit them, these perfect blue blocks in the sky.
Antonio said he had to go get some stuff from a guy on that street where the candy store is and he would be right back. So he left me watching Nemo by myself. Mama say he not supposed to leave me alone but Antonio said he had to do it and he would be right back so it okay. Sometimes Antonio he and that girl he with they let me watch TV while they go up to Antonio room but he say that don't count because he still with me even though he cant see me.
I ask Mama who live in the big blue blocks and she say that where she work. She clean floors for people there, important rich people who wear nice clothes and drive big expensive cars and trucks. She tell me that someday I gonna wear a nice shirt and work in that big blue building and make lots of money so Mama don't have to work no more. I hope that true because Mama work so hard and it make her tired all the time. That make me sad.
Antonio tell me to be brave and that he was gonna go to McDonalds to get lunch for me when he get back. I getting hungry now. Nemo already played all the way through to the end two times, even through all the music and the people names who made Nemo. I like Nemo, it my favorite. Antonio teach me how to hit the button with the triangles and then it go back to the start so I can watch it again by pushing the one with one triangle.
It lunch time and my tummy all growly. Antonio sometimes make me a grill cheese sandwich for lunch or mac and cheese but I like McDonalds best. I wanna have more juice but I drank it all already and Mama say she not have more until next week. Antonio teach me how to get water from the bathroom though so I keep drinking that while I wait for Antonio to come back like he say he will.
I know Antonio be back soon because he say he will, and Antonio always do what he say. I waited for the movie machine to stop making that sound, and then I hit the button with the one triangle and Nemo start again. I already watch it two times but it still a little funny. I hope Antonio back soon because I really want a cheeseburger and fries.
Mama say she comes home when I sleeping but I know it like 9-Oh-Oh because sometimes I stay up and wait for her. I hope I don't have to wait for Mama to have lunch because that mean Antonio in trouble and Mama yell at him and I hate when that happen.
I really hungry but I gonna just watch Nemo and Antonio will be back soon, because he say he will. It almost 3 Oh Oh now. I bet Antonio gonna get me my McDonalds first and then I can eat it here on the floor while I watch Nemo. I love Nemo. It my favorite movie. I wonder if those people in the blue buildings watch Nemo too? Maybe that why the buildings blue because they look like the ocean that way.
Sunday, September 04, 2011
Terrible Minds Challenge: They Call This Mutha Revenge
Chuck Wendig, King of the Britains, Defeater of the Saxons, Sovereign of All England, has issued a unique challenge this week. The theme is revenge, and we have a scant 100 words to work with. Here's my entry, "Mail Drop"
Marissa sealed the envelope, pressing the flap closed and sealing it with tape. She
addressed it carefully, making sure the address was right.
He had made it clear that her path to the top ran through his office, and through his bed.
She wanted the job too much to have principles, and as he rose through the ranks, she
came along for the ride.
When he said it was over, that he had to concentrate on his family, she said nothing
about the pictures, the letter, the evidence she had gathered.
He didn't want her to know.
Now she'll know.
Marissa sealed the envelope, pressing the flap closed and sealing it with tape. She
addressed it carefully, making sure the address was right.
He had made it clear that her path to the top ran through his office, and through his bed.
She wanted the job too much to have principles, and as he rose through the ranks, she
came along for the ride.
When he said it was over, that he had to concentrate on his family, she said nothing
about the pictures, the letter, the evidence she had gathered.
He didn't want her to know.
Now she'll know.
Friday, September 02, 2011
100 Words Challenge: Storm Front
Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge lost its mojo for a bit, but is once again rising. This week's word is "Storm", and my entry is called "Storm Front"
Katie pulled her covers over her shoulders, tucking them under her chin. She wanted to pull them higher, but she always got hot and panicky when her mouth was covered. Outside, the rain poured down, pushed by the wind against her window with an intense rattle. She listened carefully, wanting to hear nothing. Mommy wasn't yelling any more, so that was good. She didn't hear the door shut or the car start, so Daddy was still here. Katie couldn't hear anything bad, which was good: but the waiting was as bad as the good parts were good.
Katie pulled her covers over her shoulders, tucking them under her chin. She wanted to pull them higher, but she always got hot and panicky when her mouth was covered. Outside, the rain poured down, pushed by the wind against her window with an intense rattle. She listened carefully, wanting to hear nothing. Mommy wasn't yelling any more, so that was good. She didn't hear the door shut or the car start, so Daddy was still here. Katie couldn't hear anything bad, which was good: but the waiting was as bad as the good parts were good.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
100 Word Challenge: Fitting Room
Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge, like Elton John, is still standing. The word is "Depth" and my story is called "Fitting Room".
"You can't wear it because it sends the wrong message."
"What does that mean?," Delia asked me, hands on her tiny hips, eyes sparkling with anger.
"It means your clothes send messages about what kind of person you are. You don't want anyone to misunderstand you."
"I don't think these clothes send a message. Except 'pretty'." She smiled at her reflection.
I was out of my depth here. "It has to do with what other people think. Boys."
"I dont care what boys think," she said stridently. "Why can't I have it?"
"Because you can't."
"You can't wear it because it sends the wrong message."
"What does that mean?," Delia asked me, hands on her tiny hips, eyes sparkling with anger.
"It means your clothes send messages about what kind of person you are. You don't want anyone to misunderstand you."
"I don't think these clothes send a message. Except 'pretty'." She smiled at her reflection.
I was out of my depth here. "It has to do with what other people think. Boys."
"I dont care what boys think," she said stridently. "Why can't I have it?"
"Because you can't."
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Terrible Minds Challenge: Man Out Of Time
Chuck Wendig, the IBF and WBC welterweight diaper changing champion of the world, issues a Flash Fiction challenge this week about notable figures from history. My contribution involves two and is called "Visitors at Appomattox".
General Robert E. Lee looked across the table at General Ulysses S Grant. "It is entirely mysterious to me," the Southerner began, "why the Lord should see fit to make creatures such as these, who walk as men but speak a pidgin tongue, and are of such an entirely odd hue."
His opposite number puffed his cigar twice. "Quite so, General Lee. Quite so."
