Mark zipped up his jacket against the chill air as he stepped outside the apartment he shared with his twin. The air smelled crisp, as if you could bite into it like a perfectly ripe apple. There was a clean quality to the light, as if undiffused by any atmosphere. The leaves on the old maple in the yard were turning red, and others along the street were various shades of orange and yellow. At the end of the block, the street dead-ended into a corn field, half of the stalks still stood tall, burdened with the heavy ears, the other half of the field was stubble, large machined rumbling up and down the rows, sheering off the corn at the base.
Mark whistled random tunes as he walked down the street, heading toward the military base. It was a good five miles away, but he didn't mind. Autumn was the perfect time of year, and he was going to enjoy every second he could.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Springtime in Calgary
Springtime in Calgary was sharply cold first thing in the morning, and Dan could see puffs of his own breath in the air as he jogged down the icy sidewalk. The snow melted periodically, and then refroze into its own deathtrap, the last vestiges of winter clinging to the ankles of humanity and trying to throw people into the gutter.
Dan tilted his head up as he jogged and smiled when he saw new small green leaves slowly uncurling on the boughs overhead. He couldn’t wait until the blossoms arrived, because then he could pause by the wayside and gather wildflowers to take home to Joey. Joey, who was still asleep, curled around Dan’s pillow and snoring like a freight train.
These days Dan liked to get up early and run, get his homework done before he headed down to the police station for his shift as morning dispatcher. Joey preferred the laziness of summer, but somehow Dan had grown into the chipperness of spring, and besides, this spring meant spring semester, his final one before he was a proud purveyor of a criminal justice degree and could apply at the police academy.
Dan hummed along to the tune of a bird’s song, automatically kicking his voice into a harmony as he headed toward the end of the block. Scott, drunk off his rocker, had laughed himself senseless when Dan called to tell him of his master plan to become a police officer, to protect and serve, but Bob, winter-pale and frail in his hospital bed had been smiling and supportive of, well, everything.
Dan paused at the corner to wait for the light to change and tipped his head back, felt the first real warmth of the spring sun on his face. He liked spring because everything was new, and this year, he was going to be a new man. On campus, no one looked twice at him anymore, and in his spiffy dispatcher’s uniform no one thought he might be the keyboard player from Four Times Summer. He was just Dan Summers, student and part-time dispatcher, and he loved it.
(354 words - I've actually never been to Calgary and have no idea what it's like in spring, but in my head, Canada is abominably cold compared to where I've lived in the States)
Dan tilted his head up as he jogged and smiled when he saw new small green leaves slowly uncurling on the boughs overhead. He couldn’t wait until the blossoms arrived, because then he could pause by the wayside and gather wildflowers to take home to Joey. Joey, who was still asleep, curled around Dan’s pillow and snoring like a freight train.
These days Dan liked to get up early and run, get his homework done before he headed down to the police station for his shift as morning dispatcher. Joey preferred the laziness of summer, but somehow Dan had grown into the chipperness of spring, and besides, this spring meant spring semester, his final one before he was a proud purveyor of a criminal justice degree and could apply at the police academy.
Dan hummed along to the tune of a bird’s song, automatically kicking his voice into a harmony as he headed toward the end of the block. Scott, drunk off his rocker, had laughed himself senseless when Dan called to tell him of his master plan to become a police officer, to protect and serve, but Bob, winter-pale and frail in his hospital bed had been smiling and supportive of, well, everything.
Dan paused at the corner to wait for the light to change and tipped his head back, felt the first real warmth of the spring sun on his face. He liked spring because everything was new, and this year, he was going to be a new man. On campus, no one looked twice at him anymore, and in his spiffy dispatcher’s uniform no one thought he might be the keyboard player from Four Times Summer. He was just Dan Summers, student and part-time dispatcher, and he loved it.
(354 words - I've actually never been to Calgary and have no idea what it's like in spring, but in my head, Canada is abominably cold compared to where I've lived in the States)
Monday, July 27, 2009
Spring Run
Bryan like spring the best. All through the Winter he always felt lethargic. He knew it was jut in his mind, but when the days started getting longer, he couldn't help feeling lighter, more active.
Bryan stepped outside, it was early morning, a chill nip in the air lingering until the sun came fully over the horizon. Yawning, he rubbed his arms briskly, and started stretching. Left, right, forward, he limbered up his limbs, shaking the fatigue from his body. Popping his neck and swinging his arms in front of him, Bryan began to jog down the street, setting a steady pace, breathing slow and constant, heart pumping out a regular rhythm.
Bryan's shoes echoed softly, the quiet thump-thump-thump of his pace almost drowned out by the call of the morning birds, the gentle warming breeze rustling the trees.
The air was saturated with the smell of tulips and other spring time flowers as Bryan slowed, cresting a hill. Looking down into a softly sloping valley Bryan could see the new growth on the trees, it was one of his favorite spots.
Bryan walked slowly down the hill, enjoying everything and welcoming life back to the world.
Bryan stepped outside, it was early morning, a chill nip in the air lingering until the sun came fully over the horizon. Yawning, he rubbed his arms briskly, and started stretching. Left, right, forward, he limbered up his limbs, shaking the fatigue from his body. Popping his neck and swinging his arms in front of him, Bryan began to jog down the street, setting a steady pace, breathing slow and constant, heart pumping out a regular rhythm.
Bryan's shoes echoed softly, the quiet thump-thump-thump of his pace almost drowned out by the call of the morning birds, the gentle warming breeze rustling the trees.
The air was saturated with the smell of tulips and other spring time flowers as Bryan slowed, cresting a hill. Looking down into a softly sloping valley Bryan could see the new growth on the trees, it was one of his favorite spots.
Bryan walked slowly down the hill, enjoying everything and welcoming life back to the world.
Winterscape
It hadn’t been an easy decision to call it quits. Scott could still see Dan’s broken-hearted expression whenever he closed his eyes, but it had to be done. Dad still wasn’t talking to Dan, and Clay was helping Dan sneak his stuff out in the middle of the night so Dan could move in with Joey.
The answer was to escape. Escape long and hard. White Horse was the obvious answer, an endless winterscape where he could hide from the sun. Scott moved out just after Christmas - which hadn’t been much of a Christmas, with Bob in the hospital and half of the family not talking to each other.
Scott couldn’t remember White Horse at all, just knew that he’d been born there. He had a plan, and it was a solid one, and it involved being as drunk as possible for as long as possible. A season - he’d give himself one season, and then it would be done.
The house was small and ramshackle and in desperate need of fixing up, but Scott didn’t care. He had a week’s worth of clothes and a lumpy old mattress and his guitar, and he surfaced one day a week to do laundry and clean while he was hung over. Sometimes there were girls, sometimes the girls were just in his dreams.
He woke up half-frozen on the porch more than a couple of times, tear-tracks frozen on his skin and his vodka pleasantly icy.
After the first month he started finding scraps of paper and bottle labels with lyrics and chords scribbled on them, songs he didn’t remember but that resonated pleasantly in the back of his skull when he tried them out.
By the second month he was sober during what few daylight hours glinted off the pale snow, writing feverishly. He cobbled together an old laptop and some recording equipment. A message posted on a board online netted him sound samples and random instruments, but he still spent his moonlight hours wasted, in the arms of the green fairy.
By the end of the third month, the days were getting longer, and his hangovers were jump-started by the cheerful chirping of a bird.
His season was up.
The answer was to escape. Escape long and hard. White Horse was the obvious answer, an endless winterscape where he could hide from the sun. Scott moved out just after Christmas - which hadn’t been much of a Christmas, with Bob in the hospital and half of the family not talking to each other.
Scott couldn’t remember White Horse at all, just knew that he’d been born there. He had a plan, and it was a solid one, and it involved being as drunk as possible for as long as possible. A season - he’d give himself one season, and then it would be done.
The house was small and ramshackle and in desperate need of fixing up, but Scott didn’t care. He had a week’s worth of clothes and a lumpy old mattress and his guitar, and he surfaced one day a week to do laundry and clean while he was hung over. Sometimes there were girls, sometimes the girls were just in his dreams.
He woke up half-frozen on the porch more than a couple of times, tear-tracks frozen on his skin and his vodka pleasantly icy.
After the first month he started finding scraps of paper and bottle labels with lyrics and chords scribbled on them, songs he didn’t remember but that resonated pleasantly in the back of his skull when he tried them out.
By the second month he was sober during what few daylight hours glinted off the pale snow, writing feverishly. He cobbled together an old laptop and some recording equipment. A message posted on a board online netted him sound samples and random instruments, but he still spent his moonlight hours wasted, in the arms of the green fairy.
