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.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
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?
Thursday, August 04, 2011
Terrible Minds Challenge: "EBay From Hell"
Chuck Wendig is, among other things, dope on the floor and magic on the mic. His Terrible Minds Flash Fiction Challenge this week involves a story about a flea market in some way, shape or form. This is mine, called "EBay from Hell".
He stopped. Again. That's how it was- stop, wait, look, think, then move on, walking a few more steps, then stopping, looking again. All the while, I waddled along behind him, feeling like a water buffalo among the cheetah.
I sighed and took a step back. Big as I was, there was no place left to stand where I wasn't in the way. I tried to stay out of the traffic flow, not blocking any of the other stands while not preventing people from streaming by on their way to somewhere else. We were at the Washington Township Flea Market, an event where they turn the parking lot of our minor league hockey team's home arena, every Saturday all summer, into a giant, open air, EBay From Hell. People were there selling everything you could imagine- bootleg t shirts, books, jewelry, computer software, lawn decorations, trading cards. My hips began to ache as I walked along one of the long aisles between stands. I craved the air conditioned cool of our apartment.
A number of food trucks had set themselves up here on the steamy blacktop, and one of them, a teriyaki stand, served enormous cups of iced tea with lemon slices. I eagerly bought one as soon as we entered the maze of card tables and tents, and, already feeling warm as the humid morning started to assert itself, I sucked on the straw greedily. I felt out of place and awkward. I hated being out, walking around and being sweaty, but I also felt an intense need to be wherever he was, too.
I came with him out of a panicky sense of time slipping away. Steven was bent low over a plastic carton, flipping through cardboard backed comic books with a practiced eye. He had told me, gripping the wheel tightly as he played "Led Zeppelin III" in our ancient Subaru on the way over, what he was looking for, but I had already forgotten. Whenever I told my girlfriends at work about any weekend plans, the older ones clucked softly, reminding me that days like this, just the two of us gallivanting around, would soon be a thing of the past. I missed this, this "us", even before it was gone.
"Need a chair, hon?" The voice was coming from behind me, female, but gravelly with years of smoking. I half turned. She had a tanned, leathery face, with a tattoo high on her right shoulder of a heart with a scroll of names underneath it. She was smiling guardedly. The table in front of her was covered with what looked like Christmas ornaments- snowflakes, angels, wrapped presents- made out of what looked like hardened cookie dough.
I blushed. "Me? Oh, no. No, no. No thank you." She had startled me a little, and I felt my heart thrum briefly.
"OK. Just ask if you need it," she added. A young girl stopped in front of her wares, eyeing the ornaments suspiciously. She ran off, flip flops slapping the ground, free to move on to another adventure. I envied her.
"First one?," she said, gesturing towards my belly.
"Yup," I said.
"Boyfriend?," she said, her hand pointing vaguely at Steven, who was studying a single issue intently. Looking for flaws, I knew, folds or rips or holes that would make it less valuable to collectors.
"Husband," I said firmly. Why was it people never assumed I was married?
"You're good to put up with this," she said. "Husbands are crazy."
"Well, we take turns," I said. "Tonight, he has to sit on the couch and watch a movie with me."
"That's the way to do it," she said. "Give and take. My Freddie and me always did that. He had his model trains, and I had my ornaments."
"You had kids?" I asked her.
"Six." I gasped, trying to imagine going through this one more time, never mind five.
"It gets easier," she said, chuckling. I found that hard to believe. "And Freddie helped me. And you learn it as you go, too. It's a gradual thing. You'll never be good at it, but you'll get better, if that makes any sense."
Steven had one book under his arm, and was pawing for another.
"Mind a little more free advice, doll?," she added.
I did mind, but I didn't know how to refuse.
"Don't take anything for granted. Anything. Even this, out in the hot sun, perspiring in that cute dress like you are. Don't take your man for granted. Not once. My Freddie's been gone 8 years now, and I miss him every damn day."
Steven paid for his purchase, then walked over to me, a quizzical look on his face. "You OK?"
He said that a lot. "Yes, fine. You done? Or do you need to look some more?"
"I'm done," he said. He took my hand.
"Good luck, hon," she said to me.
"Thanks," I told her. "You too."
"Oh, no, hon," she said, chuckling again. "It's you that needs the luck now."
He stopped. Again. That's how it was- stop, wait, look, think, then move on, walking a few more steps, then stopping, looking again. All the while, I waddled along behind him, feeling like a water buffalo among the cheetah.
I sighed and took a step back. Big as I was, there was no place left to stand where I wasn't in the way. I tried to stay out of the traffic flow, not blocking any of the other stands while not preventing people from streaming by on their way to somewhere else. We were at the Washington Township Flea Market, an event where they turn the parking lot of our minor league hockey team's home arena, every Saturday all summer, into a giant, open air, EBay From Hell. People were there selling everything you could imagine- bootleg t shirts, books, jewelry, computer software, lawn decorations, trading cards. My hips began to ache as I walked along one of the long aisles between stands. I craved the air conditioned cool of our apartment.