The two armies, combatants over half the country for four long years, had finally drawn their fighting to a close, the exhausted South finally ending the hostilities at the feet of the better equipped North. The two sides were in the midst of that surrender in Appomattox Court House, Virginia, when a brilliant silver disk, the length of several rail cars and twice as high, settled to the ground in an open field, crushing a pile of Southern rifles that had been stacked there.
Almost immediately, a group of perhaps seventy five creatures emerged from the strange vehicle. They were of a light orange color, carrying clubs that were curious looking, but spiky and menacing enough to make their intended use clear. There did not seem to be women or children in the group, but who could tell? Their sparkling skin left no hint as to gender or race. They looked like no man anyone present had ever encountered.
The Union Army did what any military organization did when confronted with something unusual- they pointed their guns at it. With practiced efficiency, the men in blue set up pickets to guard the visitors, then rolling cannon into place as soon as they could, surrounding the strange craft with their own scary array of war implements.
General Grant continued, "But whatever, or whomever, they are, they are here and we must deal with them."
Lee straightened up in his chair and said, "It has been suggested to me that your forces might consent to rearming some of my men until...this quite unusual event...is dealt with, as you say."
Grant took another long drag on his cigar. "With all due respect, General Lee, my men have been trying to kill your men, and being killed in return, for many months now. I can scarcely imagine they will look kindly upon being asked to stand beside a man who was trying to shoot them yesterday."
Lee looked hurt. "Indeed, General Grant. And the same applies to my men. But surely we are all Americans...all humans...now. And surely we can overlook our petty differences until we can ascertain whether or not these...things...have hostile intent?"
Grant thought for a moment, taking the cigar out of his mouth to sip from the cup in front of him. To his disappointment, it continued to be only coffee. "I will consent to one hundred men, General Lee, under your direct command. Loyal men, who will obey you to the last. And I will hold you personally responsible for their behavior-"
The Union chief was interrupted by an explosion. Both men rushed to the window. One of the beings was holding his club leveled at the Union lines, and where a cannon once stood, there was now a hole lined with blackened grass and soil. The two men scrambled out the door to order their men into position. Grant paused, calling over an aide.
As the popping of rifle and the booming of cannon began to be heard along the perimeter of the field, Grant pulled the younger man close. "Send word to Washington. Surrender of Southern forces complete, stop. Reinforcements needed urgently, stop. New threat of unknown origin, stop. General Grant, stop. Now off with you, boy. Send that quick before we're all dead!"
General Robert E. Lee looked across the table at General Ulysses S Grant. "It is entirely mysterious to me," the Southerner began, "why the Lord should see fit to make creatures such as these, who walk as men but speak a pidgin tongue, and are of such an entirely odd hue."
His opposite number puffed his cigar twice. "Quite so, General Lee. Quite so."
The two armies, combatants over half the country for four long years, had finally drawn their fighting to a close, the exhausted South finally ending the hostilities at the feet of the better equipped North. The two sides were in the midst of that surrender in Appomattox Court House, Virginia, when a brilliant silver disk, the length of several rail cars and twice as high, settled to the ground in an open field, crushing a pile of Southern rifles that had been stacked there.
Almost immediately, a group of perhaps seventy five creatures emerged from the strange vehicle. They were of a light orange color, carrying clubs that were curious looking, but spiky and menacing enough to make their intended use clear. There did not seem to be women or children in the group, but who could tell? Their sparkling skin left no hint as to gender or race. They looked like no man anyone present had ever encountered.
The Union Army did what any military organization did when confronted with something unusual- they pointed their guns at it. With practiced efficiency, the men in blue set up pickets to guard the visitors, then rolling cannon into place as soon as they could, surrounding the strange craft with their own scary array of war implements.
General Grant continued, "But whatever, or whomever, they are, they are here and we must deal with them."
Lee straightened up in his chair and said, "It has been suggested to me that your forces might consent to rearming some of my men until...this quite unusual event...is dealt with, as you say."
Grant took another long drag on his cigar. "With all due respect, General Lee, my men have been trying to kill your men, and being killed in return, for many months now. I can scarcely imagine they will look kindly upon being asked to stand beside a man who was trying to shoot them yesterday."
Lee looked hurt. "Indeed, General Grant. And the same applies to my men. But surely we are all Americans...all humans...now. And surely we can overlook our petty differences until we can ascertain whether or not these...things...have hostile intent?"
Grant thought for a moment, taking the cigar out of his mouth to sip from the cup in front of him. To his disappointment, it continued to be only coffee. "I will consent to one hundred men, General Lee, under your direct command. Loyal men, who will obey you to the last. And I will hold you personally responsible for their behavior-"
The Union chief was interrupted by an explosion. Both men rushed to the window. One of the beings was holding his club leveled at the Union lines, and where a cannon once stood, there was now a hole lined with blackened grass and soil. The two men scrambled out the door to order their men into position. Grant paused, calling over an aide.
As the popping of rifle and the booming of cannon began to be heard along the perimeter of the field, Grant pulled the younger man close. "Send word to Washington. Surrender of Southern forces complete, stop. Reinforcements needed urgently, stop. New threat of unknown origin, stop. General Grant, stop. Now off with you, boy. Send that quick before we're all dead!"
Indie Ink Writing Challenge: July 1, 1863
The Indie Ink Writing Challenge comes to me this week from Karla, who tells me about fear on a summer's day. My challenge went out to Octoberesque. I call this "July 1, 1863".
Molly Chandler pulled her dress on quickly, hopping out of bed and pulling the fabric over her head. If she was going to make it out to see the boys play a game of base this afternoon, she had to get her chores done early. First was the hole in the seat of James' blue pants- her younger brother was always splitting seams and dirtying knees, and with Father off with the army, she had to do Mother's work, because Mother had to do Father's.
It was hot. Molly felt sticky as soon as she awoke, her nightclothes had clung to her tiny frame as she slept. Putting on the dress which had hung overnight felt good for a moment, the new fabric cool and smooth. She neglected her underthings, an omission Mother was always after her about, saying that a lady didn't do such things. "But I'm not a lady," Molly always wanted to say- "I'm a girl!" But Molly wouldn't dare talk back to Mother, and she secretly suspected Mother was right.