By the end of the third month, the days were getting longer, and his hangovers were jump-started by the cheerful chirping of a bird.
His season was up.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Overview #36: On Death and Dying
This challenge was fun. And I'll admit - it was also sort of an excuse to work a decent plot-line on Bob. There were honestly a couple of different ways I could go with this, since I could've gone for grieving Carolyn, but I didn't think a break-up really warranted the stages of grief. I wasn't sure that, given how shiny and treatable leukemia is these days, Bob's situation really warranted all the stages of grief, but I also remember being a teenager and blowing things out of proportion, and also, treatable or not, there are no guarantees with something like cancer. Also, I needed a good reason for Bob to put Carolyn on the back burner despite how much he loves her.
Still, it was interesting, focusing on a specific emotion and doing what I could with it, and it gave me a chance to explore characters further, and not just Bob's.
Still, it was interesting, focusing on a specific emotion and doing what I could with it, and it gave me a chance to explore characters further, and not just Bob's.
Project # 37: Changing of the Seasons
Take your characters through a change of seasons. It could be that Bob has always loved winter because he can cuddle with Carolyn more, or Scott likes summer because he can go about without a shirt on. You can use this to represent a change in the character themselves, the changing of one season to the next. It could be simply an observed process, or maybe one of your characters has spring allergies.
Have fun.
Have fun.
Overview #36: On Death and Dying
Okay. I did get them all written this week. Most of them were weak, but I got my word count in. I figured that Joe needed some love. he kinds gets left out a lot. But when I do use him, he gets abused.
I did like Nagi's suggestion of him turning warrior to priest even though this bit takes place long before he joins the military.
I think I found it tougher to write some of the stages of grief, because I don't grieve myself in that manner. But it was a good exercise in that I had to deal with a character that would pass through those stages.
I did like Nagi's suggestion of him turning warrior to priest even though this bit takes place long before he joins the military.
I think I found it tougher to write some of the stages of grief, because I don't grieve myself in that manner. But it was a good exercise in that I had to deal with a character that would pass through those stages.
Goodbyes
"You know Alec, we always had such a great time together. I wish it could have gone on forever," Joe leaned over the edge of his brothers bed, holding his hand. "I'm not sure what I'll do without you Superman. I guess now is the time to find out. I don't know if you are still here, if you can here or understand what I am saying to you; but I don't want you chained to a body that would be dead without these machines. I guess it's time to let you go. Time to stand on my own two feet. Will you be with me Alec? Will you look after me in whatever form you are in now?" Joe ignored the people who were coming in and out of the room.
Joe stood up eventually, he had said all he needed to, given his last goodbye. He could feel Jen somewhere in the room, but ignored her as well. Joe turned one last time at the door, taking in his brother, remembering him as he really was, not swathed in medical equipment, but the free, laughing, smiling youth. The boy-man with the bright green eyes, and dark hair. The one riding down the street on his motorcycle, the one doing magic tricks, the one teaching Joe to fight.
"I love you Alec."
Joe stood up eventually, he had said all he needed to, given his last goodbye. He could feel Jen somewhere in the room, but ignored her as well. Joe turned one last time at the door, taking in his brother, remembering him as he really was, not swathed in medical equipment, but the free, laughing, smiling youth. The boy-man with the bright green eyes, and dark hair. The one riding down the street on his motorcycle, the one doing magic tricks, the one teaching Joe to fight.
"I love you Alec."
460,000
"Joseph?" came the hesitant voice of Jen from the doorway.
"Go away," Joe said. He sounded tired, miserable.
"Joe, is there anything I can do for you?" Jen asked, edging into the room. Joe was defiantly calmer than he was before.
"Not unless you can wake him up. Not unless you can undo what has been done," Joe said, not bothering to look up. He felt rather than saw her shake her head.
Joe drew in a shuddering breath, "I guess it doesn't really matter. I guess in my heart of hearts, I knew it could never last. Alec was the best brother anyone could have asked for. And he is slipping away. Nothing I can do could bring him back, so why bother. I am sure you have other patients to see to, other people you can help. It makes no sense for you to waste your time on us," Joe finished quietly. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes.
He felt Jen still hovering in the door. Watching him. "You know, I have counted four hundred and sixty thousand breaths that that machine has pumped into his body. Nothing helps. I have seen those fluid bags changed fifty times. Nothing helps," Joe said.
"Nothing."
"Go away," Joe said. He sounded tired, miserable.
"Joe, is there anything I can do for you?" Jen asked, edging into the room. Joe was defiantly calmer than he was before.
"Not unless you can wake him up. Not unless you can undo what has been done," Joe said, not bothering to look up. He felt rather than saw her shake her head.
Joe drew in a shuddering breath, "I guess it doesn't really matter. I guess in my heart of hearts, I knew it could never last. Alec was the best brother anyone could have asked for. And he is slipping away. Nothing I can do could bring him back, so why bother. I am sure you have other patients to see to, other people you can help. It makes no sense for you to waste your time on us," Joe finished quietly. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes.
He felt Jen still hovering in the door. Watching him. "You know, I have counted four hundred and sixty thousand breaths that that machine has pumped into his body. Nothing helps. I have seen those fluid bags changed fifty times. Nothing helps," Joe said.
"Nothing."
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Back On My Feet
“I have to say, this was really a treat, and not just because I was once a screaming sixteen-year-old girl.” The reporter smiled and brandished her tape recorder.
Scott shrugged. “It’s Christmas, the concert is for a good cause, and the four of us were all in the country at the same time.”
“Well, you guys sound better than ever. Any plans for a new album?” the reporter asked.
The four of them exchanged looks, and then Clay said, “Probably not. I mean, we’ll always make music with each other, but at this point our tastes and styles are pretty divergent. Scott has a good thing going with the grassroots vibe, and I don’t think he wants us crawling all over his studio.”
“You got that right,” Scott said, and punched Clay in the shoulder lightly.
The reporter’s eyes gleamed. “So, are the rumors true?”
“No, I’m not secretly an undercover agent for the Mounties,” Scott said promptly, and the other three laughed.
“There was a rumor going around a couple of years ago that you split because Dan came out to your father,” the reporter said.
The mirth faded, and the brothers looked at each other. Something silent passed between them, and then Bob spoke.
“Dad wasn’t too happy about Dan and Joey, but that’s not why we stopped touring and recording. It was my fault, actually.”
Clay flinched. “Man, don’t say that.”
The reporter leaned in closer; she could smell a good story.
“Remember when I cut my hair midway through the Just Another Phase promo stuff?” Bob asked.
The reporter nodded. “Definitely. The fans were devastated.”
“Well, I cut my hair because I was starting chemotherapy.”
The reporter’s expression was priceless.
“I wasn’t sure if I was going to lose my hair, and I figured if I buzzed it and then just shaved it all off, no one would notice. I had leukemia - it’s in remission now, and Clay donated some bone marrow for the cause, but once the chemo hit I just didn’t have the energy to tour.” Bob shrugged. “That’s the truth of it, I guess.”
“Leukemia?” The reporter searched for words. “Why didn’t you tell the fans?”
Bob laughed, a little self-consciously. “Well, I was miserable company for a while there. I mean, I was surprised that the fans hadn’t noticed I barely said a word during interviews and barely smiled. Given how horrible I was to my brothers, I felt no need to spread the misery, and besides, the doctors said I had a really good chance of beating it, especially with Clay hanging around, so I didn’t want to make more of a fuss than necessary.”
“But you’re all better now?”
“Yeah. It’s been in remission for a while now, and I’m getting back on my feet.” Bob smiled, and around him, his brothers smiled as well.
Someone’s cellphone buzzed, and Scott jumped. “Sorry - sounds like they want us on the next stage.”
The reporter nodded, still looked dazed.
Scott shrugged. “It’s Christmas, the concert is for a good cause, and the four of us were all in the country at the same time.”
“Well, you guys sound better than ever. Any plans for a new album?” the reporter asked.
The four of them exchanged looks, and then Clay said, “Probably not. I mean, we’ll always make music with each other, but at this point our tastes and styles are pretty divergent. Scott has a good thing going with the grassroots vibe, and I don’t think he wants us crawling all over his studio.”
“You got that right,” Scott said, and punched Clay in the shoulder lightly.
The reporter’s eyes gleamed. “So, are the rumors true?”
“No, I’m not secretly an undercover agent for the Mounties,” Scott said promptly, and the other three laughed.
“There was a rumor going around a couple of years ago that you split because Dan came out to your father,” the reporter said.
The mirth faded, and the brothers looked at each other. Something silent passed between them, and then Bob spoke.