A number of food trucks had set themselves up here on the steamy blacktop, and one of them, a teriyaki stand, served enormous cups of iced tea with lemon slices. I eagerly bought one as soon as we entered the maze of card tables and tents, and, already feeling warm as the humid morning started to assert itself, I sucked on the straw greedily. I felt out of place and awkward. I hated being out, walking around and being sweaty, but I also felt an intense need to be wherever he was, too.
I came with him out of a panicky sense of time slipping away. Steven was bent low over a plastic carton, flipping through cardboard backed comic books with a practiced eye. He had told me, gripping the wheel tightly as he played "Led Zeppelin III" in our ancient Subaru on the way over, what he was looking for, but I had already forgotten. Whenever I told my girlfriends at work about any weekend plans, the older ones clucked softly, reminding me that days like this, just the two of us gallivanting around, would soon be a thing of the past. I missed this, this "us", even before it was gone.
"Need a chair, hon?" The voice was coming from behind me, female, but gravelly with years of smoking. I half turned. She had a tanned, leathery face, with a tattoo high on her right shoulder of a heart with a scroll of names underneath it. She was smiling guardedly. The table in front of her was covered with what looked like Christmas ornaments- snowflakes, angels, wrapped presents- made out of what looked like hardened cookie dough.
I blushed. "Me? Oh, no. No, no. No thank you." She had startled me a little, and I felt my heart thrum briefly.
"OK. Just ask if you need it," she added. A young girl stopped in front of her wares, eyeing the ornaments suspiciously. She ran off, flip flops slapping the ground, free to move on to another adventure. I envied her.
"First one?," she said, gesturing towards my belly.
"Yup," I said.
"Boyfriend?," she said, her hand pointing vaguely at Steven, who was studying a single issue intently. Looking for flaws, I knew, folds or rips or holes that would make it less valuable to collectors.
"Husband," I said firmly. Why was it people never assumed I was married?
"You're good to put up with this," she said. "Husbands are crazy."
"Well, we take turns," I said. "Tonight, he has to sit on the couch and watch a movie with me."
"That's the way to do it," she said. "Give and take. My Freddie and me always did that. He had his model trains, and I had my ornaments."
"You had kids?" I asked her.
"Six." I gasped, trying to imagine going through this one more time, never mind five.
"It gets easier," she said, chuckling. I found that hard to believe. "And Freddie helped me. And you learn it as you go, too. It's a gradual thing. You'll never be good at it, but you'll get better, if that makes any sense."
Steven had one book under his arm, and was pawing for another.
"Mind a little more free advice, doll?," she added.
I did mind, but I didn't know how to refuse.
"Don't take anything for granted. Anything. Even this, out in the hot sun, perspiring in that cute dress like you are. Don't take your man for granted. Not once. My Freddie's been gone 8 years now, and I miss him every damn day."
Steven paid for his purchase, then walked over to me, a quizzical look on his face. "You OK?"
He said that a lot. "Yes, fine. You done? Or do you need to look some more?"
"I'm done," he said. He took my hand.
"Good luck, hon," she said to me.
"Thanks," I told her. "You too."
"Oh, no, hon," she said, chuckling again. "It's you that needs the luck now."
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Indie Ink Writing Challenge: I Want To Hold Your Hand
This week, the IndieInk Writing Challenge brings me "the apex of happiness" from Ms. Ixy. My challenge, "I've Got A Feeling", goes out to Angela. This week brings us yet another story from my Novel That Has No Name, Along With, Really, No Reason For Being. As before, the narrator is Ray, and this time he is trying to put to bed his willful 3 year old "niece", Kate. (They are not, in fact, related. For more details, please feel free to seek out my first novel, "Everybody Loves You Now," conveniently available in the sidebar.)
t was a battle, every time. It was a struggle of wills- two forces attempting to dominate and impose their agenda on the other. My opponent thought she was smarter than she was, and she thought I had forgotten the way this war went last time. Like in any skirmish, the question was not victory- I would win, because I was in charge- but instead how many losses I was willing to endure.
First it was weaning off of TV- one more episode, and then off for the evening. Then it was a story. Then another story. Then pajamas, brushing teeth, and brushing hair. Then it was a request for another story, gently, but firmly, denied. Then it was which bed- the soft couch or the big bed. I could sleep either place, so I let her choose- which meant first one, then the other.
Then the battle was really engaged. Too many pillows, then too few, and then too few blankets, then too many. Now it's too cold, now it's too hot. A sudden, raging thirst, then, of course, a bathroom trip. I settled into the couch cushions, listening to the sounds the mattress would make as she squirmed her way into comfort. She actually talked now and then, making those little happy sounds kids make, seemingly just to hear the sound of her own voice.
I didn't have trouble sleeping, but I couldn't rest until I thought that she was fully asleep. I knew I couldn't have the light on to read, and I certainly couldn't have the TV on, so I started making lists, papering the inside of my brain with Ten Best Left Handed Relief Pitchers, and Top Five Bass Guitarists. I heard the quiet hiss of summer rain beginning outside, hoping it would not bring thunder that would wake her up. Of course, it did, and as predictable as a 6-4-3 double play, she was at the foot of the couch in seconds.
