Terrible Minds Challenge: "Message In A Bottle"

Chuck Wendig had thrown down the gauntlet again, asking his loyal minions to write a 500 word story using the title of the next song to come up on your IPod as the title. Mine was "Message In A Bottle" by the Police. The inspiration is actually from another Police song, interestingly. 10 points if you know which one.











I was sitting there and deliberately tearing the labels of my beer bottles, carefully isolating the letters and leaving them face up in front of me on the bar top. There weren't that many letters on a beer label that were big enough to read. But then again, I had consumed more than one. It was a clear enough example of instability that the bartenders hovered close, ready for me to do something dramatic, like swing a punch at someone. I didn't do that, just kept tearing and ripping, arranging my little alphabet on the bar surface.

I love words and letters. Always have. Like every English teacher I know, I have a virtual drawer full of stories and novels, finished and not, submitted and rejected works of genius and folly. I read voraciously, pun incessantly, play Words With Friends. Fonts fascinate me. Whenever backed into a corner by lies I have told or actions I have taken unwisely, I have been able to use some fast talking and clever wordplay to get out of danger, generally speaking. Until last month, I reminded myself.

It was unforgivable, and yet I did it anyway. It was, ironically enough, not even a crime. She was two weeks past her eighteenth birthday, and, since all grades had been submitted, we in theory didn't even have a teacher-student relationship any more. It was creepy, sure. It crossed all sorts of boundaries, pedagogical and moral and ethical. It raised questions, that was the main thing- and once the media got a hold of it, thanks to one of her jealous little friends, all they cared about was containing the damage and making it go away. They paid me a decent sum, along with an ironclad confidentiality agreement, not to fight my dismissal from the Hampshire Hills School.

I guess I was too dazed by the spotlight to fully intuit what I was doing to myself, because I soon realized I was utterly unemployable. When you type my name into Google, the first several pages are references to "Hampshire Hills' Humbert ". I appreciated the way that it took my starting a sex scandal to get Nabokov's novel some attention. I was no Humbert, of course- my nymphet was a woman, legally and otherwise. But as with everything else this summer, it didn't matter what I said, or what the truth was- I was judged before I could clear my throat.

I didn't know how much longer I could drink away the hush money. I knew I had had too much, though- the edges of the letters in front of me were starting to swim. I was, in the words of Paul Simon, a one trick pony- all I knew how to do, all I cared about and loved and lived for, was literature and words and letters and sentences and showing people how to appreciate them.

I looked down at the letters on the bar. "GONE," they spelled.

Terrible Minds Challenge: "August 21"

Chuck Wendig, everyone's favorite biped, is up with another flash fiction challenge, 1000 words or less with a theme, once again, of the subgenre mashup. This piece is intended to mix bodice ripper and spy story, and is called "August 21".










21 August 1863
Baltimore, Maryland

Beloved Cordelia,

My dear sister! How I long to hear your voice around the dinner table, reciting our prayers and joking with Uncle Paul about his wooden leg! I came North only reluctantly, as I told you so many times, to engage in the task asked of me, not out of any disfavor towards you or my beloved Mississippi. God has favored me in my endeavors, and I can only hope that the information I have gathered can help end this senseless war and bring independence to our Confederacy.

Please see on the back side of this page the indications I have been given about the intentions of the Yankee armies. When I was knee high to a grasshopper, you and Mother both told me that women were by far the stronger sex, and my life experience has never shown me the contrary. These Yankee boys are so weak, like ripe apples- tough on the outside but so soft and vulnerable just underneath. Sister of mine, those tricks you used on boys to get them to act as you desired work as well on Yankee men as they do on our Southern brothers. Show a flash of decolletage, some rose oil applied strategically, a bit of leg, and help relieve them of their bodily burden, and a man will tell you anything. In the period after the act of love, when they are done sweating and grunting, men grow so weary, which makes them receptive to whatever questions I pose. (I remember you trying to explain to me the ways of women and men, and blushing so furiously you looked like a rose! I now understand of which you were trying to tell me- understand far too well, I fear.)

I'm sure you are aware that, if these letters are intercepted by Yankee officials, it will be a simple matter to track them to me and have me hung for treason. I am not ashamed of what I have done. If the advantages gained from my letters allow General Lee to throw the invader from our sacred soil, then no deed I have done, from lying on my back underneath these wretches, or even a date with the noose, will have been in vain. As I always remind you, give the numbers and details I have learned to Major Boothroyd of the Home Guards. I have it on good authority he knows how to circulate the facts to the right parties so that our brave fighting men and our noble generals can use it to their advantage. I can only hope that something I have learned will help a Southern boy return to home and hearth, instead of being buried underneath Yankee boots.

Baltimore is hot today, and the Lord has seen fit to favor us with a thunderstorm as night falls, which has cooled the air off marvelously. Tell me of doings in town! Peter Collier's sister Nelly told me that darling Ruth took ill. Has my niece returned to health? Are the shortages still as bad as you described in your last missive? Have you been receiving any gentleman callers? Nelly wrote to tell me that Michael Swansee has been pitching woo at you. I know you miss your darling David since his loss after Manassas. But dear sister, woman and man are meant to be together- put aside your grief and woe, and let Michael mend your heart. Ruth and Felicity need a father in the house, and Michael is a good man. Please consider my words carefully- as your younger sister, I dare not lecture you. But my concern is for your health and safety, and of your little darlings. (I hesitate to add the other comforts a man can bring to a woman- details I now know much of, but modesty forbids my explaining them fully.)

Don't worry about me, dear Cordelia. The Lord will reign in all things, large and small, and if my acts are sinful, they are only in the service of defeating a much greater evil, that of living under the heel of Yankee domination. I have faith that Almighty God knows why I engage in these acts, and His will shall be done, without heed to the concerns of mortals. I always post my letters secretly, and with all the other pages I have included, the true meaning of this one sheet will be obscured, I trust. I promise I shall write again when September dawns- if you have not seen word from me by the end of that month, some cruel fate has befallen me.

Kiss the girls for me, and pray that my duties here will be foreshortened by the end of this awful war.

Your loving sister,

Annalee

"Money (That's What I Want)" (Flash Fiction Friday)

The First Flash Fiction Friday of 2012 involves a countdown, and has to include the words three, night, wire, sweat, and run. My entry is called "Money (That's What I Want)"












I started listening to music when I run as soon as I got a Walkman. When I was transferred to Moscow in the late spring, I made sure that was the first thing I packed in my suitcase, even though wiser heads insisted to me that someone would steal it as soon as they saw me, a 5 foot nothing waif with short brown hair and the strength of limp spaghetti, toting such sophisticated Western gear in the heart of World Communism. But my Walkman and I survived the trip, and soon I was running around Moscow listening to my favorite tapes. The locals stared at first, but eventually the "crazy American girl" became just another part of the endless days.