Molly came down the stairs barefoot, feeling the cool of the air on the lower level, focused on her tasks and about to pick up the needle and thread when she heard a crack of thunder. So much for the game, she thought- but then there was another, and another, and yet another. That was no storm- but the game was called off just the same. The air felt funny, the smells of summer now stagnant, smoky, mechanical, wrong. Molly had been looking forward to the game all week, but somehow knew it wasn't going to happen at the same time.
Molly knew about the war, of course- her father had finally relented and marched with the bluecoats, despite the fact he was the only support for Mother, Molly, and James. She heard snatches of talk at dinner, taking dirty plates away from the table, and she was able to read enough to follow what was happening. Johnny Reb was nearby, she knew that much, but she couldn't imagine they could find anything of interest in her little house.
The noise was becoming constant now, volleys of snaps from shoulder weapons, with larger, booming explosions that were cannon. Mother came into the room with Molly, her face drained of color. "Where's your brother?"
"I don't know, Mother. I just got up and I-"
"Go look for him!," she ordered sternly. "But don't you leave this house!" That would make for a short search, Molly thought-there were only 6 rooms he could be in, and she was sitting in one of them.
Obediently, she got up to begin the search when someone knocked on their front door. Mother hissed at her, "Don't you move!", then went above the door for their ancient musket. Used for scaring prowlers more than actual hunting, it was unloaded.
She opened the door to a tall, barefoot man with a long, dirty beard. He smelled like smoke and sweat, and both his shirt and his pants were torn and stained with grease and mud. Mother held the gun in front of her chest protectively. "What unit are you with," she ordered him sternly. "This is a Union house, and I-"
Mother stopped as the man sort of swayed in front of her. "The Twenty Sixth North...," he managed to get out as he began to pitch forward. The smell hit Molly shortly after it hit her mother- some of those stains were not dirt.
Mother half caught the man, guiding him down to their floor. "Mol-," her mother said with an eerie calm. "Go to my closet and get those white towels, then go into my room and find a red box under my bed." Molly didn't move. "Quickly, girl, now!"
Molly got the items and returned to her mother's side.
"Mother, he's a reb-," Molly began, when her mother cut her off.
"He's a human being, child. Now, fetch me some water, as much as you can. Hurry!" The man was breathing, but it was a horrid, uneven sound, like he would stop at any moment. Mother had removed the rags across the man's chest, and Molly could now see the way his side had been turned from ribs, flesh and skin into a red, gristly mess.
She brought the water, and her mother had wiped some of the blood off the man's side, with one of the towels covering where his skin should be. "Your Aunt Nancy was in a battlefield hospital last summer," Mother said. "Hold that towel in place there while I fetch her," she continued, and was out the door before Molly could react. Molly reached out, trying to hold the clean end of the towel that was pressed into the man's side.
"Excuse me, miss?," the man croaked.
"Y-Yes?," Molly said.
"Could you get me a bit of water?," the man said. Molly went back into the kitchen to get a glass, dipping it into the bucket and holding it to the man's lips. He slurped at it, some spilling into his beard and on his neck.
"Thank you, miss," he said, his voice a little stronger. The man looked into her eyes, and Molly involuntarily turned her gaze aside. "You're a right pretty young lady, miss. You remind me strongly of my daughter Cornelia. I miss her so terribly, I--," the man said, stopping to cough violently. "I never wanted this to happen," he said.
"My father is a Union-" she began.
"I know, miss. Your mother said. It's very kind of you to tend to me like this."
Molly looked at the man. His eyes were kind and wise, and she now saw the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes when he tried to smile. His face immediately scrunched up with pain.
"Miss, could I request one more thing?"
"Yes," Molly said. What was keeping Mother, she thought.
"It's been so long since I held my Cordelia's hand. Would you just hold a soldier's hand for a minute, please, miss?"
Molly placed her trim fingers into the man's palm, coarsened by work and sweat. He tightened his fingers around her with incredible gentleness. "Thank you, miss-," the man said, then began coughing again. His breathing sounded rougher, more shallow, the puffs coming more quickly. Mother and Aunt Nancy came through the door, Nancy holding a leather pouch, out of breath from running. Nancy stepped over the man's legs, crouching by his head. The man's eyes were fluttering.
"You did all you could, Marie." Mother, still standing, nodded her assent.
With a shudder, the man's breathing ceased. Molly felt the man's fingers release hers.
Molly Chandler pulled her dress on quickly, hopping out of bed and pulling the fabric over her head. If she was going to make it out to see the boys play a game of base this afternoon, she had to get her chores done early. First was the hole in the seat of James' blue pants- her younger brother was always splitting seams and dirtying knees, and with Father off with the army, she had to do Mother's work, because Mother had to do Father's.
It was hot. Molly felt sticky as soon as she awoke, her nightclothes had clung to her tiny frame as she slept. Putting on the dress which had hung overnight felt good for a moment, the new fabric cool and smooth. She neglected her underthings, an omission Mother was always after her about, saying that a lady didn't do such things. "But I'm not a lady," Molly always wanted to say- "I'm a girl!" But Molly wouldn't dare talk back to Mother, and she secretly suspected Mother was right.
Molly came down the stairs barefoot, feeling the cool of the air on the lower level, focused on her tasks and about to pick up the needle and thread when she heard a crack of thunder. So much for the game, she thought- but then there was another, and another, and yet another. That was no storm- but the game was called off just the same. The air felt funny, the smells of summer now stagnant, smoky, mechanical, wrong. Molly had been looking forward to the game all week, but somehow knew it wasn't going to happen at the same time.
Molly knew about the war, of course- her father had finally relented and marched with the bluecoats, despite the fact he was the only support for Mother, Molly, and James. She heard snatches of talk at dinner, taking dirty plates away from the table, and she was able to read enough to follow what was happening. Johnny Reb was nearby, she knew that much, but she couldn't imagine they could find anything of interest in her little house.