"Unca Ray, it raining."
"Yes, Lovey, it is." Her hair was already disordered, tangled with sweat.
"Can you come lay on the big bed with me? I scared."
I sighed inwardly. "Sure." I knew she had to learn how to go to sleep by herself, but expedience won out over prudence. Plus I couldn't say no to that face.
She climbed into the bed, her body rigid with excitement. I climbed in as well, leaning on one side so I could watch her, hoping I could climb back out once she fell asleep.
"You really gonna sleep here the whole night?"
"Yes, honey. Shhh. Sleep time."
"OK, Unca Ray," she said in an exaggerated whisper.
She slid her hand towards me, and I covered it with my own. She sighed deeply, seeming to finally relax. I watched her breathing, her rib cage rising softly. Her face started to slacken as fatigue took over. The rain murmured outside the window, with a distant rumble of thunder causing her to grab my hand in response.
"It's OK, baby," I said softly. "I'm here." She was so easy to reassure, because the things she was afraid of were so distant.
She released her grip slightly. I stared at her in the shadows. She was so utterly dependent, so trusting. When she walked into a playground with other kids, she would constantly look back at me, as if to ask, "is this OK? Is it safe?" And it wasn't- not completely. There were driveways to skin knees on, stomach viruses to combat, and later, friendships made and broken in the internecine warfare of growing up girl. Much later, there would be boys lying to her, breaking her heart, making promises they can't or won't keep. And all through this, she looks to us for security, the only people she doesn't have to impress, the only people who will accept her utterly. Home: the place where, when she goes there, we will always take her in.
I wanted to warn her that I wasn't smart enough for this job, that I was in no way qualified to keep her safe from the world's dangers. I could make sure the rain didn't get her, and I could hold her hand when the thunder rolled, but I couldn't make things safe. No one could. I was grateful for her trust. Mystified by it, but grateful. She made me feel like I had some substance- her needs transformed me, making me better and more whole. As much of a pain in the neck as she was, she made me happier.
She would eventually realize that something horrible had happened to her, that her birthday itself was a measurement of tragedy as well. She had been robbed of something. At some point, this would make her furiously angry at anyone and everyone, and I knew those days would come. I could tell her that the same thing happened to me, but I at least had memories to hang on to. All she had was pictures and stories, and the fundamental unfairness of that would hit her like a ton of bricks. Someday.
But right now she believed. She knew that I would always be there, and her grandmother would, and each day just brought you new and different ways to be happy in a world that couldn't hurt you. As much as I knew that promise was a lie, just like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, I let her believe it, and to be able to provide someone that kind of security made me feel competent, in charge. I smiled in the dark, tired but happy. Her intense devotion to this false premise made me believe it, too. Almost.
t was a battle, every time. It was a struggle of wills- two forces attempting to dominate and impose their agenda on the other. My opponent thought she was smarter than she was, and she thought I had forgotten the way this war went last time. Like in any skirmish, the question was not victory- I would win, because I was in charge- but instead how many losses I was willing to endure.
First it was weaning off of TV- one more episode, and then off for the evening. Then it was a story. Then another story. Then pajamas, brushing teeth, and brushing hair. Then it was a request for another story, gently, but firmly, denied. Then it was which bed- the soft couch or the big bed. I could sleep either place, so I let her choose- which meant first one, then the other.
Then the battle was really engaged. Too many pillows, then too few, and then too few blankets, then too many. Now it's too cold, now it's too hot. A sudden, raging thirst, then, of course, a bathroom trip. I settled into the couch cushions, listening to the sounds the mattress would make as she squirmed her way into comfort. She actually talked now and then, making those little happy sounds kids make, seemingly just to hear the sound of her own voice.
I didn't have trouble sleeping, but I couldn't rest until I thought that she was fully asleep. I knew I couldn't have the light on to read, and I certainly couldn't have the TV on, so I started making lists, papering the inside of my brain with Ten Best Left Handed Relief Pitchers, and Top Five Bass Guitarists. I heard the quiet hiss of summer rain beginning outside, hoping it would not bring thunder that would wake her up. Of course, it did, and as predictable as a 6-4-3 double play, she was at the foot of the couch in seconds.
"Unca Ray, it raining."
"Yes, Lovey, it is." Her hair was already disordered, tangled with sweat.
"Can you come lay on the big bed with me? I scared."
I sighed inwardly. "Sure." I knew she had to learn how to go to sleep by herself, but expedience won out over prudence. Plus I couldn't say no to that face.
She climbed into the bed, her body rigid with excitement. I climbed in as well, leaning on one side so I could watch her, hoping I could climb back out once she fell asleep.
"You really gonna sleep here the whole night?"
"Yes, honey. Shhh. Sleep time."
"OK, Unca Ray," she said in an exaggerated whisper.
She slid her hand towards me, and I covered it with my own. She sighed deeply, seeming to finally relax. I watched her breathing, her rib cage rising softly. Her face started to slacken as fatigue took over. The rain murmured outside the window, with a distant rumble of thunder causing her to grab my hand in response.