I was only a typist, taking handwritten notes and typing them up for the file. I didn't know, or care to know, what the abbreviations and code words and vague phrases were. We all knew we were among some CIA types, and we were all carefully instructed that every Soviet citizen would probably assume we were. So we just went about our business as normally as we possibly could, never going out at night alone, hanging around with other Americans.

I had changed into my running clothes, starting some long, slow stretches while deciding which three tapes to bring on my journey. I felt eyes on my back and straightened up quickly.

"Nelson? I need a favor." It was Tom Jenkins, who didn't have any fixed job, but was always drinking coffee in the cafeteria when I came in there. He was paunchy, divorced and bitter, and had made a half hearted pass at me when I first started at this post.

"What is it, Tom?" I played it cool. I didn't mind helping him, even if it was awkward. If I had to pick up something in a shop, I could take it slow, a welcome respite from typing up more memos.

"You run through Scruffy Park, right?" That was our institutional name for the small grassy area across the street from the consulate.

"Yup."

"You know that bench on the south side, near the rock that looks like Snoopy?," he asked.

"The one with the wire fence in front of it?"

"That's the one. Do you run by there?"

"I can. I go all different ways."

"Do you usually?"

"Like I said," I said, sounding impatient. "Sometimes I do. I vary my paths. I probably run by it twice a day, depending on which way I go."

"OK," he said softly. "I don't normally do this, but I need to be somewhere, right now, so I need you to do this for me." He held up a cylinder that looked like a tube of lipstick, with a wire sticking out of the top. "Look around the base of the bench, on the ground. Tie your shoe, stretch, change tapes, whatever you need to do. If you see something that looks like this, grab it and bring it back here. Stick it in your sock or something. If anyone notices you, or says anything, or if things seem suspicious, pull the wire out." He yanked on the wire, and I heard a hiss. A tiny curlicue of smoke left the side of the device and curled up towards the ceiling. "Then throw it away."

"What's in it?"

"Can't tell you."

"What happens when you pull the wire?"

"Can't tell you."

"Am I being a spy?"

"Can't tell you."

"And I'm supposed to do this for you why?"

"I need you to. We need you to. I can't tell you why, but this is important." He looked a little pitiful. I was nervous, but I couldn't resist the temptation to play secret agent for a moment. Plus having a favor I could call in wouldn't hurt. I agreed, and timed my route so I would be at the right place at the right time.

I had a good layer of sweat going when I rounded the last corner before the bench. There wasn't anyone else nearby, so I figured it would be safe to make the pickup. I had chosen "With The Beatles", knowing that I would come to the end of it 33 minutes into my run, knowing I would have to stop and change tapes, and I could scan the bench area when I did so. I had three minutes, about the length of the last song, "(Money) That's What I Want", to cover the quarter mile before the bench.

I half chuckled at the thought, as I headed down the last straightaway. Three minutes. A song about money, performed by young men who would go on to become some of the richest men who ever lived, pounding through my ears as I ran through the center of the workers' paradise, where wealth was supposedly abolished. I marvelled at the young, hungry John Lennon vocal- someone who lived in the lap of luxury in New York City, yet once was as utopian as the best Soviet dreamer.

Two minutes to go, as the next verse began. What was I actually doing? I wasn't a spy, I was a typist. Thirsting after the adventure got me to say yes without really thinking about it. What if they were watching the bench? I really don't know anything, so it's not like I can spill any secrets. The worst case scenario is I get sent home in disgrace and wind up typing for Vogue or something. It would still be scary, even while I know nothing bad would really happen- no torture, no lasers pointed at my crotch like in Goldfinger.

One minute. The piano came back in as the young Beatles brought the R+B standard home. I was getting near the bench. If they had dropped something nearby, it had to be a little while ago. I heard the song end as I began scanning the base of the bench. There were a few leaves and some scraps of paper. There was some encrusted dirt where the bench was bolted into the sidewalk, and a hunk of metal which may have been a screw at one point. I looked for the telltale plastic cylinder as I stopped, fumbling in my pocket for a second cassette. Was that it, by the back corner? It looked well used, beaten and scratched, and there was indeed a wire at the top. I walked around to the back of the bench, doing tiny stretches and leans, trying to keep my muscles loose in the still cold spring air.

In an instant of inspiration, I dropped the cassette, the new solo George Harrison album that Marcy had mailed to me, at my feet. As I bent to pick it up, I palmed the canister, which was cold to the touch. I changed tapes, jogging in place while I whipped my head around. Nobody in sight. Was I being a spy? Was there some secret document in here? Or was this all a ruse? I wouldn't put it past Tom to prank the new girl.

It seemed clear. No sirens, no policemen yelling, no commotion of any kind. It was a short jog back to the embassy, leaving the parcel on Tom's desk, then a quick, hot shower and back to my desk. My mind whirled at the possibilities. Had I just won the Cold War? Or was Tom just communicating with a secret Russian girlfriend? I started back towards the corner, looking at a tired looking gray taxi at the corner, its engine running, a Marine guard staring at it impassively. I pulled my ID out from my pocket, feeling the smooth plastic of my secret container. The guards all knew our faces, but we showed the ID anyway, just in case anyone ever checked. I was almost there, ¾ of the way across the street. Home sweet home, I thought, wondering what kind of a story this would back back in Virginia at Thanksgiving. They'll never believe me, I thought- little Ellie, engaged in spycraft, just like James Bond. I looked at the guard's face. It was one of the cuter ones, a blond who seldom spoke. I tried to give him a smile, knowing that my sweaty, sloppy ponytail was not exactly pinup material. I had almost made the gate, hoping all the salad wasn't gone from the cafeteria.

I saw the taxi leaving the sidewalk on my right, and I was steps away from safety. Was this it? Were they going to whack me with the car as an "accident"? Would I be a silly footnote in a buried CIA file? Was this the end? The cute guard was moving to open the gate for me. I was almost to the sidewalk. I could feel the cylinder jostling in my pocket as I moved. I passed inside the gate, safe from danger, real or imagined, and wondered what I was involved in now.