The noise was becoming constant now, volleys of snaps from shoulder weapons, with larger, booming explosions that were cannon. Mother came into the room with Molly, her face drained of color. "Where's your brother?"
"I don't know, Mother. I just got up and I-"
"Go look for him!," she ordered sternly. "But don't you leave this house!" That would make for a short search, Molly thought-there were only 6 rooms he could be in, and she was sitting in one of them.
Obediently, she got up to begin the search when someone knocked on their front door. Mother hissed at her, "Don't you move!", then went above the door for their ancient musket. Used for scaring prowlers more than actual hunting, it was unloaded.
She opened the door to a tall, barefoot man with a long, dirty beard. He smelled like smoke and sweat, and both his shirt and his pants were torn and stained with grease and mud. Mother held the gun in front of her chest protectively. "What unit are you with," she ordered him sternly. "This is a Union house, and I-"
Mother stopped as the man sort of swayed in front of her. "The Twenty Sixth North...," he managed to get out as he began to pitch forward. The smell hit Molly shortly after it hit her mother- some of those stains were not dirt.
Mother half caught the man, guiding him down to their floor. "Mol-," her mother said with an eerie calm. "Go to my closet and get those white towels, then go into my room and find a red box under my bed." Molly didn't move. "Quickly, girl, now!"
Molly got the items and returned to her mother's side.
"Mother, he's a reb-," Molly began, when her mother cut her off.
"He's a human being, child. Now, fetch me some water, as much as you can. Hurry!" The man was breathing, but it was a horrid, uneven sound, like he would stop at any moment. Mother had removed the rags across the man's chest, and Molly could now see the way his side had been turned from ribs, flesh and skin into a red, gristly mess.
She brought the water, and her mother had wiped some of the blood off the man's side, with one of the towels covering where his skin should be. "Your Aunt Nancy was in a battlefield hospital last summer," Mother said. "Hold that towel in place there while I fetch her," she continued, and was out the door before Molly could react. Molly reached out, trying to hold the clean end of the towel that was pressed into the man's side.
"Excuse me, miss?," the man croaked.
"Y-Yes?," Molly said.
"Could you get me a bit of water?," the man said. Molly went back into the kitchen to get a glass, dipping it into the bucket and holding it to the man's lips. He slurped at it, some spilling into his beard and on his neck.
"Thank you, miss," he said, his voice a little stronger. The man looked into her eyes, and Molly involuntarily turned her gaze aside. "You're a right pretty young lady, miss. You remind me strongly of my daughter Cornelia. I miss her so terribly, I--," the man said, stopping to cough violently. "I never wanted this to happen," he said.
"My father is a Union-" she began.
"I know, miss. Your mother said. It's very kind of you to tend to me like this."
Molly looked at the man. His eyes were kind and wise, and she now saw the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes when he tried to smile. His face immediately scrunched up with pain.
"Miss, could I request one more thing?"
"Yes," Molly said. What was keeping Mother, she thought.
"It's been so long since I held my Cordelia's hand. Would you just hold a soldier's hand for a minute, please, miss?"
Molly placed her trim fingers into the man's palm, coarsened by work and sweat. He tightened his fingers around her with incredible gentleness. "Thank you, miss-," the man said, then began coughing again. His breathing sounded rougher, more shallow, the puffs coming more quickly. Mother and Aunt Nancy came through the door, Nancy holding a leather pouch, out of breath from running. Nancy stepped over the man's legs, crouching by his head. The man's eyes were fluttering.
"You did all you could, Marie." Mother, still standing, nodded her assent.
With a shudder, the man's breathing ceased. Molly felt the man's fingers release hers.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Indie Ink Writing Challenge: Ride The Lightning
The Indie Ink Writing Challenge actually went on for a whole week without me, one of many organizations that find they can do without me. My challenge goes out to my homeboy Lance, whose blog can beat up my blog, while I am receiving a challenge from Billy Flynn, who razzle dazzles me with the prompt "Death smiles at us all. All a man can do is smile back." This is called "Ride The Lightning".
Everything I liked was on the tray- pepperoni pizza, macaroni and cheese, Coke, and coffee ice cream. I dove into it pretty hard, eating mindlessly until I felt the pleasant ache of fullness. Now I was sitting back, toying with the scraps, just waiting. It was all waiting now.
Wait for lunch, wait for dinner, wait for them to bring my mail. Wait, wait, wait. I used to hate it, raging at anyone who would listen when I couldn't get my papers. Screaming, fighting, sobbing at night when the loneliness consumed me. They made you wait because they could, like bullies always do.
I looked around my room. Stacks of letters, paperbacks, my posters, pens and papers. I wondered idly what would happen to all of this, after. I wondered what would happen after, in general. It was something you had to consider- it was too big and compelling not to think of, even as you knew you couldn't work it out.
They assembled outside my door, and I heard the harsh buzz and the deep thunk of the machinery being opened. TJ was there, along with Sully and Father Kelly and the Warden.
"Charles Kent?"
I looked at them without getting up. "TJ," I said softly, "you know it's me."
"I do, CK," he said. "But there are rules about this." He was quiet for a moment. "It's time, CK. We'll drag you out if we have to, but you don't want that."
"No," I said, "I don't." I didn't move.
"You know I didn't, TJ. Right? You believe me?"
"It doesn't matter any more, CK."
"I know. I know it doesn't matter, I know it's all over, and I know it's too late. But you believe me, don't you?"
"Honestly?"
How else? "Yeah."
"I do, CK." TJ had known me for almost 8 years, long after I had stopped being angry about it. TJ probably heard a lot of guys saying they didn't do it, but I had the advantage of actually telling the truth. I didn't do it, despite what everyone thought, and despite what the conventional wisdom said.
"It's time," the Warden said.
"OK," I said, looking down at the scraps of food on my plate. I stood up. I felt nothing. I had raged against fate, asking why and how to a deafening silence from the universe. It didn't matter what I thought, or what anyone thought, now. It was like I was watching myself in a movie. "I'm coming," I said, and smiled. Obedient to the last.
I had long since quit trying to convince anyone else. I knew, and that would have to be enough. I walked out into the hall, and they led the way towards the chamber.