"It's OK, baby," I said softly. "I'm here." She was so easy to reassure, because the things she was afraid of were so distant.
She released her grip slightly. I stared at her in the shadows. She was so utterly dependent, so trusting. When she walked into a playground with other kids, she would constantly look back at me, as if to ask, "is this OK? Is it safe?" And it wasn't- not completely. There were driveways to skin knees on, stomach viruses to combat, and later, friendships made and broken in the internecine warfare of growing up girl. Much later, there would be boys lying to her, breaking her heart, making promises they can't or won't keep. And all through this, she looks to us for security, the only people she doesn't have to impress, the only people who will accept her utterly. Home: the place where, when she goes there, we will always take her in.
I wanted to warn her that I wasn't smart enough for this job, that I was in no way qualified to keep her safe from the world's dangers. I could make sure the rain didn't get her, and I could hold her hand when the thunder rolled, but I couldn't make things safe. No one could. I was grateful for her trust. Mystified by it, but grateful. She made me feel like I had some substance- her needs transformed me, making me better and more whole. As much of a pain in the neck as she was, she made me happier.
She would eventually realize that something horrible had happened to her, that her birthday itself was a measurement of tragedy as well. She had been robbed of something. At some point, this would make her furiously angry at anyone and everyone, and I knew those days would come. I could tell her that the same thing happened to me, but I at least had memories to hang on to. All she had was pictures and stories, and the fundamental unfairness of that would hit her like a ton of bricks. Someday.
But right now she believed. She knew that I would always be there, and her grandmother would, and each day just brought you new and different ways to be happy in a world that couldn't hurt you. As much as I knew that promise was a lie, just like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, I let her believe it, and to be able to provide someone that kind of security made me feel competent, in charge. I smiled in the dark, tired but happy. Her intense devotion to this false premise made me believe it, too. Almost.
Friday, July 29, 2011
100 Word Challenge: No Myth
The Velvet Verbosity 100 Word Challenge is back from the brink and ready to take on all comers. This week's word is "Myth", and my story is called, "No Myth"
For Johnna
I had to time it just right, starting the song just as she started up the hill, so I'd be singing the right part when she got up to me. I was playing acoustic guitar, trying to stay in practice before I had to go do my grownup work. I didn't know her name, only the swinging rhythm of her walk, her caramel skin and long black hair. I looked at her, and as she looked away I sang-
"What if I were Romeo in black jeans-
What if I were Heathcliff, it's no myth-"
(The above lyric used without permission is from Michael Penn's "No Myth", a criminally underrated song from 1989. The video is included below for your amusement.)
For Johnna
I had to time it just right, starting the song just as she started up the hill, so I'd be singing the right part when she got up to me. I was playing acoustic guitar, trying to stay in practice before I had to go do my grownup work. I didn't know her name, only the swinging rhythm of her walk, her caramel skin and long black hair. I looked at her, and as she looked away I sang-
"What if I were Romeo in black jeans-
What if I were Heathcliff, it's no myth-"
(The above lyric used without permission is from Michael Penn's "No Myth", a criminally underrated song from 1989. The video is included below for your amusement.)
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Indie Ink Writing Challenge: Say Hello To Heaven
The Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week comes to me from wondrous Wendryn, who asks me to write about cooking something I love. Stereotype alert: I am both a terrible cook and awfully immature about what I eat. (Among other things!) If it were up to me, I'd have the same meal three times a day, and it would most likely be something nutirionally horrifying. (I have long maintained, and continue to do so, that if I were not married, I would be dead of cholesterol poisoning by now.)
So, that being said, here it is. It is yet another extract from my novel in progress, as yet untitled, which is a sequel to a novel no longer in progress, available for sale in this very sidebar, if you are so inclined.
For the unitiated, Kate is 3. The narrator is Ray, who has wound up, through a series of events described in the first book (available at a low low price right over to the right there), becoming one of Kate's primary caretakers. Mom Mom is Kate's grandmother, Ange (Angela) is Kate's aunt, and Wendy is Kate's mother.
(Amy got my challenge.)
I call this "Say Hello To Heaven".
"Can I watch TV?"
"Sure, kiddo," I said. Her mind, as creative as it was, sometimes seemed like a box with three raisins in it. She could hold onto a thought, but she was ever willing to exchange it for a more exciting or newer concept. PBS was showing Sesame Street, which amused her enough for me to get dinner started. As my apartment evolved into Kate's half home, I had learned to keep certain provisions close at hand- acetaminophen, band aids, juice, white bread, American cheese, frozen chicken nuggets.
"What do you want for dinner, Kate?" I waited for the words to settle through the TV haze. Like any kid, she went into another world when the idiot box was on. She didn't respond for a beat, so I went with choices. "Mac and cheese or grilled cheese, baby?"
"Grilled cheese, please?" That got through.