Hysteria (Indie Ink Writing Challenge)

I sat towards the back, trying to keep out of everybody's way. I was staring at the way light reflected off of the tip of my shoe. I would bob it slightly, up and down, and watch the reflection change as the angles shifted. It was one of those stupid things I did when I couldn't read or sleep. I really didn't want to listen to what they were saying. In fact, I didn't want to be there at all. But there was a consensus in the air- you had to be there. So I got up, put my most solemn looking dress on, found some shoes to match, and asked my Mom to drive me down here.

There were faces I recognized in the crowd. Lots of teachers, but mostly students, some I knew and others I knew only by sight filled the tiny room, which quickly became stuffy and hot. There wasn't anyone I knew seated near me, only a tall, angular woman who had to be her aunt, along with three small girls, miniature versions of her, sitting in a row with tiny legs kicking softly while the adults droned on. It was just as well there were no friends nearby, because I could think of very little that I wanted to say. The room was tense, like everyone was holding their breath.

The day after it happened, the news had spread like the wind through the school, the emotional outbursts becoming so frequent that they finally abandoned all pretense and just held a giant assembly. They never told us how, exactly, but the consensus was pills, emptying Mom's medicine bottles late one night and never waking up the next morning. The principal, a fat balding man with his voice cracking at the edges, told the whole school what had happened and about the counselors they would have available. Blah blah blah, I thought, welcoming the break from conjugating French verbs and memorizing English kings, but not seeing what the fuss was about.

Rachel was one of those people that just got selected at some point, somehow told she was going to be important. She was more beautiful, more perfect, more poised and confident and smooth than anyone you knew. It was like you went to school with a movie star. Teachers treated her differently, listening to her more closely, almost asking her permission before assigning homework. Boys worshipped her, of course, and the leading question before every dance and prom was "who is Rachel going to pick?" Most girls secretly envied her and resented her influence, but no one would dare take sides against her. She held power silently, without seeming to hold it at all.

I uncrossed my legs and recrossed them, tuning back in to the voices coming from the front of the room. One of her uncles, I think, was describing how kind Rachel was, how generous and loving, to the point that I wanted to gag. She was those things, true- when it benefited her. She would be your best friend until someone said no. Then she would turn on a dime, being vicious and cold, as long as no one was within earshot. She never risked ruining her simon pure reputation.

The last time I saw her, it was one of those rough days. I had my period, plus I was sick, and I had my hair in a sloppy bun, feeling gross and sore and out of place. The day was finally over, and I was walking towards the bus when I saw Rachel gliding by, looking like her feet were barely touching the ground. I didn't count her as a friend, but I circulated in her orbit. Talking with her put as big a knot in my stomach as a cute boy would, constantly on guard for double meanings and hidden digs.

"Your hair looks so cute when it's up!," she said breezily. I wasn't used to compliments as a rule, but it was laughably untrue. I looked like hell, and I knew it, and I craved my bed more than all the money in the world.

"Thanks," I tried to say with the same lightness, but it came out sounding begrudging and mean. I was sure she didn't mean it. Compliments from Rachel had barbs attached- she was emphasizing the difference between you, pointing out that she was ten times prettier than you on your best day. My thoughts boiled as I watched her hips twitch as she walked by. "I wish you were dead," I thought venomously, my voice in my head a loud scream, edging on hysteria.











For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Melissa Brodsky challenged me with "your wish becomes somebody's command" and I challenged Dimdom with " 'I just hope to wake up, and it's not a disaster' -Keith Richards".

Check, Please! (Indie Ink Writing Challenge)

"I think they need this table," he said.

Their waitress, a round hipped redhead with stray ringlets loose over her ears, was indeed hovering nearby, waiting for tables to clear so she could refill them. The cafe was small, but clean and airy, the gold fixtures and muted tans and browns making it look old fashioned without being stuffy. It was full to bursting here in the middle of the lunch hour.

"Maybe we should go," she said.

Lunch was safe, a way station between meeting and dating. Work obligations beckoned on the other side, leaving a clear time limitation on their evening. It also removed the classic end of date question of whether he would ask about sex. And how she would reply.

"We should," he said, reaching for his wallet.

It was hard to know the etiquette. In an age where she could make more than he does, it was archaic and silly to insist on paying, but he still tried. A man pays, his father used to tell him, in a tone that implied it was ever thus.

"Let me," she said, pulling her purse in front of her body.

Never owe anyone, Aunt Sara told her from the time she played with Barbies and boys were just the schoolmates with shorter hair. And especially never let a man buy you anything. They always want something in return. It was 10 years before she understood that, and 5 more before she started to believe it.

"I can't let you pay," he said, rifling through his bills. "It was my sister's idea."

It was Jane, with her huge glasses and infectious, almost annoying bonhomie, that insisted that the new girl hired in her office would be just perfect for her only unmarried sibling. She badgered the two of them in turn, dismissing their demurrals and denials until they mutually concurred, both of them concluding that she wouldn't stop until they did.

"I can pay my own way," she said softly, fumbling in her bag.

She made sure she had both cash and cards before she left that morning. She was prepared to pay for the whole thing, while she would be insulted if she had to.

"I had a great time," he said, taking out a twenty.

It was interminable, he thought. She didn't eat, and she wouldn't talk, making it impossible for him to know what she thought or how she felt. He was willing to pay for both of them, if only he could get away from her and stop talking about himself.

"Oh, I did, too," she said, drawing out her own bill.

He was fascinating, she thought, with so many funny stories about clients and colleagues. She made all the right moves, letting him talk, fluttering and making the appropriate sounds. She listened, trying not to interject, not wanting to say too much, not wanting to turn him off. That was the rule, right? You let them talk, let them lead and control the conversation. Flatter them, make them feel important. He looked great in a trim gray suit, and she already felt the stirrings. If this was an evening meal, she would be taking him home. Eagerly.

"Let's split it," he said, agreeing quickly.

Please just let this be over, he thought.

"How much is it?," she said.

Three summers waiting tables made her a good tipper. She didn't want to seem over generous, but she wanted the waitress with the green eyes to like her, while at the same time be envious of the funny, charming man across from her. She also remembered the aching legs and feet, the jealousy when a well dressed woman sat down with a man you wanted for yourself.

He held the bill so she could see.

"Forty should do it," he said.

He was already thinking about the office, the meeting that he had that afternoon. He was mentally aligning strategies, marshaling arguments as he waited for her twenty to join his. He was relieved that he wouldn't be obligated to rehash and overinterpret the lunch for a circle of friends the way she probably would.

"Absolutely," she said.

She stood up, watching the lines of his suit fall into place as he stood. She fussed at her hemline, arranging her skirt so it fell evenly. She could feel the tug, the yearning and worry beginning to creep in. Would he call? How soon? Did it go as well as she felt it did? Was this the beginning of something?