"Would you like to hear a prayer?," Father Kelly asked.
"No thanks, father. Everything has been said." We walked down the hall together. I still couldn't feel anything. I smiled again. There was a certain justice to this, I thought. If they really believed me, they were going to have to live with it, not me.
Everything I liked was on the tray- pepperoni pizza, macaroni and cheese, Coke, and coffee ice cream. I dove into it pretty hard, eating mindlessly until I felt the pleasant ache of fullness. Now I was sitting back, toying with the scraps, just waiting. It was all waiting now.
Wait for lunch, wait for dinner, wait for them to bring my mail. Wait, wait, wait. I used to hate it, raging at anyone who would listen when I couldn't get my papers. Screaming, fighting, sobbing at night when the loneliness consumed me. They made you wait because they could, like bullies always do.
I looked around my room. Stacks of letters, paperbacks, my posters, pens and papers. I wondered idly what would happen to all of this, after. I wondered what would happen after, in general. It was something you had to consider- it was too big and compelling not to think of, even as you knew you couldn't work it out.
They assembled outside my door, and I heard the harsh buzz and the deep thunk of the machinery being opened. TJ was there, along with Sully and Father Kelly and the Warden.
"Charles Kent?"
I looked at them without getting up. "TJ," I said softly, "you know it's me."
"I do, CK," he said. "But there are rules about this." He was quiet for a moment. "It's time, CK. We'll drag you out if we have to, but you don't want that."
"No," I said, "I don't." I didn't move.
"You know I didn't, TJ. Right? You believe me?"
"It doesn't matter any more, CK."
"I know. I know it doesn't matter, I know it's all over, and I know it's too late. But you believe me, don't you?"
"Honestly?"
How else? "Yeah."
"I do, CK." TJ had known me for almost 8 years, long after I had stopped being angry about it. TJ probably heard a lot of guys saying they didn't do it, but I had the advantage of actually telling the truth. I didn't do it, despite what everyone thought, and despite what the conventional wisdom said.
"It's time," the Warden said.
"OK," I said, looking down at the scraps of food on my plate. I stood up. I felt nothing. I had raged against fate, asking why and how to a deafening silence from the universe. It didn't matter what I thought, or what anyone thought, now. It was like I was watching myself in a movie. "I'm coming," I said, and smiled. Obedient to the last.
I had long since quit trying to convince anyone else. I knew, and that would have to be enough. I walked out into the hall, and they led the way towards the chamber.
"Would you like to hear a prayer?," Father Kelly asked.
"No thanks, father. Everything has been said." We walked down the hall together. I still couldn't feel anything. I smiled again. There was a certain justice to this, I thought. If they really believed me, they were going to have to live with it, not me.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
New Stuff! Here, There, and Everywhere!
Matt Potter, who just barely missed becoming the fifth Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, has published another story of mine, "Bus Window Warning". It is the third of three stories that came to me in a dream, or something. I don't really know.
On another note entirely, Chuck Wendig, new father and author and exhausted, semi awake humanoid, initiates another week of Flash Fiction madness with a Sub Genre Tango, giving contestants like me a list of subgenres and the challenge to mix two of them into a Flash Fiction story. I don't know how successful I was, but I'm calling this a Southern Gothic/Sword and Sorcery mashup, and it's called "Mission".
I watched Camellia walk away from me. There was a flask with a cork in it, half full with amber liquid, sitting on top of a cabinet that came up to her tiny waist. The dress looked too tight, her flesh pulling it taut where the fabric was trying to preserve her silouhette. It looked uncomfortable. Camellia uncorked the flask, pouring some into a dirty glass.
"Why?," she said, choking out the words. "Why now?"
"You know why," I said. The Confederation was making inroads again, taking our border villages, forcing us back into the larger towns. The call had went out for veterans to return to the colors, push the invaders back. We needed to protect our way of life, they told us. I went because I knew how to handle myself. I went because there was occasionally food to be had. I went because it was the only way a kid from nowhere could make a name for himself. I also went because they would find me if I didn't.
"But, Bar-" she said, corrupting my name. She knew I wanted to be called Bartholomew.
"But nothing, Camellia. You know I have to go. They'll come looking for me if I don't."
"I hate the fighting," she said, her bare shoulders trembling. "I hate it."
"We all hate the fighting," I said. "Especially the ones who fight."
"So why do you do it?," she said, whipping around to face me. Her red face was wet with tears. The dress was taut where it tried to keep her body restrained. "Why are you going to leave me? I just found you, and now you have to go? Why now?"
"Now is when it's happening," I said, not even believing it as I said it. I had graduated from stealing apples from the kitchen to sneaking into her bedroom at night. She always promised me she would reveal me to the family, but I always slunk back out the window in the morning.
"You can't leave me now," she said. "Not now." She had poured herself a glass, and she took a long swallow.
"Camellia, you know I must." She was breathing deep, heaving breaths, like she had run from the fields into the sitting room. I watched the fabric of the dress pulling tight across her tiny belly when she breathed in. I thought about the carnage, the charnel house of battle I was about to face, and wondered why I could see that now, standing at peace in front of her. Yet when I was in the fray, hacking and slashing and smelling the explosions and hearing the cries, I would picture the way the moonlight would capture her bare, sweet smelling peach skin as she slept.
"Bar, you must understand something. You have to come back to me. You have to."
"Will you tell your father about us? While I'm gone?"
"You know how he feels. He's obsessed with our bloodline. He wants me to marry of noble blood- one of those half breed dimwits he presents to me, all full of bravado. He wants me to take one of them and make another generation playing dress up in these giant houses with no one living in them. I can't tell him about you- as soon as he knows who your father is, he'll set the dogs on you."
I felt my sword at my hip. I could picture running the old man through, the shocked look on his face when blood and entrails splashed on his feet.
"Can't you talk to him?"
She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Bar, come back to me. I promise, when you come back, things will be different."
I had heard that before. "Truly, Camellia?"
"Truly."
It was three days' ride to the frontier, unless the losses continued, in which case the front lines would find me.
"I have to go."
"Do you know how long you will be?," Camellia said. She drew herself up to her full height, pulling in another deep breath. The dress was still taut below her ribs.