I started the oven. As a sop to a balanced diet, I was going to serve her chicken nuggets, too. That would start a little fight, but I was prepared for it. Kate was a monochromatic eater- she wanted one thing and one thing only on her plate. I admired the purity of her feelings. The empty old oven made little bangs and pops, as I imagined the metal changing shape very slightly as the heat built up. I took out a baking sheet, one of Mom Mom's old ones, and got out the bag of nuggets from the freezer. They were animal shapes, and I tried not to think about documentaries I've seen about how these little beauties are put together. I tore the bag open and spread the nuggets out amongst the ice shavings and bits and pieces of breading that came out.
"Unca Ray?" Kate had walked over to watch me.
"Yes, love?"
"Don't want chicken."
"I know, Kate. But we have to eat a balanced diet. We can't always have the same thing."
"But I like same thing." I couldn't argue with that logic.
"I know. But if we want you to grow up big and strong like your Auntie, you need to eat lots of things. Not just one thing."
"Don't like chicken."
"Now, Kate, I've seen you eat chicken a dozen times. You do like chicken."
"I don't." She frowned slightly and walked back to the TV. That move reminded me of her mother, the wounded retreat, but always getting in the last word. The chicken in the oven and the timer set, I turned my attention to grilled cheese. I had made grilled cheese since I was 12 years old, but there was a method to making it the way Kate wanted, which Mom Mom had dutifully showed me. She didn't like any of the characteristic brownness of a grilled cheese sandwich- Kate would pronounce that "burned" and refuse to eat it. She could show her mother's stubbornness when pressed, too.
I got out the equipment- battered frying pan (another refugee from Mom Mom's kitchen, blackened from long ago hamburgers), tub of butter, American cheese, and plain white bread. Simple, straightforward, pure. I let the pan heat up, and then added the first buttered slice of bread. There was something musical about the sizzle of butter on a hot frying pan. It promised that good things were about to happen. I built the sandwich quickly on top of the sizzling slice, cheese and then an opposite slice of buttered bread. It burbled away happily.
Kate stopped singing along with the television and marched over, watching me cook again.
"You not gonna burn it?"
"No, baby, Mom Mom taught me."
She seemed to think about that for a moment. "Ava said she's going to have a little baby sister soon." No segue, just another thought popping into place. Wheels were turning. I could see the thoughts working their way across her pensive face. "I wish I could have a little sister, too."
The sandwich was reaching its critical point. You had to let it get soft, but not to the point the butter would turn golden brown. I tried flipping it, smiling inwardly as I noted the moist whiteness of the bread. Not a hint of brownness. Perfect.
I held my voice in the steady, slightly cheerful tone I tried to always maintain with her. "I wish you could, too."
She didn't know how much I wished that. I missed her mother every day, someone who had lurked around my periphery, then entered my life suddenly, turning it inside out and disrupting it gloriously, then leaving, violently, as abruptly as she arrived. I had Kate, of course, and that was a million blessings. But to not be able to share it with Wendy was a constant dagger of regret sticking out of my back. As great as Joe DiMaggio was, he wasn't Babe Ruth- as special as Kate was, it wasn't the same as having her mother here.
The sandwich was done, and I slid it off, checking the bottom for brownness, and onto a plastic plate with a cheerful looking whale on it. She was back in front of the TV again. I wondered if she was going to continue along this line of questioning, or if I had satisfied her with that non answer. The nuggets were done, so I slid them out and added six to her plate. I knew she would only eat four, but I was optimistic. I quickly made another sandwich, properly browning each side and adding tomato slices from last night's takeout salad leftovers. Once I added the rest of the nuggets onto my side, our plates were complete. I added a circle of ketchup on Kate's, without being asked. Sometimes you just know.
I set the plates on the table, adding a glass of water for me and another juice box for her, and then came up behind her. Baby Bear, one of the more cloying Sesame Street characters, was in bed, being talked to soothingly by Mama and Papa Bear. I heard a sound effect clap of thunder, and sussed out that Baby Bear was frightened of the storm on Sesame Street. Kate was looking on, rapt. I watched the light from the screen reflect on her face, and she reminded me of her mother so much at times like this it felt like I would break.
"Unca Ray?" she said when the sketch ended.
"Yes?"
"Where's heaven?"
"Say that again?" Theology?, I thought, panicking.
"Mom Mom said my Mommy's in heaven. Where is heaven?"
Holy moly.
"Heaven? Well, nobody knows where it is, baby. I know it's safe there, and I know your Mommy can see us. I know she's watching you, because she used to talk about you all the time." I felt my voice breaking on the shoals of that sentence, and I steeled myself to continue. It was true- we had long conversations about proto-Kate, worrying about clothes and food and how life would change for all of us.
"Oh," she said softly. "Is dinner ready?" She could smell the cheese sandwiches, the smell of fat and bread, satisfaction and care. The apartment smelled like family.
"Yes, baby." Subject change, I thought jubilantly.
"Unca Ray, I'm not a baby."
"I know."
We sat down over the cooling plates.
"You make good dinner, Unca Ray."
"Thanks, kiddo." I felt satisfied, competent. We ate quietly, both of us missing Wendy in our own private way. Like any parent, I hoped I was doing the right thing, wound up, and threw the pitch, hoping for the best.