"Let's let them clear this away," he said.

Thank God this isn't the beginning of something, he thought. He made eye contact with the waitress, who started to make her way towards them, eyes on the closed leather folder. He appraised her curves in the utilitarian black they wore. No question she would have made a more interesting lunch date.

"Sure!," she said cheerfully.

She followed him as they wended their way towards the front door. Would they walk to their cars together? Where was he parked? She concentrated on her stride for a moment, trying to strike a balance between sexy sway and uptight repression. They came to the front door, and he started to head left, she noted sadly. She was parked two streets down on the right.

"Pleasure meeting you," he said.

He was starting to turn away. He was already weighing approaches, thinking about how to overcome Nancy's objections to the new plans. The lunch was already over in his mind as he wiped away the memory of her ridiculous flirtation. You had to bring something to the table, and she just made him carry the whole lunch. He filled in all the blanks in the conversation, inserting words into the silences while she grinned at him stupidly. He wanted to meet a companion, a whole person with hopes and dreams and aspirations, not a parrot.

"Oh, yes! You, too!," she said. "See you!"

She turned down towards her car, walking carefully and firmly. She wondered if he was looking back at her. She hoped so, but didn't want to turn and see. Friday, she thought. Friday would be the perfect, logical day for him to ask her out again. She started mentally reviewing her options for what to wear Friday night.

"See you," he echoed.

You won't, he thought. He made his way up the street, reaching for his keys in his pocket. What a disaster this was, he thought as he went. What was her name again? Maura? Laura? Something, he thought. Thank heavens I don't have to sit through anything with her ever again.














For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Kirsten Doyle challenged me with "Time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so.(Douglas Adams)" and I challenged Crosshaven Harpist with "When you begin each day by describing the look of the same mountain, you are living in the grip of delusion.(Thomas Merton)".

It's Raining In Baltimore (Flash Fiction Friday Challenge)

For the final Flash Fiction Friday of 2011, the redoubtable Thomas Pluck challenges us to echo the great Tom Waits and create anatomically correct fiction, including a song, weather, the name of a town, and something to eat. Here's my contribution, "It's Raining In Baltimore". (Bonus points if you pick up the OTHER lyric included in the story.)










"It's raining in Baltimore," she said. Bits of her hair were hanging down in front of her face. She was looking down into the display of her phone. It was sitting next to a bowl of chicken soup, which was steaming up her glasses. She didn't pause to wipe them.

"That's poetic," I said.

"That's pathetic," she said. She looked out the window through the fogged up lenses. It was gray and blustery, with spitting, insignificant rain, what my friend Gordon calls "a good day for a murder."

I stirred my coffee aimlessly. She said she didn't feel like eating, but I needed coffee and I figured it would be less odd looking if we both had something.

"We can't keep running like this," she said. "We're going to run out of money."

"I know."

"I don't even have any underwear with me," she said.

"I know."

"I mean, I appreciate this. I do. I don't want you to think I'm not grateful."

"I understand," I said.

"But I can't stop thinking about it. Where are we going? What's the plan?"

"I'm not sure quite yet," I said. My Uncle Barry, the family member most accustomed to calamity, lived outside Salisbury. I didn't know anyone who could handle a crying, disheveled woman appearing at your door in the middle of the day, but he came the closest.

She sipped at the soup delicately. "Why are you doing this?," she asked carefully.

"I couldn't live with myself any more. Knowing you're with him, knowing he treats you like that- I couldn't stand it any longer."

"But he loves me," she said softly, almost in a whisper. The bruise mushrooming around her right eye looked almost green under the fluorescent lights inside the diner. The rain began to fall a little more determinedly, making a murmur of sound against the window.

"He might," I admitted. "Somewhere under there, he might. But the way he treats you, it's mixed up with anger and alcoholism and who knows what. You need to get away from him, and you know he'd find you if you stayed at my place."

"But what if he asks you where I am?"

"I'll tell him I don't know."

"But what if he insists?"

"I'll keep telling him I don't know."

"He can be very convincing," she said, looking down into her soup again.

"So can I," I said, trying to make it sound heroic.

The third time that I heard her in the hall, stumbling and moaning, I told her when I took her in to dress her wounds and listen to her tears that I wasn't going to let him keep doing that. The next time was about 4 hours ago. I grabbed the bag I had packed and took her down to my car. She stopped crying by the time we got to the interstate, but we hadn't really talked until we sat down at this roadside cafe. The waitress was hovering uncertainly, wanting to make sure we paid. I reached into my duffel bag and set a ten dollar bill where she could see it.

"So where are we going?," she asked.

"I'm going to wait a few more hours, then I'm going to call my uncle Barry. He lives in Maryland. He's had 4 kids, so he's used to taking in strays."

"Then what?"

"I don't really know."

"You didn't think this through, did you?"

"Not really," I admitted. "I just couldn't breathe, knowing you were going to go back to him and get treated like that. I can't stand seeing someone so precious be treated so shabbily."

"I'm not precious," she said, looking down. She was quiet for a long time.

"Ready to go?," I suggested. I had sucked down all the coffee I could stand.

"No," she said. "But we'd better leave."

I stood up from the table, nodding at the waitress. The rain was falling lightly again, making spots on the window, turning the streetlights into blurred, fantastic visions.

She was still sitting at the table. "What am I going to do?," she said softly.

"I don't know," I said truthfully. "First we get you someplace safe. We'll figure out Step Two once we nail down Step One."

"That's not very reassuring."

"I know. But sometimes you just have to do the first right thing you see."

Who Played Who (Indie Ink Writing Challenge)

It came back to me in fragments, like it was a movie. I knew it had really happened, but I could only see bits of it at a time. A still image, and then another, and impressionistic bursts of sound and motion. I didn't want to open my eyes. I knew I'd have to eventually. I could feel that she was there, even smell the presence of a body that wasn't mine, so I knew what had happened, generally. But it was all hazy in the specifics.

Last night I had played the wingman, the time honored male role of running interference with a girl's friend, drawing their fire while your mate goes in for the kill. I wasn't proud of it, but Henry had been there for me, and more importantly, I still owed him 200 bucks when the stupid Buccaneers didn't cover the spread. So when he asked me to run interference for him, I agreed.

The club was one we hadn't been to before, but it was like most of those places, dark and loud and crowded. I followed Henry through the crowd, being jostled and bumped along the way. He had promised a nursing student that he would meet her here tonight. We made our way to her, and indeed, she was every bit as cute as Henry had promised- a pert nosed blond with a hard little body and a thin, silvery top. There was a scowling brunette next to her, slightly thicker and trying too hard to out dress her prettier friend, wearing a black dress that was too tight and shoes that were too high.