“Dad wasn’t too happy about Dan and Joey, but that’s not why we stopped touring and recording. It was my fault, actually.”
Clay flinched. “Man, don’t say that.”
The reporter leaned in closer; she could smell a good story.
“Remember when I cut my hair midway through the Just Another Phase promo stuff?” Bob asked.
The reporter nodded. “Definitely. The fans were devastated.”
“Well, I cut my hair because I was starting chemotherapy.”
The reporter’s expression was priceless.
“I wasn’t sure if I was going to lose my hair, and I figured if I buzzed it and then just shaved it all off, no one would notice. I had leukemia - it’s in remission now, and Clay donated some bone marrow for the cause, but once the chemo hit I just didn’t have the energy to tour.” Bob shrugged. “That’s the truth of it, I guess.”
“Leukemia?” The reporter searched for words. “Why didn’t you tell the fans?”
Bob laughed, a little self-consciously. “Well, I was miserable company for a while there. I mean, I was surprised that the fans hadn’t noticed I barely said a word during interviews and barely smiled. Given how horrible I was to my brothers, I felt no need to spread the misery, and besides, the doctors said I had a really good chance of beating it, especially with Clay hanging around, so I didn’t want to make more of a fuss than necessary.”
“But you’re all better now?”
“Yeah. It’s been in remission for a while now, and I’m getting back on my feet.” Bob smiled, and around him, his brothers smiled as well.
Someone’s cellphone buzzed, and Scott jumped. “Sorry - sounds like they want us on the next stage.”
The reporter nodded, still looked dazed.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Make It Through Together
Shelley screamed.
Dan leapt up from his keyboard and dashed up the stairs. He skidded to a halt on the landing in a solid fighting stance. Seconds later, Scott and Clay flanked him, ready to fend off an intruder.
“Uh...hey. Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.” Bob knelt down and began to pick up the laundry that had fallen when Shelley dropped her laundry basket.
“Bob, what did you do?” Shelley cried.
“Shelley, are you all right?” Dan stepped around Shelley to help Bob, and then he recoiled. “Whoa.”
“Whoa what?” Clay peered around Shelley, and then he went still.
“Guys, you’re freaking me out.” Scott joined the huddle around Bob, and his jaw went slack. “Bobby. You - your hair. Why did you cut your hair?”
It was a fairly neat job, buzzed short, shorter than even Clay had worn it during his Wild At Heart days.
Bob straightened up and handed Shelley the refilled laundry basket. “It’s been six weeks of the medicine. I start chemo this week. I figured if I cut it short and I started to lose hair, well...it wouldn’t be so weird.”
Dan blinked. “Oh. You - you’re gonna go forward with the chemo?”
“Yeah.” Bob shoved his hands into his pockets. “I, uh, I know I’ve been...kind of a monster these past few weeks, and - I’m sorry. You all have been really, really great, and I’m sorry I’ve been so self-absorbed.”
“Bob, you’re seventeen years old. All seventeen-year-olds are self-absorbed.” Shelley’s smile was watery.
Bob reached out and pulled her into a hug. “Thanks, Shelley.”
“Dude,” Scott said, “she just insulted you.”
Clay reached out, put a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “So, you’re finally taking me up on my offer?”
“Yeah.” Bob stepped back from Shelley. He ran a hand over his buzzed hair absently. “I am lucky, and not just because we’re twins. I’m lucky because I have all of you. I can make it through this because you’re here with me.”
Clay dragged Bob into a hug. “We are going to make it through this together.”
Dan threw his arms around Bob from the other side.
He laughed. “Hey, guys, I can’t breathe.”
Shelley was openly crying now, and she threw herself into the hug.
Scott said, “I’m not hugging you all.”
Dan caught Scott’s shirt and dragged him forward. “Get in here.”
Dan leapt up from his keyboard and dashed up the stairs. He skidded to a halt on the landing in a solid fighting stance. Seconds later, Scott and Clay flanked him, ready to fend off an intruder.
“Uh...hey. Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.” Bob knelt down and began to pick up the laundry that had fallen when Shelley dropped her laundry basket.
“Bob, what did you do?” Shelley cried.
“Shelley, are you all right?” Dan stepped around Shelley to help Bob, and then he recoiled. “Whoa.”
“Whoa what?” Clay peered around Shelley, and then he went still.
“Guys, you’re freaking me out.” Scott joined the huddle around Bob, and his jaw went slack. “Bobby. You - your hair. Why did you cut your hair?”
It was a fairly neat job, buzzed short, shorter than even Clay had worn it during his Wild At Heart days.
Bob straightened up and handed Shelley the refilled laundry basket. “It’s been six weeks of the medicine. I start chemo this week. I figured if I cut it short and I started to lose hair, well...it wouldn’t be so weird.”
Dan blinked. “Oh. You - you’re gonna go forward with the chemo?”
“Yeah.” Bob shoved his hands into his pockets. “I, uh, I know I’ve been...kind of a monster these past few weeks, and - I’m sorry. You all have been really, really great, and I’m sorry I’ve been so self-absorbed.”
“Bob, you’re seventeen years old. All seventeen-year-olds are self-absorbed.” Shelley’s smile was watery.
Bob reached out and pulled her into a hug. “Thanks, Shelley.”
“Dude,” Scott said, “she just insulted you.”
Clay reached out, put a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “So, you’re finally taking me up on my offer?”
“Yeah.” Bob stepped back from Shelley. He ran a hand over his buzzed hair absently. “I am lucky, and not just because we’re twins. I’m lucky because I have all of you. I can make it through this because you’re here with me.”
Clay dragged Bob into a hug. “We are going to make it through this together.”
Dan threw his arms around Bob from the other side.
He laughed. “Hey, guys, I can’t breathe.”
Shelley was openly crying now, and she threw herself into the hug.
Scott said, “I’m not hugging you all.”
Dan caught Scott’s shirt and dragged him forward. “Get in here.”
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Beyond Help
“Well, you certainly look happier.”
Clay blinked. “Pardon?”
A girl smiled at him. “I saw you a little while ago. You looked...sad.” It was her turn to blink at him. “And your hair was longer. I guess a haircut cheered you up.”
Success. “You saw me? With longer hair? Which way was I headed?”
That earned him a raised eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you remember?”
Clay winced. “The person you met - not me. My brother. I’ve been looking for him. Which way?”
“Your brother? I could have sworn it was --”
“Identical,” Clay said. He knew he was being rude and impatient, but he had to find Bob. “Please. It’s important.”
The girl’s smile faded. “Oh. Sorry. I - the harbor. Inner Harbor.”
“Thanks.”
Clay didn’t know what he’d find when he finally got his hands on Bob, but it would involve a good shaking, maybe a punch, and possibly a few choice swear words. For three weeks Bob had drifted through the house, a silent ghost, barely leaving his room, and now - now he was out prowling the town. Whatever had driven him from the safety of his mourning room had to be big.
Clay skittered down the boardwalk, ignoring the lure of the bright wares in the curious stalls. He drew to a halt at the bridge. On the other side, Bob stood overlooking the water. Half a dozen rugby players from the local high school had him circled, and - he had his head bowed, shoulders hunched. Perfect prey posture.
Clay groaned. He really couldn’t afford to get into a fight - and neither could Bob. He approached slowly, quietly, trying to gauge the situation.
“You some kinda junkie, kid?” one of the rugby players asked. “Or are you one of those wannabe vampire kids who never sees the light of day?”
Bob just stared at the water, hands in his pockets.
“You deaf, freak?” Another rugby player shoved at Bob’s shoulder.
He swayed dangerously on his feet, but he wasn’t so far gone that he’d let his own balance fail. Then he lifted his head. “Are you going to hit me?”
The first rugby player laughed. “I dunno. Are you any fun to hit?”
“Maybe.” Bob shrugged carelessly. “Although, since I’m dying, I think that would take some of the fun out of it.”
The rugby player froze, fist cocked to punch. “What?”
Bob tilted his head to one side, expression quizzical. “Whatever you do to me probably won’t hurt nearly as much as what my body’s doing to itself, so...if you want to hit me, go ahead. It’s not like I matter anymore.”
The group of boys exchanged uneasy looks. “Hey, man, we were just kidding around.”
Again with that careless shrug. “I know. But I don’t mind - I’m good at taking pain. What’s a little more, after all this? You might as well have your fun.”
The boys began to back away. “Dude, you need help,” one of them said.
Bob’s smile was almost angelic. “I’m beyond help.”
Clay blinked. “Pardon?”
A girl smiled at him. “I saw you a little while ago. You looked...sad.” It was her turn to blink at him. “And your hair was longer. I guess a haircut cheered you up.”
Success. “You saw me? With longer hair? Which way was I headed?”