"Until it's over." I wondered if she wanted a final embrace. I had spent the night holding her, but she may want a final, lingering hug. I didn't want to leave, but I knew what I had to face, and I felt almost itchy to leave and get it started.
"Come back, Bar."
"I will," I told her, and, with a final, lingering glance at her, I left. Fighting to keep food on your plate was one thing. Fighting for her, to come back to her and rejoin her bed, that required a different sort of skill. I used to fight to live. Now I fight not to die.
On another note entirely, Chuck Wendig, new father and author and exhausted, semi awake humanoid, initiates another week of Flash Fiction madness with a Sub Genre Tango, giving contestants like me a list of subgenres and the challenge to mix two of them into a Flash Fiction story. I don't know how successful I was, but I'm calling this a Southern Gothic/Sword and Sorcery mashup, and it's called "Mission".
I watched Camellia walk away from me. There was a flask with a cork in it, half full with amber liquid, sitting on top of a cabinet that came up to her tiny waist. The dress looked too tight, her flesh pulling it taut where the fabric was trying to preserve her silouhette. It looked uncomfortable. Camellia uncorked the flask, pouring some into a dirty glass.
"Why?," she said, choking out the words. "Why now?"
"You know why," I said. The Confederation was making inroads again, taking our border villages, forcing us back into the larger towns. The call had went out for veterans to return to the colors, push the invaders back. We needed to protect our way of life, they told us. I went because I knew how to handle myself. I went because there was occasionally food to be had. I went because it was the only way a kid from nowhere could make a name for himself. I also went because they would find me if I didn't.
"But, Bar-" she said, corrupting my name. She knew I wanted to be called Bartholomew.
"But nothing, Camellia. You know I have to go. They'll come looking for me if I don't."
"I hate the fighting," she said, her bare shoulders trembling. "I hate it."
"We all hate the fighting," I said. "Especially the ones who fight."
"So why do you do it?," she said, whipping around to face me. Her red face was wet with tears. The dress was taut where it tried to keep her body restrained. "Why are you going to leave me? I just found you, and now you have to go? Why now?"
"Now is when it's happening," I said, not even believing it as I said it. I had graduated from stealing apples from the kitchen to sneaking into her bedroom at night. She always promised me she would reveal me to the family, but I always slunk back out the window in the morning.
"You can't leave me now," she said. "Not now." She had poured herself a glass, and she took a long swallow.
"Camellia, you know I must." She was breathing deep, heaving breaths, like she had run from the fields into the sitting room. I watched the fabric of the dress pulling tight across her tiny belly when she breathed in. I thought about the carnage, the charnel house of battle I was about to face, and wondered why I could see that now, standing at peace in front of her. Yet when I was in the fray, hacking and slashing and smelling the explosions and hearing the cries, I would picture the way the moonlight would capture her bare, sweet smelling peach skin as she slept.
"Bar, you must understand something. You have to come back to me. You have to."
"Will you tell your father about us? While I'm gone?"
"You know how he feels. He's obsessed with our bloodline. He wants me to marry of noble blood- one of those half breed dimwits he presents to me, all full of bravado. He wants me to take one of them and make another generation playing dress up in these giant houses with no one living in them. I can't tell him about you- as soon as he knows who your father is, he'll set the dogs on you."
I felt my sword at my hip. I could picture running the old man through, the shocked look on his face when blood and entrails splashed on his feet.
"Can't you talk to him?"
She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Bar, come back to me. I promise, when you come back, things will be different."
I had heard that before. "Truly, Camellia?"
"Truly."
It was three days' ride to the frontier, unless the losses continued, in which case the front lines would find me.
"I have to go."
"Do you know how long you will be?," Camellia said. She drew herself up to her full height, pulling in another deep breath. The dress was still taut below her ribs.
"Until it's over." I wondered if she wanted a final embrace. I had spent the night holding her, but she may want a final, lingering hug. I didn't want to leave, but I knew what I had to face, and I felt almost itchy to leave and get it started.
"Come back, Bar."
"I will," I told her, and, with a final, lingering glance at her, I left. Fighting to keep food on your plate was one thing. Fighting for her, to come back to her and rejoin her bed, that required a different sort of skill. I used to fight to live. Now I fight not to die.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Flash Fiction Friday: "Sweep The Street"
The Flash Fiction Friday team wants us to write about "Unrest" this week. My story is called "Sweep The Street"
I was tired. I yawned, trying to cover it quickly. I stood in line with the others, shoulder to shoulder. I knew there were more behind me, along with the looming bulk of an Army transport behind them. We had the armor, and we had the weapons, and we had the hard plastic shields to protect us, and we had the force of law. We were the society made flesh, the rules personified in a line of identically clad men and women, cleaning the streets of disorder and chaos. We were in charge.
But I still felt tired and vulnerable. The people in front of us looked scared, but there were a lot of them. I had been yanked out of a sound sleep to fall in for special duty.
It all started simply enough. You didn't have to be a sociologist to know that poor people, with nothing to do all day, no jobs and no prospects of any jobs, were going to get mad. It was usually against each other- one no hoper robbing or beating or killing another one. That was sad, but easy enough to deal with- you caught the one who did it a day or a week later, put him away, and that was that. You couldn't prevent it, so you caught and punished and went on.
This time it was different. There was a job training fair- an abandoned store with some laptops set up and some cute, earnest twentysomethings in polo shirts and khakis and nametags that said "Rayanne" and "Isabella" to do their duty by helping put resumes in order and give the impression there was some hope. The girls, fresh from degrees in social work at prestigious schools that Daddy paid for with four hours of work at his hedge fund, smiled wide and tried hard and looked very pretty and well bred.
But the people who drifted in, looking at these new grads with their pressed pants and shiny black shoes, knew better. They knew the game had been rigged since before they were born. They knew that the winners were going to keep winning, that there wasn't any way to move up, that nobody cared one whit about them or their problems. They didn't know who George Orwell was, most of them, but they would have agreed with him that the future was just more boots stepping on their face, over and over again.