We broke into the usual routine, trying to start conversations, making dumb little puns and gentle compliments. They played the only cards they had, feigned indifference. We performed like a script had been written for us, dancing when they wanted to dance, keeping the drinks flowing, letting them have their conferences when they needed to debate their plans. It was an elaborate charade. We knew what we wanted, and they knew what we wanted. The trick was getting them to do what we wanted without asking. Asking was too forward, and if we asked, they couldn't let themselves accept. I oozed charm and sincerity, feeling them yield to our agenda gradually.

It worked quicker and easier than it had any right to. Maybe I was getting too good at this. We had them in a cab with us, laughing and smiling, heading back to our place, and then we separated, the comely blond slipping away with Henry, and her friend, who I now knew as Corrine, followed me into my room. In the more natural light of our apartment, I could see she was prettier than the club lights gave her credit for. She had a splash of freckles across her nose, and a very shapely body, and some reddish highlights in her hair. I didn't want to, but I didn't not want to. This was the awkward part.

She was sitting on my bed, sliding her stilettos off. I was hanging my jacket in the closet. I looked back at her. Her face was a mask, with a slightly quizzical smile. Her toes were pointed at me as she flexed and stretched what must have been aching feet.

"You don't have to do this," I began. "I don't want you to...,"

"Oh, no," she interrupted. "I know what's going on here."

"I can sleep on the couch," I offered.

"Nope," she said. "No way. You're sleeping with me. Tonight."

I was taken aback. "What?"

"I know what you are. You're the wingman. Your buddy macks on her, and you take the bullet by taking me instead. I'm not stupid."

"I didn't say you were, I...,"

"Women are a lot smarter than you think. I know the code," she said. "You're going to."

This was a twist. "What if I don't want to?"

She leaned back, crossing her legs slowly in front of her. "Am I that bad looking?"

"No, no. You're fine." She was. But something was a little off. I wasn't used to not being in charge.

"OK, then. We're doing this. Or I go knock on your buddy's door and we both leave. I have needs too. This is the only way I get anything, from taking Erin's seconds. You think girls don't have wingmen, too?"

She stood up in bare feet and turned her back to me. "Unzip me," she said. I felt ashamed, but not so ashamed that I didn't do as she asked.

From there, things progressed. She was good, but like pepperoni pizza, I've never had one that was any worse than pleasant. I had fallen asleep at some point, and so had she. I shifted my weight, and I heard her make a little mewling sound, like a cat, and I felt her burrow a little deeper into the bed. I could see her cheek and her ear where they peeked out from an opening. Her skin was flushed with exertion, or perhaps dehydration. She was cute in the morning, I had to admit that. I felt a tiny bit of sorrow. Her eyes fluttered. I wondered what she might be dreaming about.

I hoped Henry's night was more predictable than mine had been. As I laid in the tangle of sheets and limbs, afraid to move, knitting the night's events together, I wondered just who had played who.



















For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Stefan challenged me with "Maybe I was too smooth" and I challenged Chaos Mandy with "Shelter from the storm".

Silent Sunday

Award Show (The Indie Ink Writing Challenge)

It was profoundly uncomfortable in every way, which made it doubly difficult to keep the smile plastered on my face. They told you over and over, smile, always smile, because you never know when the camera may be on you. And God knows, you don't want to seem ungracious. But strapped into compression undergarments, wobbly heels, and a dress that barely let me breathe, it was an effort of will to continue pretending.

I uncrossed my legs, then recrossed them the other way. I could feel the elastic tug as I twisted. It was a relief to finally get here, the entire day consumed by fittings and appointments and girlie nonsense. It reminded me of going into labor, because everything was about you, yet you're not in control of any of it. It was oddly quiet for such a large crowd, people either couldn't talk or were afraid to.

I wanted more than anything else to sneak out and get a cigarette, but I knew it was almost time for my award to be announced. I had been consumed by the preparations and instructions, the matching of shoes and purse and earrings, the advice on who to talk to, the hair and the makeup. As much as I wanted to know if we would get it or not, I wanted to get this over with and get home.

It was the unwritten rule. You can't admit that you want one, while the truth is that everyone does. That's not what I do it for. I create because I can't do anything else. I spent the entire year making the film because I loved it, because it consumed me. I make movies to get paid, and I make movies to get recognized by my peers, but mostly I make movies, like the old joke says, because I can't sing or dance.

There was definitely a sense of competition. You know what others are up to through the rumor mill, and part of you is fueled by wanting to do it better than them. But it's mostly just the beauty, you want to make this golden, perfect idea come through, realize it on film as clearly and perfectly as you can. You don't know how it will be received, and on some level, you don't care- you want it to be as good as you can make it.

I turned my head the other way, feeling the tugs and pulls of the dress against me. I wasn't delusional enough to think I was beautiful. There were much younger, much more beautiful starlets everywhere, the fuel of a thousand fantasies. I probably got a few nasty comments online as I walked in, but I had to admit: I have never felt more beautiful, more fussed over and assembled and put together. As uncomfortable as it was, the whole evening had the aura of magic.

I had made up my mind, when I learned we were nominated, that I was not going to worry about whether or not we got it. As one of our producers mentioned when we were talking about it, if we did, it instantly becomes the first line of your obituary. I wanted it, of course. All of us did. But I wouldn't be crushed if we didn't.

My body seemed to disagree as they came back from commercial. I sat up a little straighter, pushing my stockinged feet down into my shoes. I grabbed my clutch purse a little tighter. This was it, my whole life could change in the next few seconds. My heart pounded as I realized I was lying to myself. I wanted it, more than I wanted anything else in my life. I plastered on the fake smile, concentrating on maintaining my face as neutral as possible.

"...the Oscar goes to...," I heard, the sounds of the envelope loud in my ears.



















For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Hannah challenged me with "The way to get things done is to stimulate competition. I do not mean in a sordid, money grubbing way, but in the desire to excel-Charles Schwab" and I challenged Wendryn with "The weather is here, I wish you were beautiful".

That Was The Thing (Indie Ink Writing Challenge)

It was polite. That was the thing. The stupid machine displayed the message, in ancient looking glowing green phosphor, "SORRY! TRANSACTION UNABLE TO BE PERFORMED AT THIS TIME- PLEASE TRY AGAIN!". It was a perfectly neutral message, the electronic equivalent of a shrug. Not implying you were broke, or that you were bad with money, or that you were a poor person. I was all those things, but the machine was clearly not judging me. The message stayed the same, no matter how long I looked at it, and when I felt the hot gaze of someone else wanting the machine on my back, I hit the button, took my now worthless card, and skulked away. I knew, walking up to it, what was probably going to happen. I figured I'd try anyway- maybe the mortgage check hadn't cleared yet?