That earned him a raised eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you remember?”
Clay winced. “The person you met - not me. My brother. I’ve been looking for him. Which way?”
“Your brother? I could have sworn it was --”
“Identical,” Clay said. He knew he was being rude and impatient, but he had to find Bob. “Please. It’s important.”
The girl’s smile faded. “Oh. Sorry. I - the harbor. Inner Harbor.”
“Thanks.”
Clay didn’t know what he’d find when he finally got his hands on Bob, but it would involve a good shaking, maybe a punch, and possibly a few choice swear words. For three weeks Bob had drifted through the house, a silent ghost, barely leaving his room, and now - now he was out prowling the town. Whatever had driven him from the safety of his mourning room had to be big.
Clay skittered down the boardwalk, ignoring the lure of the bright wares in the curious stalls. He drew to a halt at the bridge. On the other side, Bob stood overlooking the water. Half a dozen rugby players from the local high school had him circled, and - he had his head bowed, shoulders hunched. Perfect prey posture.
Clay groaned. He really couldn’t afford to get into a fight - and neither could Bob. He approached slowly, quietly, trying to gauge the situation.
“You some kinda junkie, kid?” one of the rugby players asked. “Or are you one of those wannabe vampire kids who never sees the light of day?”
Bob just stared at the water, hands in his pockets.
“You deaf, freak?” Another rugby player shoved at Bob’s shoulder.
He swayed dangerously on his feet, but he wasn’t so far gone that he’d let his own balance fail. Then he lifted his head. “Are you going to hit me?”
The first rugby player laughed. “I dunno. Are you any fun to hit?”
“Maybe.” Bob shrugged carelessly. “Although, since I’m dying, I think that would take some of the fun out of it.”
The rugby player froze, fist cocked to punch. “What?”
Bob tilted his head to one side, expression quizzical. “Whatever you do to me probably won’t hurt nearly as much as what my body’s doing to itself, so...if you want to hit me, go ahead. It’s not like I matter anymore.”
The group of boys exchanged uneasy looks. “Hey, man, we were just kidding around.”
Again with that careless shrug. “I know. But I don’t mind - I’m good at taking pain. What’s a little more, after all this? You might as well have your fun.”
The boys began to back away. “Dude, you need help,” one of them said.
Bob’s smile was almost angelic. “I’m beyond help.”
Pleading
Joe retreated to the old chapel that he had been going to for years. It was small and probably built in the last century. The wood was old, the pews dark wood, lined with moth eaten silk cushions. It was time for the evensong, the young choir boys filing in quietly, their voices lifted in song as they lined up. Joe remembered back to the time when he and Alec had been alter boys.
Joe felt a hand rest on his shoulder. Joe knew without looking that it was a withered and spotted with age. "Hey Father," Joe said without looking up.
"Joseph. What has you here at this time of day? Is there anything that I can help you with?" Father John asked.
"No. You can's help me. Only He can help me," Joe said, looking up at the crucifix.
"Yes. He helps all who ask," Father John said. He patted Joe on the shoulder, and shuffled down the aisle towards the alter, ready to give the evening mass.
God. Joe was not sure what to say. Please save him. I'll do anything. I'll join the priesthood, bring souls back to you. I'll go to mass, confession. I'll go to Rome and dedicate my life to you. I'll give you anything you ask. Anything.
The choir boys were pitch perfect this evening, their clear voices rising in the stillness of the chapel. Joe continued his silent pleading.
Exhausted, Joe sat back, running his prayer beads through his fingers, black and white beads. Alec's were blue and green.
Joe stood up and crossed himself, walking back down the aisle and out into the night.
Joe felt a hand rest on his shoulder. Joe knew without looking that it was a withered and spotted with age. "Hey Father," Joe said without looking up.
"Joseph. What has you here at this time of day? Is there anything that I can help you with?" Father John asked.
"No. You can's help me. Only He can help me," Joe said, looking up at the crucifix.
"Yes. He helps all who ask," Father John said. He patted Joe on the shoulder, and shuffled down the aisle towards the alter, ready to give the evening mass.
God. Joe was not sure what to say. Please save him. I'll do anything. I'll join the priesthood, bring souls back to you. I'll go to mass, confession. I'll go to Rome and dedicate my life to you. I'll give you anything you ask. Anything.
The choir boys were pitch perfect this evening, their clear voices rising in the stillness of the chapel. Joe continued his silent pleading.
Exhausted, Joe sat back, running his prayer beads through his fingers, black and white beads. Alec's were blue and green.
Joe stood up and crossed himself, walking back down the aisle and out into the night.
Busting It Up
Joe stood up from where he had collapsed into the hard plastic hospital chair, hands clenching and unclenching, pacing back and forth.
It wasn't supposed to happen this way. They were supposed to grow old together, as close as any two brothers could be.
It's my fault. I should have been with him. I should have been there. Why did I say I would go out with her? She doesn't even mean anything to me. It's my fault. If I had been with him like I was supposed to be, this might not have happened. What happened anyway? It doesn't even matter. What matters is that it's my fault.
It's my fault!
JOe spun around and slammed his fist into the unyielding wall. He didn't care about the pain, he welcomed it. Looking at the wall, Joe hit it again, and again, leaving red streaks on the clinical whiteness.
"Sir?" a small voice said from behind him.
Joe spun around, fist raised. Before him stood a small nurse. She couldn't have been much older than Joe himself. Joe lowered his fist slowly, "Sorry."
The nurse approached him and took his broken and bleeding hand in her gentle grip, "Let me fix this up," she said.
Joe jerked his hand out of hers, "can you fix him?" his tone bordered on nasty.
The nurse looked up at him, "We are going to do our very best."
"But what if it's not enough?" Joe asked, his voice rising, anger seeping out to lash at this young woman. He stepped back as she approached him again, holding his hand out of reach.
"I promise you sir, I will give it all I have got, and not a bit less," she said.
Joe looked down at his mangled hand. Blood was dripping from his fingertips, and the skin was torn over the knuckles. He was pretty sure that the bones were fractured as well.
The nurse held out her hand to him and Joe reluctantly placed his injured hand in hers. She gently cleaned up the gore and applied bandages. "My name's Jen, by the way," she said.
"Joseph," Joe said; his eyes still burning with anger.
It wasn't supposed to happen this way. They were supposed to grow old together, as close as any two brothers could be.
It's my fault. I should have been with him. I should have been there. Why did I say I would go out with her? She doesn't even mean anything to me. It's my fault. If I had been with him like I was supposed to be, this might not have happened. What happened anyway? It doesn't even matter. What matters is that it's my fault.
It's my fault!
JOe spun around and slammed his fist into the unyielding wall. He didn't care about the pain, he welcomed it. Looking at the wall, Joe hit it again, and again, leaving red streaks on the clinical whiteness.
"Sir?" a small voice said from behind him.
Joe spun around, fist raised. Before him stood a small nurse. She couldn't have been much older than Joe himself. Joe lowered his fist slowly, "Sorry."
The nurse approached him and took his broken and bleeding hand in her gentle grip, "Let me fix this up," she said.
Joe jerked his hand out of hers, "can you fix him?" his tone bordered on nasty.
The nurse looked up at him, "We are going to do our very best."
"But what if it's not enough?" Joe asked, his voice rising, anger seeping out to lash at this young woman. He stepped back as she approached him again, holding his hand out of reach.
"I promise you sir, I will give it all I have got, and not a bit less," she said.
Joe looked down at his mangled hand. Blood was dripping from his fingertips, and the skin was torn over the knuckles. He was pretty sure that the bones were fractured as well.
The nurse held out her hand to him and Joe reluctantly placed his injured hand in hers. She gently cleaned up the gore and applied bandages. "My name's Jen, by the way," she said.
"Joseph," Joe said; his eyes still burning with anger.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Giving It Up
Bob couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a church for anything besides tourist curiosity. Until his parents divorced, he and his brothers had had a fairly strict Irish Catholic upbringing, but since the divorce, the brothers four had been footloose and fancy free when it came to Sunday worship. Bob wasn’t sure why he’d decided to come to the cathedral instead of one of the more modern, friendly places up the street, but this was what he knew.
He was hesitant to even touch the holy water, but he genuflected anyway and slid into one of the pews. Then he bowed his head and began to pray.
"Admhaim do Dhia uilechumhachtach,
agus daoibhse, a bráithe,
gur pheacaigh mé go trom
le smaoineamh agus le briathar,
le ghiomh,
agus le faillà --"
“You still pray in Latin, child?”
Bob lifted his head and saw a priest standing over him. “Hello, Father. I - no. Our mother was raised Irish Catholic. She taught us to pray in...Irish.”