One of the local tough guys, a guy in a basketball jersey everybody called Red, actually sauntered into the storefront and began talking up one of the girls. Once his clumsy romantic overture was turned aside, he got down to business, and his voice started rising. She tried to calm him down, but he got more agitated, finally slapping her once, hard, across her face. The police were called, and he started fighting with them. A crowd gathered, and rocks started raining down from the surrounding rooftops.
Things sped out of control, windows getting broken, fires starting to burn with firefighters refusing to come and combat them, and the crowd getting louder and angrier. People began chanting, and young kids started using the crowds as an excuse for mischief. Motorists were getting rocks thrown at them, and someone in the power structure hit the panic button. So we were assembled, the plan being to sweep straight down Burton Street to where another force waited on Shaughnessy Boulevard- pinching the crowd between us, cuffing and taking away those who wouldn't disperse.
I heard the command to move, remembering my training- stay together, move like you're blocking for a running back. Don't get ahead of your partner, which could let a protester get between us. Don't swing your truncheon until you are provoked. I saw an egg arc over our heads, splattering against the green metal of the Army truck. Just keep moving, just keep moving, I thought, thinking about the fish from the Pixar movie, saying, "Just keep swimming, just keep swimming..."
I understand what they're mad about. A year ago, I would have been one of them- I only got into the Academy myself when a sex scandal threw out about half the freshman class. You hear that all you have to do is work hard, and you'll be a success, and then you do work hard, and you can't afford college, and you wind up slinging burgers part time for minimum wage. They tell us our country is the wealthiest in the world, and you quickly realize that that wealth isn't spread around very well. Sure, there's equality of opportunity- but it's hard to make that argument when your dad is in jail and your school is falling apart and there's nothing on the table for dinner.
But we can't live like this- in the war of all against all, nobody wins. There have to be rules, and a structure. I took an oath to uphold this structure, and uphold it I will. We marched forward, watching people retreat before us, backing off from the row of hard plastic shields. I stayed in line with my brothers, angry at the forces that brought the people into the streets, and angry at the same people who retreated before our show of force. We marched, step by even step, pushing people before us, enforcing the rules of a system that discarded people like refuse from a fast food drive thru. I was tired.
I was tired. I yawned, trying to cover it quickly. I stood in line with the others, shoulder to shoulder. I knew there were more behind me, along with the looming bulk of an Army transport behind them. We had the armor, and we had the weapons, and we had the hard plastic shields to protect us, and we had the force of law. We were the society made flesh, the rules personified in a line of identically clad men and women, cleaning the streets of disorder and chaos. We were in charge.
But I still felt tired and vulnerable. The people in front of us looked scared, but there were a lot of them. I had been yanked out of a sound sleep to fall in for special duty.
It all started simply enough. You didn't have to be a sociologist to know that poor people, with nothing to do all day, no jobs and no prospects of any jobs, were going to get mad. It was usually against each other- one no hoper robbing or beating or killing another one. That was sad, but easy enough to deal with- you caught the one who did it a day or a week later, put him away, and that was that. You couldn't prevent it, so you caught and punished and went on.
This time it was different. There was a job training fair- an abandoned store with some laptops set up and some cute, earnest twentysomethings in polo shirts and khakis and nametags that said "Rayanne" and "Isabella" to do their duty by helping put resumes in order and give the impression there was some hope. The girls, fresh from degrees in social work at prestigious schools that Daddy paid for with four hours of work at his hedge fund, smiled wide and tried hard and looked very pretty and well bred.
But the people who drifted in, looking at these new grads with their pressed pants and shiny black shoes, knew better. They knew the game had been rigged since before they were born. They knew that the winners were going to keep winning, that there wasn't any way to move up, that nobody cared one whit about them or their problems. They didn't know who George Orwell was, most of them, but they would have agreed with him that the future was just more boots stepping on their face, over and over again.
One of the local tough guys, a guy in a basketball jersey everybody called Red, actually sauntered into the storefront and began talking up one of the girls. Once his clumsy romantic overture was turned aside, he got down to business, and his voice started rising. She tried to calm him down, but he got more agitated, finally slapping her once, hard, across her face. The police were called, and he started fighting with them. A crowd gathered, and rocks started raining down from the surrounding rooftops.
Things sped out of control, windows getting broken, fires starting to burn with firefighters refusing to come and combat them, and the crowd getting louder and angrier. People began chanting, and young kids started using the crowds as an excuse for mischief. Motorists were getting rocks thrown at them, and someone in the power structure hit the panic button. So we were assembled, the plan being to sweep straight down Burton Street to where another force waited on Shaughnessy Boulevard- pinching the crowd between us, cuffing and taking away those who wouldn't disperse.
I heard the command to move, remembering my training- stay together, move like you're blocking for a running back. Don't get ahead of your partner, which could let a protester get between us. Don't swing your truncheon until you are provoked. I saw an egg arc over our heads, splattering against the green metal of the Army truck. Just keep moving, just keep moving, I thought, thinking about the fish from the Pixar movie, saying, "Just keep swimming, just keep swimming..."
I understand what they're mad about. A year ago, I would have been one of them- I only got into the Academy myself when a sex scandal threw out about half the freshman class. You hear that all you have to do is work hard, and you'll be a success, and then you do work hard, and you can't afford college, and you wind up slinging burgers part time for minimum wage. They tell us our country is the wealthiest in the world, and you quickly realize that that wealth isn't spread around very well. Sure, there's equality of opportunity- but it's hard to make that argument when your dad is in jail and your school is falling apart and there's nothing on the table for dinner.
But we can't live like this- in the war of all against all, nobody wins. There have to be rules, and a structure. I took an oath to uphold this structure, and uphold it I will. We marched forward, watching people retreat before us, backing off from the row of hard plastic shields. I stayed in line with my brothers, angry at the forces that brought the people into the streets, and angry at the same people who retreated before our show of force. We marched, step by even step, pushing people before us, enforcing the rules of a system that discarded people like refuse from a fast food drive thru. I was tired.
Terrible Minds Challenge: Ballad of a Well Known Gun
Chuck Wendig has thrown down another flash fiction gauntlet, something about guns, and I will take it up, semi successfully, with this story, "Ballad of a Well Known Gun".