The casino floor was alive with action, a fever dream of lights and noises and money disappearing from bank accounts and retirement funds and Social Security checks. It was a pulse quickener, the constant lights, the bells and buzzers and whistles all signalling fun and happiness. Looking over it, I felt soulless and dead, a far cry from the hope I had when I walked in 6 long hours ago. I took out my cell phone, checking the time. 7 ½ hours, it turns out. I knew what I had left- enough money for a cup of coffee and a sandwich and the tolls to reach home. I didn't look forward to that part.

It was going to be the same old phrases. "You said you were going to stop." "What am I supposed to do for groceries?" "How can you do this to your children?" I'll give the same old unsatisfying responses. "I don't know." "I lost control." "I'm sorry." "I promise I'll stop. This time I mean it." "But you don't understand, I was on a run...," followed by her tearful retreat to our bed and my sleep in front of Sportscenter downstairs.

A cocktail waitress walked by, wearing so little she would have gotten thrown out of my high school. She stopped in front of me. Her eyes were kind, but wrinkled. She had a woman's body, hips and thighs on view underneath a skimpy little number that barely qualified as a dress.

I was on a run, too. That was the thing. I was crushing- filling straights, pairing up when I needed to, luring in bettors and crushing them with better hands. I was raking in chips, doing mental math in a giddy rush, counting the number of bills I could kill off. I should have stopped, and I even thought about stopping, but this mania took over. I couldn't hear, I couldn't see anything but the cards. I couldn't lose. Just one more hand, I kept telling myself, and then I would win that one, and then I'd play another. I couldn't stand the thought of leaving money on the table.

My father in law told me once, the first time he brought us to the casino, before the kids and the confusion, to play until you get that first bad beat. When you have a strong hand and you bet and you get creamed, walk away. "The Gods have turned on you," he said in his Slavic accent, gold medallions at the neck of his sweatshirt. "If you stay, they will destroy you." And destroy me they did, taking my winnings back, plus more, making me run to the cash machine once, twice, and then the final, fatal, third time, knowing before I got there that there wasn't anything left to bet.

"Drink, sir?," the waitress asked me. I looked into her face, too much makeup, 35 trying to look 15. She looked like I felt, broken down and out of sorts.

"No thanks," I said, but slid a one dollar bill onto her tray.

"Thank you, sir," she said sweetly, and sauntered away. I watched her walk. It was kind of like a strip club in that respect, women on display, so kind but really only interested in the dollars you held. Boy, Jennifer would hate it if that were where I was, wouldn't she? On the other hand, that was something she could at least understand.

I walked slowly, with my head down, towards the exit. Looking at the kids' faces as they emerged into the joy of a new day tomorrow morning would be the hardest part. When I was playing, it was like they didn't exist, but now, trudging into the utilitarian cement of the parking garage, I could see their faces. I remembered from my own childhood the sour stomach I got when another promise of a trip to the movies evaporated when Minnesota didn't cover the spread. Was it genetic, this craving for the rush? This need to have stakes, to have something to lose, did I inherit it like my fading hairline and fallen arches?

I shouldn't have had kids, I thought. If I never had kids, I'd only be disappointing myself and Jennifer. Or maybe just myself. The rush was so good, so real and beautiful and perfect, but the crash, the utter emptiness of another brokenhearted trip back to the house I could barely afford, the crash killed me and sent me into a spiral that wouldn't lift until I got paid again and swore to myself I would win it all back, then quit forever.

I thought about the last song that was playing on satellite radio when I got out of the car. It was Johnny Cash, but I think it was someone else's song. "You can have it all," the Man in Black said as only he could, "my empire of dirt...,". Yeah, that's what it felt like. My life, an empire of dirt. Ready to blow away in the next strong wind.

I hoped I had enough gas to get home. Then again, that was the thing; I kind of hoped I didn't.











For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Sir challenged me with "You can't fight genetics" and I challenged Diane with "Don't go away mad, just go away".

Flash Fiction Friday: "Too Late For Love"

The marvelous, temporarily spit up free Chuck Wendig has issued a challenge to the Flash Fiction Friday folks, 1000 words using three of the following words: vitamins, squid, ballroom, razor, carnival. My entry is called "Too Late For Love".











I didn't want to be there. A sick colleague brought me in on a Saturday to the Independence Ballroom to tend bar for a wedding reception. The rhythms were familiar. I served drinks, mixed the cocktails, prepared Shirley Temples. I hustled, and bantered, and joked. It wasn't a hard gig, but it was mental work, tracking faces. Old people trying to look young, younger people trying to look old. Wedding party members in the full blush of youth, knowing their power.

The big partying had been done, all the ceremonial bits you expect, the wild carnival of two families forming a third. The garter had been peeled, the bouquet thrown, the first dance completed, the speeches made. Meals had been served, and guests were starting to sneak away. I kept the drinks flowing.

One of the bridesmaids, a pretty brunette with a dark, serious face like Natalie Merchant, made her way to the bar. I watched her approach. She wasn't drunk, but she was definitely headed that way. She was in the dark blue dress that they all wore. There was a little more girl than there was dress, and she carried her heels in one hand, holding a slim clutch in the other. She walked up uncertainly and put a wrinkled bill into my tip jar.

"Thanks," I said. "What can I get you?"

"An excuse to go home," she said, and chuckled sadly.

"Too much, huh?"

"Way too much," she said sadly. "I'm exhausted, and it isn't even my party." She looked down. "White wine, please?"

"Sure," I said. I poured it.

"It's her day, right? So I have no right to complain."

"You don't need a right to complain."

She sighed. "You do a lot of these?"

"Weddings? Too many," I said. "I haven't had a weekend off since Opening Day."

"That sucks," she admitted. "I've spent the last four weekends helping Stacy get ready for this nightmare. If I knew it was going to be this much work, I never would have made friends with her in sixth grade."

"A real Bridezilla?"

"Oh, God," she said. "The worst." I handed her the glass and she took a sip. "I better take my vitamin," she said, smiling. She reached into the clutch and opened a tiny vial with Hello Kitty on it. She took out a small white tablet and swallowed it, chasing it with a mouthful of wine. It didn't look like a vitamin. There was a series of angry red scratches on her upper arm, like she was a prisoner marking off days of her sentence. I had seen scratches like that, on another woman's arm, at another time. She saw my eyes noticing it.