The priest studied him for a long moment. “I haven’t seen you before, my child.”
Bob ducked his head. “It’s been a long time for me, Father.”
“And yet you are so young.” The priest studied him some more. “You look familiar. Have you lived in this parish a long time?”
“On and off, over the years.” Bob wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to feel brave, and he needed to get this out in the open before he chickened out, but there was no way he could say any of what he wanted in front of the priest.
“Perhaps that’s why I remember you. I hope St. Mary’s brings you peace. Know that I am here to listen to anything you should wish to tell me.” And the priest drifted away in a whispering of cassocks and robes.
Bob felt guilty for the relief that washed over him, but he bowed his head, finished the prayer. Then he began to whisper, feeling foolish but too desperate to care.
“If you’re listening, I’m here to make a deal. I’ll be the best Catholic boy you could ever ask for - I’ll go to catechism and confirmation classes, get confirmed and everything. I’ll give up all my vices and be nicer to my brothers and step-mother and father and --” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’ll do anything. I’ll give up music forever, or even give up --” Carolyn. No. He couldn’t. “Give up rhythm. My voice. Please - just let me live. Make the disease go away.” He closed his eyes and prayed, Our Father, three languages. Then he opened his eyes and was out of the church before the priest could come back.
***
At three a.m., when he was hanging over the bathroom sink spitting out blood, he closed his eyes and prayed for the last time.
Please. I’ll give her up. If that’s what it takes.
***
It was months before Shelley noticed that all of his pictures of Carolyn were gone.
He was hesitant to even touch the holy water, but he genuflected anyway and slid into one of the pews. Then he bowed his head and began to pray.
"Admhaim do Dhia uilechumhachtach,
agus daoibhse, a bráithe,
gur pheacaigh mé go trom
le smaoineamh agus le briathar,
le ghiomh,
agus le faillà --"
“You still pray in Latin, child?”
Bob lifted his head and saw a priest standing over him. “Hello, Father. I - no. Our mother was raised Irish Catholic. She taught us to pray in...Irish.”
The priest studied him for a long moment. “I haven’t seen you before, my child.”
Bob ducked his head. “It’s been a long time for me, Father.”
“And yet you are so young.” The priest studied him some more. “You look familiar. Have you lived in this parish a long time?”
“On and off, over the years.” Bob wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to feel brave, and he needed to get this out in the open before he chickened out, but there was no way he could say any of what he wanted in front of the priest.
“Perhaps that’s why I remember you. I hope St. Mary’s brings you peace. Know that I am here to listen to anything you should wish to tell me.” And the priest drifted away in a whispering of cassocks and robes.
Bob felt guilty for the relief that washed over him, but he bowed his head, finished the prayer. Then he began to whisper, feeling foolish but too desperate to care.
“If you’re listening, I’m here to make a deal. I’ll be the best Catholic boy you could ever ask for - I’ll go to catechism and confirmation classes, get confirmed and everything. I’ll give up all my vices and be nicer to my brothers and step-mother and father and --” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’ll do anything. I’ll give up music forever, or even give up --” Carolyn. No. He couldn’t. “Give up rhythm. My voice. Please - just let me live. Make the disease go away.” He closed his eyes and prayed, Our Father, three languages. Then he opened his eyes and was out of the church before the priest could come back.
At three a.m., when he was hanging over the bathroom sink spitting out blood, he closed his eyes and prayed for the last time.
Please. I’ll give her up. If that’s what it takes.
It was months before Shelley noticed that all of his pictures of Carolyn were gone.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Even If
“Is he all right?” Shelley asked.
Clay arched an eyebrow and jerked his head in the direction of the stairs. “Does he sound all right?”
Shelley winced. Bob only played Rush when he was in a particularly foul mood. He’d played YYZ for a week straight after Carolyn left.
“Should I go talk to him?” Shelley asked.
Clay shook his head. “We got it.” He headed up the stairs, pushed open Bob’s bedroom door. He winced at the onslaught of cymbals and waited for his brother to notice him.
He wondered why he hadn’t noticed how thin Bob had become.
“Hey Bob, what’s going on?”
The spin on around-the-world only got louder.
Clay sighed. “Oy, brother, conas atá tú?”
Bob caught the ride cymbal mid-strike and spun around. His expression was frighteningly blank. “Did you come here just to bother me with stupid questions?”
Clay flinched at the viciousness in his brother’s tone. “Bobby, we know you’re upset --”
“I don’t think upset begins to cover it, the way drunk doesn’t really cover it when Scott comes home caoch oltá these days.”
“So maybe he’s taking Carolyn’s absence harder than expected --”
Bob sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “Why is this happening to me? First Carolyn leaves me, and now - this. What did I ever do to deserve any of this?”
Clay reached out, settled a hand on Bob’s shoulder. He was glad when Bob didn’t automatically shake him off. “You didn’t do anything. Sometimes this just - happens. And you have me, right? Automatic, perfectly-matched bone marrow donor.”
Bob lunged to his feet and began pacing back and forth, hands tapping a nervous rhythm on his thighs. His arms and wrists were bruised, the weals from his cymbals rebounding on him when he wasn’t quick enough. Bob looked like an abused child. Clay had to swallow a sudden lump in his throat.
“This isn’t fair!” Bob flung his hands up. “Seriously - my life is some sort of sick joke. First Dad, then Carolyn, and now this. I’m pretty sure it can’t get worse, but if it can, it will.”
Clay’s brow furrowed. “What about Dad?”
Bob shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.” His hands curled into fists, and he eyed a spot on the wall with too much fixedness for Clay’s liking. Dan had the best punch by far, and Bob was more likely to kick while sparring, but he wasn’t above punching something when he was in a mood.
“What did I do, Clay? I had to have done something.” Bob’s voice was low, venomous. “Do you know how much it hurts, the ringing in my head? Or when someone touches me and I bruise and it aches for days? Some nights I wake up choking on my own blood.”
Clay bit his lip again.
Bob’s eyes glittered manically. “I’d better have done something to deserve this, because if I didn’t someone is going to pay. Even if I have to die to face him.”
(500 words; Rush is a Canadian band with a fantastic, wicked-fast drummer)
Clay arched an eyebrow and jerked his head in the direction of the stairs. “Does he sound all right?”
Shelley winced. Bob only played Rush when he was in a particularly foul mood. He’d played YYZ for a week straight after Carolyn left.
“Should I go talk to him?” Shelley asked.
Clay shook his head. “We got it.” He headed up the stairs, pushed open Bob’s bedroom door. He winced at the onslaught of cymbals and waited for his brother to notice him.
He wondered why he hadn’t noticed how thin Bob had become.
“Hey Bob, what’s going on?”
The spin on around-the-world only got louder.
Clay sighed. “Oy, brother, conas atá tú?”
Bob caught the ride cymbal mid-strike and spun around. His expression was frighteningly blank. “Did you come here just to bother me with stupid questions?”
Clay flinched at the viciousness in his brother’s tone. “Bobby, we know you’re upset --”
“I don’t think upset begins to cover it, the way drunk doesn’t really cover it when Scott comes home caoch oltá these days.”
“So maybe he’s taking Carolyn’s absence harder than expected --”
Bob sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “Why is this happening to me? First Carolyn leaves me, and now - this. What did I ever do to deserve any of this?”
Clay reached out, settled a hand on Bob’s shoulder. He was glad when Bob didn’t automatically shake him off. “You didn’t do anything. Sometimes this just - happens. And you have me, right? Automatic, perfectly-matched bone marrow donor.”
Bob lunged to his feet and began pacing back and forth, hands tapping a nervous rhythm on his thighs. His arms and wrists were bruised, the weals from his cymbals rebounding on him when he wasn’t quick enough. Bob looked like an abused child. Clay had to swallow a sudden lump in his throat.
“This isn’t fair!” Bob flung his hands up. “Seriously - my life is some sort of sick joke. First Dad, then Carolyn, and now this. I’m pretty sure it can’t get worse, but if it can, it will.”
Clay’s brow furrowed. “What about Dad?”
Bob shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.” His hands curled into fists, and he eyed a spot on the wall with too much fixedness for Clay’s liking. Dan had the best punch by far, and Bob was more likely to kick while sparring, but he wasn’t above punching something when he was in a mood.
“What did I do, Clay? I had to have done something.” Bob’s voice was low, venomous. “Do you know how much it hurts, the ringing in my head? Or when someone touches me and I bruise and it aches for days? Some nights I wake up choking on my own blood.”
Clay bit his lip again.
Bob’s eyes glittered manically. “I’d better have done something to deserve this, because if I didn’t someone is going to pay. Even if I have to die to face him.”