Everyone was so polite, that was the thing. If someone would just break character, stand up from their desk and just yell at me, "Listen, you broke-ass motherfucker. You're too poor to get this miracle drug that might save your wife's life. So just sit down, and shut up, and call hospice, because the love of your life, the only person you've ever really cared about besides yourself, is about to die, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it!", if someone said that, maybe throwing a pen for emphasis, that would make the whole thing easier to take. But nobody ever did that, it was always, "We're very sorry," and "We wish we could help," and "Maybe you could consider," but it was always something we had already considered. Too poor for government help, too rich for anyone else to help. We went through the regular treatment, and then still the shaking heads, the "I'm sorry," the "things aren't improving the way we had hoped," all the bullshit euphemisms they use. They told us about this new pill, but that was a series of more stone walls, more gentle apologies- you're too sick for the trial, there's no room, we can't get you in, we wish we could help. "You can pay for it yourself," they say, but they have no idea how much it is. It's like window shopping at the Jaguar dealer- what's the point, when you know you can't afford it. The failure gnawed at me when I sat on the end of our bed, legs aching from hours on my feet. I felt like less of a man, because my darling Mary needed something, and I couldn't provide it. It killed me. She would try to comfort me, Mary would- running her hand down my arm, telling me it would be OK, that we would find a way, that she would be OK. I knew she was lying, and she knew she was lying, but she just kept saying it, like saying it again would make it true. I was losing Mary, and it terrified me, and it made me angry.
So I decided I would do it. I would find a place, and I would call and ask them if they had any of the drug, and then I'd take Daddy's old shotgun, the menacing one that still gleamed with gun oil from the last time he cleaned it right before he died, and I'd march in there, wearing a Raiders cap and one of Mary's nylons over my face, and I'd just march right up to the druggist, some fat guy with a beard, and I'd tell him to hand the stuff over. It was simple. I would wait until 8:45, almost closing time, when people are tired, slow, and sloppy. I stood there looking at the calming walnut grain of my father's shotgun in the closet. It belonged above the fireplace at a mountain lodge. From the time I was 8, he made sure I knew how to clean it and load it, removing any mystery and romance from it so I would think about it just like it was any other tool. I looked down at it, the polished wood, the metal where the mechanism was, then the long, smooth barrels. A precision instrument, one that could knock down a bird, or a deer. It probably couldn't stop a bear, but it might give it something to think about. It went against everything I was taught, using this beautiful, precision instrument to instill fear. My father always taught me, no matter how sure you were that it was empty, that you never point it at another person for any reason. It was meant for animals, or targets, or just for decoration- not as a threat. It was too smooth, too elegant to be used for something so base and ugly. It wasn't loaded, but nobody else would know that. I wouldn't hurt anyone. All they would know was that I was there to rob them, to take something that didn't belong to me because I had a gun and could force them to. I didn't want to do it. But if there was any other way to keep Mary alive, I would. The gun was in the closet, the reflected street light shining off the barrels, resting there like a threat and a promise. I sighed. Sometimes you just have to do what you have to do.
Everyone was so polite, that was the thing. If someone would just break character, stand up from their desk and just yell at me, "Listen, you broke-ass motherfucker. You're too poor to get this miracle drug that might save your wife's life. So just sit down, and shut up, and call hospice, because the love of your life, the only person you've ever really cared about besides yourself, is about to die, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it!", if someone said that, maybe throwing a pen for emphasis, that would make the whole thing easier to take. But nobody ever did that, it was always, "We're very sorry," and "We wish we could help," and "Maybe you could consider," but it was always something we had already considered. Too poor for government help, too rich for anyone else to help. We went through the regular treatment, and then still the shaking heads, the "I'm sorry," the "things aren't improving the way we had hoped," all the bullshit euphemisms they use. They told us about this new pill, but that was a series of more stone walls, more gentle apologies- you're too sick for the trial, there's no room, we can't get you in, we wish we could help. "You can pay for it yourself," they say, but they have no idea how much it is. It's like window shopping at the Jaguar dealer- what's the point, when you know you can't afford it. The failure gnawed at me when I sat on the end of our bed, legs aching from hours on my feet. I felt like less of a man, because my darling Mary needed something, and I couldn't provide it. It killed me. She would try to comfort me, Mary would- running her hand down my arm, telling me it would be OK, that we would find a way, that she would be OK. I knew she was lying, and she knew she was lying, but she just kept saying it, like saying it again would make it true. I was losing Mary, and it terrified me, and it made me angry.
So I decided I would do it. I would find a place, and I would call and ask them if they had any of the drug, and then I'd take Daddy's old shotgun, the menacing one that still gleamed with gun oil from the last time he cleaned it right before he died, and I'd march in there, wearing a Raiders cap and one of Mary's nylons over my face, and I'd just march right up to the druggist, some fat guy with a beard, and I'd tell him to hand the stuff over. It was simple. I would wait until 8:45, almost closing time, when people are tired, slow, and sloppy. I stood there looking at the calming walnut grain of my father's shotgun in the closet. It belonged above the fireplace at a mountain lodge. From the time I was 8, he made sure I knew how to clean it and load it, removing any mystery and romance from it so I would think about it just like it was any other tool. I looked down at it, the polished wood, the metal where the mechanism was, then the long, smooth barrels. A precision instrument, one that could knock down a bird, or a deer. It probably couldn't stop a bear, but it might give it something to think about. It went against everything I was taught, using this beautiful, precision instrument to instill fear. My father always taught me, no matter how sure you were that it was empty, that you never point it at another person for any reason. It was meant for animals, or targets, or just for decoration- not as a threat. It was too smooth, too elegant to be used for something so base and ugly. It wasn't loaded, but nobody else would know that. I wouldn't hurt anyone. All they would know was that I was there to rob them, to take something that didn't belong to me because I had a gun and could force them to. I didn't want to do it. But if there was any other way to keep Mary alive, I would. The gun was in the closet, the reflected street light shining off the barrels, resting there like a threat and a promise. I sighed. Sometimes you just have to do what you have to do.
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?
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