"I cut myself getting ready," she said too quickly. I nodded, moving laterally to pour a beer for a glaring older man with a mustache.

After he left, she turned her brown eyes on me. "What do you do when you're not, uh...tending?"

Not much, I thought. "I write some. I have a novel that keeps getting rejected. What do you do?"

"Still in school," she said. "Professional student." She took another swallow of wine. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to bother you. You're working."

"No, it's fine." Some human interaction was welcome.

"It's all about Stace, and that's fine, but it's still....annoying. You're just expected to give, and give. I get sick of it."

"Even though you know better. You know it's not about you, but you're human, too. "

"Yeah." She drained her glass. "I'm not drunk, you know." she said.

"I know," I said.

"I'm not," she said more forcefully. Saying "I'm not drunk" is kind of like saying "I'm not racist." If you have to say it, it's probably not true.

I didn't say anything.

"When you're a little girl," she began, "you dream about a day like this. All the dresses, and the makeup, and the hair, and the shoes, and the food, and all the people. You dream about all these people coming together to celebrate. And it's really just this huge excuse to get drunk and behave like idiots. It's this big party that proves that you can throw a big party. It's nothing, on top of nothing, with stupid shoes that hurt your feet. It's phony, every bit of it. It doesn't make people stay married, or people be more in love. It's just a party. And I'm never going to be that special, that kind of person who makes a whole day all about them. "

She looked at me.

"I'm sorry."

"It's OK. Why do you think you're not special?"

"It's a long story," she said, choking on the words. "I'm just not. I'm not the marriage type. I can't love someone like that."

"I don't think that's true," I said.

"It is," she shot back. "I'm broken. I just don't get other people, I don't get how they work. I never understand what anyone means. I'm lost, all the time."

She looked at me again. Her eyes looked watery. "I hate all the small talk, all the fake smiling, all the rituals. All the girl stuff, all the stuff I have to act like I care about to fit in. I hate all the effort. I hate pretending. It exhausts me."

"At least it's over now, right?"

"Yeah. Now I can go home and cry. It's hard."

"Being in a wedding?"

"Being me," she said.

Updates you didn't ask for

Two pieces of mine have been published in real live books that are now on sale.

The more honorable of the two is the Lost Children Charity Anthology,which is on sale here. It contains a story that was previously published here, along with 29 other much better ones. All proceeds from the sale go to children's charities.

The more scurrilous of the two is Matt Potter's "Pure Slush Volume One", otherwise uncomfortably known as "Slut", which is available here. As you might have guessed, this title contains material of a somewhat prurient nature. My contribution is heretofore unpublished. In this case, the proceeds from the sale mostly just support the defraying of costs and the continued survival of "Pure Slush". Either that, or Matt's stable of palomino ponies need new rhinestones for their saddle blankets.

0:02.5 (Indie Ink Writing Challenge)

It was loud. I had been around the block a time or two, so I had heard noisy crowds, but it never got dull. It was a force in the air, a bowel loosening, throat tightening physical thing that made your pulse race a little bit more, and your eyes narrow to slits. Coach outlined the play for us, but we all knew what it was. Everybody did- the opponents, the smarter fans, the TV guys. It was no secret. We ran it at the end of practice, Coach making us run it over and over until the shot went in with metronomic precision. It was called "Eagle", but it could be called anything- it had five quick options, A through E, after which the inbounder would just toss the ball in and hope for the best. We were out of time outs, and out of better choices.

I looked at my teammates, their faces set and grim. We didn't need to talk, we all knew what to do. We went to the preset spots, looking into the hostile, angry faces in the stands. It wasn't very often it came down to a single moment like this- do it or don't, win or lose, all in the next few moments. The scoreboard told the story, down 98-97 with 2.5 seconds to play, our ball on the side. I could see people's faces contorted, passionate, their voices combining into one diffuse roaring sound. They wanted to will their side to stop us, to move a little bit faster, to interrupt our play and secure a win. We were focused, our movements precise and calculated, intent on our assignments and our mission.

The arena was playing "Crazy Train" to encourage the fans. They didn't seem to need any help. The PA announcer cut the music off when the referee held the ball up, and the crowd's noise hit a fever pitch. It edged into frightening- if it wasn't in the context of sports, it would feel like someone was about to be killed. All five of us were leaning against an opponent, smelling each other's sweat, feeling the slick of another man's bare skin where we rubbed. It was intimate, uncomfortable, but it was something you were used to, having played this game since we were young. When playing such a physical game, where an inch might make a difference between making a play and not, you had to stand closer to another man than you would at any other time. Almost at the same moment, we moved as one, weeks and months of repetition giving us the ability to move without thinking.

I could feel the small space opening up that meant I was free, I had a step on my man. I was tired- we all were tired- but being a professional meant you dug down and summoned up the energy for one final burst of speed. I saw the gap, knew I would be getting the pass, and the ball was on the way as soon as I could form the thought. I knew, from years of practice, that I had time for one quick step before I put up the shot, 2.5 seconds being a relative eternity in basketball. The plan formed in my head instantly, and I caught it, took one long step and dribble to get space, moving onto a empty spot on the floor, then went up for the shot. The crowd was still making noise, but I was unaware of them. They were a blur of red and black and white as I rose to shoot. It was the same motion, the same process, the same steps I had made tens of thousands of times over the years, in practice and games. The calculations went on blindingly fast, angles and tangents and spin and arc, and the shot was off.

I heard the siren ending the game as I came back down from my jump. I knew the shot had been released in time- the only question now was whether or not it would go in. It sounds arrogant to say that I knew it would go in. I felt like it would, it felt good leaving my hand. But I didn't know that it would go in. I had launched thousands and thousands of shots, in gyms by myself, at practice, and in games, and I knew how it felt when the shot was good. But I also knew you could feel perfect, and you're just wrong- you're not as close as you thought, or you made some tiny adjustment at the last second that threw you off, or the basketball gods just said no. Sometimes it felt just right, and you missed, and there was nothing you could do but just chalk it up to fate. I knew we had done our best. The play had worked just like it was supposed to. I ran my defender through a pair of screens, giving me just enough space to catch, step, set myself and take a good shot. If it didn't go in, it wasn't meant to be. It wouldn't be because of any lack of effort on our part, that was for sure.