(500 words; Rush is a Canadian band with a fantastic, wicked-fast drummer)
Second Opinion
Bob stared up at Dr. Hamilton in disbelief. Then he scrubbed a hand over the bruises on his arm self-consciously. “What? No - the tests are probably wrong. These bruises - my brothers and I all do karate, and we rough-house a lot. I’ve just been tired, and with all the flying we do, changes in elevation often lead to nosebleeds --”
Dr. Hamilton smiled gently and placed a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Everything will be all right - this form of leukemia is entirely treatable, and you have the advantage of a twin brother for a bone marrow transplant. Some of the treatments might be painful, but there’s no reason you can’t live a full and energetic life. You’ll be able to make music for years --”
Bob shrugged the doctor’s hand aside and backed toward the door. “No. You’re wrong. I’m fine. I’m completely and utterly fine. Shelley’s just being overly-protective. Sometimes I think she overcompensates because she’s not our real mom.” He attempted to smile, but the expression turned bitter midway through. “I’m going now.”
Dr. Hamilton caught Bob’s wrist before he could touch the doorknob. “Robert, I’ve known you since you were two years old. I didn’t want to believe it either, but I ran the tests myself. Twice. And you have leukemia.”
Bob jerked free and whirled around. His dark eyes sparked with fury. “Stop saying that! Why are you lying to me? I am completely and utterly one-hundred-percent as healthy as a horse.”
“Bob, you’re in denial, it’s the first stage of grief --”
“Grief? Who said anything about grief? Nobody died. And I’m certainly not going to die.” Bob tugged the door open. “Thanks for everything, Dr. Hamilton, but I’d like to get a second opinion.”
Dr. Hamilton’s expression was pained. “Bob, please --”
The world went white. Just before Bob hit the floor, it occurred to him that maybe Dr. Hamilton was right.
(319 words)
Dr. Hamilton smiled gently and placed a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Everything will be all right - this form of leukemia is entirely treatable, and you have the advantage of a twin brother for a bone marrow transplant. Some of the treatments might be painful, but there’s no reason you can’t live a full and energetic life. You’ll be able to make music for years --”
Bob shrugged the doctor’s hand aside and backed toward the door. “No. You’re wrong. I’m fine. I’m completely and utterly fine. Shelley’s just being overly-protective. Sometimes I think she overcompensates because she’s not our real mom.” He attempted to smile, but the expression turned bitter midway through. “I’m going now.”
Dr. Hamilton caught Bob’s wrist before he could touch the doorknob. “Robert, I’ve known you since you were two years old. I didn’t want to believe it either, but I ran the tests myself. Twice. And you have leukemia.”
Bob jerked free and whirled around. His dark eyes sparked with fury. “Stop saying that! Why are you lying to me? I am completely and utterly one-hundred-percent as healthy as a horse.”
“Bob, you’re in denial, it’s the first stage of grief --”
“Grief? Who said anything about grief? Nobody died. And I’m certainly not going to die.” Bob tugged the door open. “Thanks for everything, Dr. Hamilton, but I’d like to get a second opinion.”
Dr. Hamilton’s expression was pained. “Bob, please --”
The world went white. Just before Bob hit the floor, it occurred to him that maybe Dr. Hamilton was right.
(319 words)
Monday, July 20, 2009
Superman
Joe was on a date when he got the call from his aunt. Alec had been in an accident. He was being rushed to Mercy General Hospital across town. From the tone in his aunts voice and his Uncle crying in the background, he knew that it was serious.
"I have to go Tam. Alec's been hurt," Joe said, snapping shut the phone. Tammy nodded her head and got into the car, not asking any questions.
Joe peeled away from Tammy's house five minutes later, intent on getting to the hospital as fast as he could. Joe dodged through traffic and ran lights, urging his old car to go faster.
Joe jumped from the car as soon as he slid into a spot at the hospital; tires squealing in protest. Running for the entrance, Joe found himself stopped up by a man in a white coat.
"Wait, you can't go in there," the man shouted, trying to block Joe's way.
"My brother is in there," Joe said flatly, staring down the shorter man.
"That well may be, but you can't just come barging in here like this," the officious little man said, his tone snide.
"Either move out of my way, or you will end up a patient here as well," Joe's statement was unfriendly, and carried a promise.
The Doctor finally decided that it was wiser to move out of the way. Joe jogged down the hall to the nurses station; gave his brothers name and was directed to a room a short way down the hall.
Joe walked slowly into the room, stunned to find his brother already hooked up to machines that were beeping and pumping air and various fluids.
Joe hoped that hearing his voice would bring Alec out of it. "Hey Alec, wake up man. Alec, time to get up. Alec, If you don't get up, I'm going to take your new car out for a spin," Joe was sure that that one would get him to respond.
Nothing.
"Come on Alec. It's not supposed to be like this, it can't happen like this. We're supposed to go to college together, you are supposed to teach me to ride a motorcycle," Joe whispered, squeezing his brothers hand. "Alec. You can't leave, there is so much left for us to do. You're superman, nothing can hurt you," Joe felt tears gathering in his eyes, but blinked them back.
"It can't end this way."
"I have to go Tam. Alec's been hurt," Joe said, snapping shut the phone. Tammy nodded her head and got into the car, not asking any questions.
Joe peeled away from Tammy's house five minutes later, intent on getting to the hospital as fast as he could. Joe dodged through traffic and ran lights, urging his old car to go faster.
Joe jumped from the car as soon as he slid into a spot at the hospital; tires squealing in protest. Running for the entrance, Joe found himself stopped up by a man in a white coat.
"Wait, you can't go in there," the man shouted, trying to block Joe's way.
"My brother is in there," Joe said flatly, staring down the shorter man.
"That well may be, but you can't just come barging in here like this," the officious little man said, his tone snide.
"Either move out of my way, or you will end up a patient here as well," Joe's statement was unfriendly, and carried a promise.
The Doctor finally decided that it was wiser to move out of the way. Joe jogged down the hall to the nurses station; gave his brothers name and was directed to a room a short way down the hall.
Joe walked slowly into the room, stunned to find his brother already hooked up to machines that were beeping and pumping air and various fluids.
Joe hoped that hearing his voice would bring Alec out of it. "Hey Alec, wake up man. Alec, time to get up. Alec, If you don't get up, I'm going to take your new car out for a spin," Joe was sure that that one would get him to respond.
Nothing.
"Come on Alec. It's not supposed to be like this, it can't happen like this. We're supposed to go to college together, you are supposed to teach me to ride a motorcycle," Joe whispered, squeezing his brothers hand. "Alec. You can't leave, there is so much left for us to do. You're superman, nothing can hurt you," Joe felt tears gathering in his eyes, but blinked them back.
"It can't end this way."
Mazey - ER Tango
Monday
I lost count of IV drips and began to dose. The nurse moved like a veiled thing, taking things away, putting them back, piercing and piercing and piercing.
I think at some point Eddy came by, his voice was paper burning in my ear. Gone before I could read it, but his hands, his cold palms, I knew he was there until he couldn’t be.
This wasn’t happening; I’m too young to die in a hospital bed.
Tuesday
Eddy didn’t come; I was inconsolable. I wanted my mother, my fathers rich voice, my little sisters questions. No one would say where my family had gone.
My cordial attempts turned dour, then frantic, and finally I managed to knock the needled nurse to the ground. I’ll never forget, vials of every color breaking around her. Even with bare feet I got off the bed to finish the job.
I probably would have, if I had been more than a broken mass of bones. It must have been the pain meds, I don’t recall feeling much after that seething.
Wednesday
A new nurse came, more my age with sympathy in her processed hair and skin. She was polite enough to leave when Eddy came in.
It hurt to smile, what’s wrong with my face, I kept asking. He skirted the question, an old hand at deception.
“Your still pretty, my rough diamond”, He went to kiss me, it burned, reminded me of glass, everything sharp I’d ever touched.
“Hey, Eddy Teddy, I know what you’re thinking. Don’t you dare, you bastard.” It was deadly, the urge in his eyes, but I had to smile. I loved to verbally abuse him, he took it so well.
“It’s already in the cards, peach.” His voice, was like an old record, preserved perfectly from the Jazz Age.
“One more, one more sunset? One more day on the pier?”, he answered by leaving, quiet as night fall.
Thursday
When I was myself, they broke the news.
I was an orphan, thanks to a drunk driver.
Food seemed to rot in front of me, people looked like corpses, I saw nothing but the dead and the dying. They waited an hour before they told me about the clot in my brain, the sever head injury, the miracle of life.
I wasn’t a miracle. I was a gibbering mass of sobs all day. It went by quickly, eclipse by a fitful sleep.