So, that being said, here it is. It is yet another extract from my novel in progress, as yet untitled, which is a sequel to a novel no longer in progress, available for sale in this very sidebar, if you are so inclined.
For the unitiated, Kate is 3. The narrator is Ray, who has wound up, through a series of events described in the first book (available at a low low price right over to the right there), becoming one of Kate's primary caretakers. Mom Mom is Kate's grandmother, Ange (Angela) is Kate's aunt, and Wendy is Kate's mother.
(Amy got my challenge.)
I call this "Say Hello To Heaven".
"Can I watch TV?"
"Sure, kiddo," I said. Her mind, as creative as it was, sometimes seemed like a box with three raisins in it. She could hold onto a thought, but she was ever willing to exchange it for a more exciting or newer concept. PBS was showing Sesame Street, which amused her enough for me to get dinner started. As my apartment evolved into Kate's half home, I had learned to keep certain provisions close at hand- acetaminophen, band aids, juice, white bread, American cheese, frozen chicken nuggets.
"What do you want for dinner, Kate?" I waited for the words to settle through the TV haze. Like any kid, she went into another world when the idiot box was on. She didn't respond for a beat, so I went with choices. "Mac and cheese or grilled cheese, baby?"
"Grilled cheese, please?" That got through.
I started the oven. As a sop to a balanced diet, I was going to serve her chicken nuggets, too. That would start a little fight, but I was prepared for it. Kate was a monochromatic eater- she wanted one thing and one thing only on her plate. I admired the purity of her feelings. The empty old oven made little bangs and pops, as I imagined the metal changing shape very slightly as the heat built up. I took out a baking sheet, one of Mom Mom's old ones, and got out the bag of nuggets from the freezer. They were animal shapes, and I tried not to think about documentaries I've seen about how these little beauties are put together. I tore the bag open and spread the nuggets out amongst the ice shavings and bits and pieces of breading that came out.
"Unca Ray?" Kate had walked over to watch me.
"Yes, love?"
"Don't want chicken."
"I know, Kate. But we have to eat a balanced diet. We can't always have the same thing."
"But I like same thing." I couldn't argue with that logic.
"I know. But if we want you to grow up big and strong like your Auntie, you need to eat lots of things. Not just one thing."
"Don't like chicken."
"Now, Kate, I've seen you eat chicken a dozen times. You do like chicken."
"I don't." She frowned slightly and walked back to the TV. That move reminded me of her mother, the wounded retreat, but always getting in the last word. The chicken in the oven and the timer set, I turned my attention to grilled cheese. I had made grilled cheese since I was 12 years old, but there was a method to making it the way Kate wanted, which Mom Mom had dutifully showed me. She didn't like any of the characteristic brownness of a grilled cheese sandwich- Kate would pronounce that "burned" and refuse to eat it. She could show her mother's stubbornness when pressed, too.
I got out the equipment- battered frying pan (another refugee from Mom Mom's kitchen, blackened from long ago hamburgers), tub of butter, American cheese, and plain white bread. Simple, straightforward, pure. I let the pan heat up, and then added the first buttered slice of bread. There was something musical about the sizzle of butter on a hot frying pan. It promised that good things were about to happen. I built the sandwich quickly on top of the sizzling slice, cheese and then an opposite slice of buttered bread. It burbled away happily.
Kate stopped singing along with the television and marched over, watching me cook again.
"You not gonna burn it?"
"No, baby, Mom Mom taught me."
She seemed to think about that for a moment. "Ava said she's going to have a little baby sister soon." No segue, just another thought popping into place. Wheels were turning. I could see the thoughts working their way across her pensive face. "I wish I could have a little sister, too."
The sandwich was reaching its critical point. You had to let it get soft, but not to the point the butter would turn golden brown. I tried flipping it, smiling inwardly as I noted the moist whiteness of the bread. Not a hint of brownness. Perfect.
I held my voice in the steady, slightly cheerful tone I tried to always maintain with her. "I wish you could, too."
She didn't know how much I wished that. I missed her mother every day, someone who had lurked around my periphery, then entered my life suddenly, turning it inside out and disrupting it gloriously, then leaving, violently, as abruptly as she arrived. I had Kate, of course, and that was a million blessings. But to not be able to share it with Wendy was a constant dagger of regret sticking out of my back. As great as Joe DiMaggio was, he wasn't Babe Ruth- as special as Kate was, it wasn't the same as having her mother here.
The sandwich was done, and I slid it off, checking the bottom for brownness, and onto a plastic plate with a cheerful looking whale on it. She was back in front of the TV again. I wondered if she was going to continue along this line of questioning, or if I had satisfied her with that non answer. The nuggets were done, so I slid them out and added six to her plate. I knew she would only eat four, but I was optimistic. I quickly made another sandwich, properly browning each side and adding tomato slices from last night's takeout salad leftovers. Once I added the rest of the nuggets onto my side, our plates were complete. I added a circle of ketchup on Kate's, without being asked. Sometimes you just know.