As the horn sound faded away, I could hear the crowd again. They never stopped making noise, but it was like hitting the mute button on a TV. Once we broke the huddle, my focus was so intense that, as much noise as they made, I couldn't hear them. I only knew space, and angle, and path, speed, force, and space. The roar was back for a split second, like turning on a faucet, followed by a gasp, and then silence. A sweet, perfect silence accompanied by the sound of chairs snapping back into place as people headed for the exit, back slaps from my teammates and I could hear the TV announcers excitedly describing the shot at courtside. I didn't need to check the scoreboard- their silence told me as loud as words that the shot went in and victory was ours.







This week's Indie Ink Challenge came from Liz Culver, who gave me this prompt: "a quiet moment". I challenged Cedar with the prompt "an offer I couldn't refuse".

Terrible Minds Challenge: Closed

Chuck Wendig, who would probably convince the Supercommittee to spend the deficit on coke and hookers, has posted a flash fiction challenge asking for 100 word stories using one of the following five words: Frog, Scissors, Powder, Tower, and Seagull. Here's my entry, called, "Closed".








What was it that Jake Barnes said? "Gradually, and then suddenly"? That was how it was. First sales dropped, then suppliers stopped shipping because I couldn't pay, and then sales dropped because you were out of everything. I had cooked myself the last batch of french fries we had, but even after they cooled, I couldn't stomach them. I pitched them one by one onto the ground in front of me, watching the seagulls dive and caw, scooping them up in the October air. They say nature is so delicate, but some species are meant to survive anything.

Why You Do That? (Indie Ink Writing Challenge)

The house was quiet. No screaming, no yelling, no crying. No happy noises from the kitchen of dishes being washed, no chugging sound of a washing machine running. Nothing. I listened to the emptiness, hoping to hear tires on the driveway, the door opening and the insistent babble of a child. I heard the furnace come on. Somewhere outside, a dog barked. The sun was making irregular patterns on the floor. I could hear my pulse in my ears.

I was standing inside the front door. I had begged her right after it happened, pleaded and implored her to give me another chance, apologized and groveled, my voice drowned out by wailing, my daughter's high screech alongside my wife's bitter, harsh expletives. But she left anyway, grabbing Jen and taking the car. She's probably headed to her father's house, where she'll cry and complain while he half listens and threatens me. She'll be back. "She always comes back," I told myself.

There was a framed picture on the wall inside the door. It had a gold frame, and it showed the three of us, posed and uncomfortable, in front of one of those phony portrait backdrops. I had a fake, grim smile, my wife looking brilliant and blonde, and Jennifer captured in a rare quiet moment, pigtails at rest and a genuine, warm grin. I remembered that day- the humidity, the sweat and the waiting, the swallowed comments and buried feelings. My scalp prickled with the memory.

It had started in the morning. I assumed Jen was still asleep in her room, when my wife sat down beside me. I wasn't really listening to her, half listening to the torrent of sports news from the TV. I had turned it on mindlessly, just wanting to stare at something for a minute before the day began.

"Honey?," Ashley said warily.

I looked at her blonde hair, flopping carelessly around her eyes. She looked tired. We hadn't been sleeping well, taking turns soothing Jen as she battled what seemed like her fifth cold this month.

"Mmm?," I said. I hoped it wasn't anything major. I wanted more than anything else to just nap in front of the TV before heading out to work. Again. On the screen, a truck was struggling to make it to the top of a muddy hillside.

"I'm pregnant." It sounded unreal, like I hadn't heard her right. But what rhymes with "pregnant"?

"You are?"

"Yeah." She was looking down at the unvacuumed carpet, ground in Fritos and spilled juice giving it odd swatches of color. I snatched the remote and turned the TV off.

"But you were..," I began.

"I know," she cut in, abrasive and cutting. "I can't explain it. But I am. I tested this morning to be sure. It's definite."

"How could... ", I started to ask. I felt nauseous, panicky. We were scrambling just to cover the bills now. How could we possibly afford another kid?

"I don't know, OK? I don't know!", she said, her voice rising. "Jesus, I knew you were going to be like this," she spit out, struggling to her feet.

I put my hand on her arm, trying to stop her, leaning in. "Wait, let's...,"

"Don't TOUCH me!," she said. She jerked her arm up, the back of her hand smacking my cheek as she tried to fend me off. I felt the stone from her ring nick my skin. I reacted without thinking, moving before I was aware of it. Or that's what I tell myself. I felt like all my gauges were pinned, like on a car that was overheating. I saw red, and I felt a bottomless rage.

I punched her, plain and simple, a short, quick, crisp right hand that landed hard on her cheek, connecting perfectly. I had fought people before, and I knew the feeling. It was smooth, almost elegant, like the subtle click when you hit a golf ball squarely. She went down, the momentum turning her onto her face. She wound up on all fours, shaking her head to clear the cobwebs. I didn't do anything for a second, before the screaming started. For a second, I couldn't figure out what had happened, why she was down there and why I was standing over her like that famous picture of Ali.

She got up screaming, pushing past me and down the hall. I followed meekly, trying to explain, to apologize, to make it right, but every word was cut off with a snarled curse. Jennifer was standing there as she walked by, a pout on her tiny face. I didn't know how much she saw, and I didn't want to know.

"Why you do that, Daddy?," she asked, and then followed her mother down the hall, beginning her own flood of tears. I didn't know how to answer that.

She threw clothes, toys and a few other supplies into bags, finally scooping up Jen and, still wailing, walking out, slamming the front door behind her, leaving me with the silent house. I had to be at work in a couple of hours, leaving me just enough time to shower and get to the bus stop. The sun was making bars of reflected light on the wall, and one of the bars covered my wife's face on the picture in front of me.

I took the picture off of its hook on the wall. I thought about smashing it, hurling it down at my feet, feeling the atavistic power and childish satisfaction of breaking something. I immediately rejected that, picturing one of Jen's tiny, chubby little feet finding a sliver of glass I had missed, and the howling of her pain and my guilt. I thought about moving it, putting it into a drawer or throwing it away, but I knew Ashley too well. Moving the picture would have symbolic value to her, some deep statement about the nature of our relationship and how much I cared about my family.

Things always had meanings that I didn't understand, like when you're reading a book in high school and the teacher tells you that the sign by the side of the road with the glasses on it symbolizes God's judgement of man, and you think, OK, maybe, or maybe it's just a sign by the road? Doing anything to the picture would only cause a fight somewhere down the line, I decided. "Assuming she comes back," my brain said. I hung it carefully back where it was.















For the IndieInk Writing
Challenge this week, Sarah Cass challenged me with "I was always so angry. Now they're gone and I have no way to make things right," and I challenged Dianewith "I'm dying to see you."