Eddy knew better than to come around.
Friday
The nurses were changing shifts, ten minutes to
I refused to look up, just laid there, waiting for a coffin, or a kiss.
He climbed onto the bed, his weight sank the mattress in and I felt like I would fall away from him, go to the place that matched the blooming peace in my chest.
“It was always going to end this way, baby,” he crooned and lifted my chin. My neck became a riot of pain. He kissed the artery he loved, and then it was just a pinch, and nothing.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Project #36: On Death and Dying
So each of us has a pretty steady set of characters to work with. This week, we're going to have fun with those characters, and by "have fun" I mean put them through the five stages of grief. You have between 100 and 500 words to show how your character deals. Either day one or day six can be pre-dealing or post-healing; that's up to you. Let the character torture begin!
Overview #35: Nothing More Than Feelings
The title of this week's assignment reminded me, oddly enough of a song by The Offspring. I was mildly amused to note that I was the writer who started this assignment late and ended up having to backtrack and backdate a post to get all my poems in, but by the end of the week I was the Horatio of us all. I think my poetry was pretty decent this week - once in a while I caught myself falling back into the previous poetry assignment, but when I put my mind into it I realized that I could wring emotion out of the ordinary moments in my life, and I was pretty happy with that.
Overview #35 - Nothing More Than Feeling
So this week was an exercise in futility for me. And failure. Failure to post. Every time I sat down to write, the dreaded writers block descended from above and crushed my thoughts. Even now, I am pushing against it to no avail. Sigh. hopefully next week will be better.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Just A Dream
The best dream
Is where I wake up
With someone in my arms,
A warm body pressed against mine,
Heartbeat to heartbeat,
Cool breath on my skin.
The worst dream
Is where I wake up
And realize it’s just a dream.
(41 words)
Is where I wake up
With someone in my arms,
A warm body pressed against mine,
Heartbeat to heartbeat,
Cool breath on my skin.
The worst dream
Is where I wake up
And realize it’s just a dream.
(41 words)
Friday, July 17, 2009
Friday Night
Friday night laundry
Is tinted with the scent of
Aches and pains chamomile salt
And post-ninjitsu tiger balm.
Friday night supper is
Handfuls of cheerios
Between staccato bursts of typing,
Fingertips on flat silver keys.
Friday night romance is
Harvesting memories from YouTube,
Liquid crystal music and lyrics and
Two boys with guitars.
(54 words)
Is tinted with the scent of
Aches and pains chamomile salt
And post-ninjitsu tiger balm.
Friday night supper is
Handfuls of cheerios
Between staccato bursts of typing,
Fingertips on flat silver keys.
Friday night romance is
Harvesting memories from YouTube,
Liquid crystal music and lyrics and
Two boys with guitars.
(54 words)
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Mal a la Tête
Lightning in the temples
And storm-clouds in the brain-stem -
The imperfect end to an otherwise
Normal day.
Hammers on the cranium,
Tap-dancing on the occipital bone,
Sharp flashes of sunlight
On bare optic nerves.
Darkness is the answer,
The skeleton key in a rusty lock
Of a treasure chest overflowing
With moonstone and dreams.
A blanket over the face,
A shroud over the corpse.
It’ll be gone in the morning.
(73 words)
And storm-clouds in the brain-stem -
The imperfect end to an otherwise
Normal day.
Hammers on the cranium,
Tap-dancing on the occipital bone,
Sharp flashes of sunlight
On bare optic nerves.
Darkness is the answer,
The skeleton key in a rusty lock
Of a treasure chest overflowing
With moonstone and dreams.
A blanket over the face,
A shroud over the corpse.
It’ll be gone in the morning.
(73 words)
Hiding From
There are so many places to go,
but today I’ll hide in a song.
Let the lyrics be blood
rushing through each vein,
ringing true in both my head
and my heart.
Let the beat slide neatly into
place, a pulse to push me
on.
I’ll move to the melody,
animate my lifeless corpse,
nerves twitching with delight.
My soul knows that
tomorrow
I may not be able to breathe
deep in harmonies and chords.
But today I hide here.
I pretend that life is as simple
as a solitary song.
(91 words)
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Forgetting
One weary step following another,
Pressing forward day after day.
Rest on one hand, toil on the other,
Restless feet, I can not stay.
Something drives me forward,
My joy left far behind.
Ignored.
As I journey in my mind.
Pressing forward day after day.
Rest on one hand, toil on the other,
Restless feet, I can not stay.
Something drives me forward,
My joy left far behind.
Ignored.
As I journey in my mind.
Deprivation
It’s lead in my bones that
Creep, creep, creeps up my limbs
To press its fingertips against my eyelids
And push them closed.
It’s the whisper of dreams in my ear,
Of castles on clouds and knights
Advancing on ranks of shambling zombies.
It’s the gentle, easy slide
Of Morpheus’s arms around my waist
To ease me down, down, down
To fall asleep.
On my laptop.
While my palms press random letters
Across the screen of my survey report.
It’s the groan of malcontent when
The rest of my brain reminds me I’m at work and
It’s my own fault for staying out so late last night.
(107 words)
Creep, creep, creeps up my limbs
To press its fingertips against my eyelids
And push them closed.
It’s the whisper of dreams in my ear,
Of castles on clouds and knights
Advancing on ranks of shambling zombies.
It’s the gentle, easy slide
Of Morpheus’s arms around my waist
To ease me down, down, down
To fall asleep.
On my laptop.
While my palms press random letters
Across the screen of my survey report.
It’s the groan of malcontent when
The rest of my brain reminds me I’m at work and
It’s my own fault for staying out so late last night.
(107 words)
Stream
Every part of me is
breaking
and the words refuse
to come out right
or wrong
or none at all
I wish I could fix it
I wish I could tell her
how stupid she is
for giving up a gift
that I sometimes wished
for
but that is not what he
needs
what she needs
I am a force caught
in
between
fighting a losing battle
with no way out
but to listen
and offer precarious
words of wisdom
that I do not know
if I even believe
so bury my heart
next to his
because sympathy
is all I have to give.
(104 words)
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Childhood
In my heart of hearts,
When I was a child,
I too believed in love.
When I was a child,
I believed in the kind of things
that just don't exist.
Dragons and Unicorns hiding;
just over the hill.
And a knight in armor to save me.
When I was a child,
I believed in the fairytale.
(Again, not what I really wanted, but it's just not flowing today.)
When I was a child,
I too believed in love.
When I was a child,
I believed in the kind of things
that just don't exist.
Dragons and Unicorns hiding;
just over the hill.
And a knight in armor to save me.
When I was a child,
I believed in the fairytale.
(Again, not what I really wanted, but it's just not flowing today.)
Afternoon Contentment
Afternoon contentment is
The warmth of a laptop against my thighs
While the screen flashes
Arena lights
And crystalline guitar notes
Spill from the tiny speakers,
Rock’n’roll thrum and the teenage angst of
I don’t want you to want me.
Afternoon contentment is
The slick slide of needle between fingers
And coloured cotton against fingertips
A string of knots to form flowers and suns,
Stars and a smile.
Afternoon contentment is
The clacking of keyboard keys
And rhymes coming alive
Black on white,
Stark and bright.
Afternoon contentment is
The city skyline against a periwinkle sky
Peeking through blue curtains
And sunlight shining on
A day’s work done.
The warmth of a laptop against my thighs
While the screen flashes
Arena lights
And crystalline guitar notes
Spill from the tiny speakers,
Rock’n’roll thrum and the teenage angst of
I don’t want you to want me.
Afternoon contentment is
The slick slide of needle between fingers
And coloured cotton against fingertips
A string of knots to form flowers and suns,
Stars and a smile.
Afternoon contentment is
The clacking of keyboard keys
And rhymes coming alive
Black on white,
Stark and bright.
Afternoon contentment is
The city skyline against a periwinkle sky
Peeking through blue curtains
And sunlight shining on
A day’s work done.
Never Fully Bloom
It unfurls in my chest,
A shaking, shivering
Blossom,
Blue petals curled and
Heavy,
Wet from the spring of new life.
It sighs in a breeze of
Want,
Sudden and unexpected
As a ray of sunlight between storm clouds.
I water it with smiles exchanged and
The subtle warmth of his elbow
Against mine,
A chance glance into blue eyes and a casual
I’ll walk you to your car.
But it will never fully bloom,
Will linger, withered and bent
Beneath the weight of
Pages and words,
Statutes and precedents.
Beneath a shower of velvet-striped robes and
Flying caps
It will breathe its first - or last.