I set the plates on the table, adding a glass of water for me and another juice box for her, and then came up behind her. Baby Bear, one of the more cloying Sesame Street characters, was in bed, being talked to soothingly by Mama and Papa Bear. I heard a sound effect clap of thunder, and sussed out that Baby Bear was frightened of the storm on Sesame Street. Kate was looking on, rapt. I watched the light from the screen reflect on her face, and she reminded me of her mother so much at times like this it felt like I would break.
"Unca Ray?" she said when the sketch ended.
"Yes?"
"Where's heaven?"
"Say that again?" Theology?, I thought, panicking.
"Mom Mom said my Mommy's in heaven. Where is heaven?"
Holy moly.
"Heaven? Well, nobody knows where it is, baby. I know it's safe there, and I know your Mommy can see us. I know she's watching you, because she used to talk about you all the time." I felt my voice breaking on the shoals of that sentence, and I steeled myself to continue. It was true- we had long conversations about proto-Kate, worrying about clothes and food and how life would change for all of us.
"Oh," she said softly. "Is dinner ready?" She could smell the cheese sandwiches, the smell of fat and bread, satisfaction and care. The apartment smelled like family.
"Yes, baby." Subject change, I thought jubilantly.
"Unca Ray, I'm not a baby."
"I know."
We sat down over the cooling plates.
"You make good dinner, Unca Ray."
"Thanks, kiddo." I felt satisfied, competent. We ate quietly, both of us missing Wendy in our own private way. Like any parent, I hoped I was doing the right thing, wound up, and threw the pitch, hoping for the best.
Further Remission
I would be further remiss if I did not note that Michael Week, a shocking omission from the nightly news last night, continues with Matt Potter's publication of a second story of mine, "Nugget".
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Remiss
I would be remiss if I did not point out that the inordinately generous Matt Potter has seen fit to publish a story of mine, $534.67, at his marvelous "Pure Slush" site.
I would also like to add that my two blogs that no one was reading, my baseball blog "Trautwein and Cheese" and my political blog "A Minority of One", are pretty much shutting down until further notice. I decided it is better if I mismanage one blog instead of three.
I would also like to add that my two blogs that no one was reading, my baseball blog "Trautwein and Cheese" and my political blog "A Minority of One", are pretty much shutting down until further notice. I decided it is better if I mismanage one blog instead of three.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Terrible Minds Challenge: "My Slowpocalypse"
Chuck Wendig, aside from being a jack of all trades and a master, well.... of some of them, regularly posts flash fiction challenges when he isn't busy wiping butts (or changing his infant son's diaper). This week's challenge is to write about an apocalypse, but to write about it in a new and different way- a way that hasn't been covered a million other times. I'm not sure how close I got, but here it is, anyway: "My Slowpocalypse"
I had to assume it happened for me the same way it happened for everyone else. You have to assume that about everything. You can never know if Kobe Bryant feels the way you do when he swishes a 20 footer, or if Phil Mickelson feels the same as you do when he knocks a 5 iron within inches of the flag. You can't know if your wife's headache is worse than yours, or if your kidney stone hurts worse than her experience of childbirth. You can't know how anyone feels about anything.
But I can assume, pretty safely, that everyone is pretty miserable at the moment.
It started, as you might expect, with the very fastest among us- people who had to make split second decisions. Elite athletes, race car drivers, pilots, all suddenly found their honed reflexes off by just enough to cause disaster. The first story I heard on the news was of a crash at JFK- an absolutely normal flight from London, due to get in early on an ordinary Wednesday, suddenly does a face plant into the ground at 100+ mph. From there, the news multiplies, a total of 34 crashes worldwide within 30 minutes before panicked authorities close the skies. At a Formula One practice lap outside of Calais, France, a driver with 23 years experience suddenly misses a turn, plowing into a safety barrier without warning. In Philadelphia, a Mets-Phillies game is cancelled when pitchers can no longer even lob the ball over home plate.
The Internet is alive with speculation- it's a chemical weapons attack, it's a vision destroying virus. Rumor follows upon speculation, officials urging calm while citizens show anything but, raiding the grocery stores and sending markets gyrating wildly. Every TV channel has its own experts, who were holding forth on contrails, and ultraviolet radiation, and time warps, and whatever theory they could cook up on such short notice.
As the chaos continued, the answer emerged, as so many things do, from YouTube. A 14 year old kid calling himself "clarkgriswold" played a video of himself, one month ago, racking up a high score on "Guitar Hero". He then cued up the same song again, "My Apocalypse", and the viewer could then hear the atonal beeps and snorts as the game proceeded to register his inability to mash the colored buttons in time with the music. "I think," the fuzzy lipped Memphis teen said haltingly, "everything is moving at the same speed it always was, except, like, people."
It was the first theory that was easy to grasp and simultaneously explained what was happening. The authorities met it with derision and disdain, until first one scientist, then another, began running simple tests against known quantities or recorded performances that proved the kid right. YouTube filled with other teens repeating "clarkgriswold"s work, just as the traffic accidents began to pile up, thousands dead before authorities closed the roads and only police vehicles were left to slide into ditches, unseen and with noone coming to their aid.
I turned off the TV about that point, unwilling to watch and listen to the spreading chaos, and it wasn't long after that when the power went out. I assumed some tiny adjustment- shifting burden from one system to another, or regulating load on one part of the city versus another, had gone awry, and the slowed reactions of the human who was supposed to catch the error couldn't move quick enough. I started to notice it in my own movements, too- my brain would tell me to get out of the chair, and a minute later, I would rise. It didn't feel any different, it was just that every motion, every effort I made was suddenly, impossibly, exponentially harder. You adapted subtly- you know you can't do something, so you stop trying.
It was oddly quiet- the power was never restored, and my neighbors, similarly afflicted, could do nothing to make noise. You would hear the occasional crash, as someone made their way to a car and tried to drive, only to find out that their dull senses couldn't negotiate even the slightest curve. Sometimes you could hear someone screaming, or the crackling of another building consumed by fire. First the bathroom became too far, and then the kitchen. I started fading in and out of consciousness, too tired to do anything but endlessly breathe.
As I sat there, everything collapsing around me, I was thinking about my high school chemistry teacher, Mr. Turner. He used to talk about all sorts of things that weren't on the syllabus, and one of the things he used to quote to us was from an old movie, "Ferris Bueller's Day Off". "Life moves pretty fast," he used to say, "if you don't stop and look around once in a while, you might miss it."
I had to assume it happened for me the same way it happened for everyone else. You have to assume that about everything. You can never know if Kobe Bryant feels the way you do when he swishes a 20 footer, or if Phil Mickelson feels the same as you do when he knocks a 5 iron within inches of the flag. You can't know if your wife's headache is worse than yours, or if your kidney stone hurts worse than her experience of childbirth. You can't know how anyone feels about anything.
But I can assume, pretty safely, that everyone is pretty miserable at the moment.
It started, as you might expect, with the very fastest among us- people who had to make split second decisions. Elite athletes, race car drivers, pilots, all suddenly found their honed reflexes off by just enough to cause disaster. The first story I heard on the news was of a crash at JFK- an absolutely normal flight from London, due to get in early on an ordinary Wednesday, suddenly does a face plant into the ground at 100+ mph. From there, the news multiplies, a total of 34 crashes worldwide within 30 minutes before panicked authorities close the skies. At a Formula One practice lap outside of Calais, France, a driver with 23 years experience suddenly misses a turn, plowing into a safety barrier without warning. In Philadelphia, a Mets-Phillies game is cancelled when pitchers can no longer even lob the ball over home plate.
The Internet is alive with speculation- it's a chemical weapons attack, it's a vision destroying virus. Rumor follows upon speculation, officials urging calm while citizens show anything but, raiding the grocery stores and sending markets gyrating wildly. Every TV channel has its own experts, who were holding forth on contrails, and ultraviolet radiation, and time warps, and whatever theory they could cook up on such short notice.
As the chaos continued, the answer emerged, as so many things do, from YouTube. A 14 year old kid calling himself "clarkgriswold" played a video of himself, one month ago, racking up a high score on "Guitar Hero". He then cued up the same song again, "My Apocalypse", and the viewer could then hear the atonal beeps and snorts as the game proceeded to register his inability to mash the colored buttons in time with the music. "I think," the fuzzy lipped Memphis teen said haltingly, "everything is moving at the same speed it always was, except, like, people."
It was the first theory that was easy to grasp and simultaneously explained what was happening. The authorities met it with derision and disdain, until first one scientist, then another, began running simple tests against known quantities or recorded performances that proved the kid right. YouTube filled with other teens repeating "clarkgriswold"s work, just as the traffic accidents began to pile up, thousands dead before authorities closed the roads and only police vehicles were left to slide into ditches, unseen and with noone coming to their aid.
I turned off the TV about that point, unwilling to watch and listen to the spreading chaos, and it wasn't long after that when the power went out. I assumed some tiny adjustment- shifting burden from one system to another, or regulating load on one part of the city versus another, had gone awry, and the slowed reactions of the human who was supposed to catch the error couldn't move quick enough. I started to notice it in my own movements, too- my brain would tell me to get out of the chair, and a minute later, I would rise. It didn't feel any different, it was just that every motion, every effort I made was suddenly, impossibly, exponentially harder. You adapted subtly- you know you can't do something, so you stop trying.
It was oddly quiet- the power was never restored, and my neighbors, similarly afflicted, could do nothing to make noise. You would hear the occasional crash, as someone made their way to a car and tried to drive, only to find out that their dull senses couldn't negotiate even the slightest curve. Sometimes you could hear someone screaming, or the crackling of another building consumed by fire. First the bathroom became too far, and then the kitchen. I started fading in and out of consciousness, too tired to do anything but endlessly breathe.
As I sat there, everything collapsing around me, I was thinking about my high school chemistry teacher, Mr. Turner. He used to talk about all sorts of things that weren't on the syllabus, and one of the things he used to quote to us was from an old movie, "Ferris Bueller's Day Off". "Life moves pretty fast," he used to say, "if you don't stop and look around once in a while, you might miss it."
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