(107 words)
A shaking, shivering
Blossom,
Blue petals curled and
Heavy,
Wet from the spring of new life.
It sighs in a breeze of
Want,
Sudden and unexpected
As a ray of sunlight between storm clouds.
I water it with smiles exchanged and
The subtle warmth of his elbow
Against mine,
A chance glance into blue eyes and a casual
I’ll walk you to your car.
But it will never fully bloom,
Will linger, withered and bent
Beneath the weight of
Pages and words,
Statutes and precedents.
Beneath a shower of velvet-striped robes and
Flying caps
It will breathe its first - or last.
(107 words)
Monday, July 13, 2009
The Ghost
Ethereal, floating
on the wind,
nothing could touch you.
Nothing to feel.
And nothing would hurt you.
A ghost,
you slip past existence.
Pushing through,
passing on.
With no one to say your name.
Keener senses
cannot lie.
A muffled cry,
and whispers in the dark.
I can still feel you.
You search for something
as I, unable to fill that wanting
void,
stumble quietly through grief.
Do not despair, you will say.
For I am neither living, nor dead.
Just a ghost.
(83 words)
Uncertain
How to express all that I feel;
to make myself understood.
Would you understand,
if I just came out and said it?
A delicate waltz of hints that
protect a fragile soul.
Faltering steps, drawing near and pulling away.
Shifting like a tower of Jenga;
one false move will send it to the ground.
(I'm not sure what is expected from this challenge exactly, so I am expecting the first few days to be a bit rough before I fall into the swing of it.)
to make myself understood.
Would you understand,
if I just came out and said it?
A delicate waltz of hints that
protect a fragile soul.
Faltering steps, drawing near and pulling away.
Shifting like a tower of Jenga;
one false move will send it to the ground.
(I'm not sure what is expected from this challenge exactly, so I am expecting the first few days to be a bit rough before I fall into the swing of it.)
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Project Assignment #35 - Nothing More Than Feelings
Let's dive back into my element once again... poetry.
We should each write a poem every day conveying a different emotion. I seem to get stuck in a rut of only writing poems that are sad or confusing, etc. So let's branch out. Let's write some happy stuff, some angry stuff... you know what I'm trying to say.
Let's cap the word limit at 200 words. It can be shorter though if you want. Some of the best poems are only a few lines long.
Sorry for my constant disappearing act...
Overview #34: Hands
This week's assignment was hard. I think I did learn from last week's assignment, because I resisted the urge to go crazy detailed on a set of hands. I returned to the Carolyn-verse even though, in sudden retrospect, it would have been much easier to go mainline Dagaz because I have more than enough characters to fill up a week. By the time I got to the end of this week, I realized the problem with having six days in a writing week and only five main characters, so I had to take a quick readers' poll (thanks to Jade for deciding that Clay needed some love) and write the final piece.
I learned how to focus a very short, tight plot around a single image without (hopefully) letting the image override the plot. I took this as a chance to explore the brothers Summers in their lives now that they're no longer Four Times Summer (although any helpful hints for a more decent band names are welcome). It was fun to explore what they do, even though it would seem that none of them are really all that happy. (I do have a problem with that sort of thing, don't I?) I surprised myself with some of the hand uses I came up with. I honestly think I liked Scott's the best this week, but then I have been listening to Allegory of the City all week, so I probably had a better grip on him as a character (I really can't find anything from Lights Out Love to use for Dan. >.<)
We'll see what happens in the coming week.
I learned how to focus a very short, tight plot around a single image without (hopefully) letting the image override the plot. I took this as a chance to explore the brothers Summers in their lives now that they're no longer Four Times Summer (although any helpful hints for a more decent band names are welcome). It was fun to explore what they do, even though it would seem that none of them are really all that happy. (I do have a problem with that sort of thing, don't I?) I surprised myself with some of the hand uses I came up with. I honestly think I liked Scott's the best this week, but then I have been listening to Allegory of the City all week, so I probably had a better grip on him as a character (I really can't find anything from Lights Out Love to use for Dan. >.<)
We'll see what happens in the coming week.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Anymore
“Thanks for the new phone, man. It got here pretty fast.” Clay cradled the shiny new gadget between his ear and shoulder while he attempted to chop the chicken. Bob was better with a knife - probably that whole rhythmic drummer thing. Clay swore when he almost took off part of his finger, and Scott laughed in his ear.
“Is Betty Crocker Clay on the loose again?”
“Bob’s not here, all right? I have to cook for myself.” Clay sighed and set down the knife, stared at his hands. He remembered pretending to stare at his cuticles lots of times as a teenager, the only way he could really show disdain for his father without risking what Bob risked.
“You let Bobby-O cook you food? And you’re still alive?”
“Apparently Bob’s pretty handy with foreign cuisine,” Clay said. He stared - really stared - at his hands and remembered a crazy fan had latched onto him, crying with joy and hysteria, and told him his hands were magic. He and his brothers had been adolescent long enough to have a good laugh about it later, but his hands were just - hands. His fingernails were always chipped because he played his bass without a pick, and his fingertips were heavily callused. As an experiment, he dug a fingernail into one of his fingertips and felt...nothing. Huh. He had that much dead skin in one spot? But it was a good thing - making music didn’t hurt. At least, not physically.
“Any word from your taller half?”
“Not one. If you hear from him, tell him to come home - I’m terrible with kids. Have I mentioned Bob’s also handy to have around when kids start to cry?”
More laughter from Scott. “Is there anything you’re better than Bob at?”
“Picking up chicks,” Clay said automatically, and then he sighed. Sure, he was good at picking girls up at bars, but of the brothers four, the only one who was in a steady relationship was Dan. He and Joey had been together for four years.
“That’s what you think. Actually, uh, I have heard from Bob.”
Clay raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”
“He’s still on his way to see her. He, uh, he wrote a song.”
“He did what?” Clay glanced toward the corner of the main room, but his guitar was still there - he’d used it earlier that day, after all.
“Yeah. It was a pretty good song, too.” Something in Scott’s voice was oddly muted. “You know what I realized today?”
“What?” Clay wondered what sort of song Bob could have written, remembered the steady bitterness of Two Beats and remorseful resignation of Love Isn’t.
“I don’t have guitar calluses anymore,” Scott said.
Clay rubbed his fingertips together and realized he couldn’t feel anymore. “That’s too bad,” he said. “I really liked Perilously Here.”
“I did, too.”
(oddly enough, all of the song titles referenced in this piece are actual songs; I cannot guarantee that you'll find them on YouTube)
“Is Betty Crocker Clay on the loose again?”
“Bob’s not here, all right? I have to cook for myself.” Clay sighed and set down the knife, stared at his hands. He remembered pretending to stare at his cuticles lots of times as a teenager, the only way he could really show disdain for his father without risking what Bob risked.
“You let Bobby-O cook you food? And you’re still alive?”
“Apparently Bob’s pretty handy with foreign cuisine,” Clay said. He stared - really stared - at his hands and remembered a crazy fan had latched onto him, crying with joy and hysteria, and told him his hands were magic. He and his brothers had been adolescent long enough to have a good laugh about it later, but his hands were just - hands. His fingernails were always chipped because he played his bass without a pick, and his fingertips were heavily callused. As an experiment, he dug a fingernail into one of his fingertips and felt...nothing. Huh. He had that much dead skin in one spot? But it was a good thing - making music didn’t hurt. At least, not physically.
“Any word from your taller half?”
“Not one. If you hear from him, tell him to come home - I’m terrible with kids. Have I mentioned Bob’s also handy to have around when kids start to cry?”
More laughter from Scott. “Is there anything you’re better than Bob at?”
“Picking up chicks,” Clay said automatically, and then he sighed. Sure, he was good at picking girls up at bars, but of the brothers four, the only one who was in a steady relationship was Dan. He and Joey had been together for four years.
“That’s what you think. Actually, uh, I have heard from Bob.”
Clay raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”
“He’s still on his way to see her. He, uh, he wrote a song.”
“He did what?” Clay glanced toward the corner of the main room, but his guitar was still there - he’d used it earlier that day, after all.
“Yeah. It was a pretty good song, too.” Something in Scott’s voice was oddly muted. “You know what I realized today?”
“What?” Clay wondered what sort of song Bob could have written, remembered the steady bitterness of Two Beats and remorseful resignation of Love Isn’t.
“I don’t have guitar calluses anymore,” Scott said.
Clay rubbed his fingertips together and realized he couldn’t feel anymore. “That’s too bad,” he said. “I really liked Perilously Here.”
“I did, too.”
(oddly enough, all of the song titles referenced in this piece are actual songs; I cannot guarantee that you'll find them on YouTube)
Friday, July 10, 2009
And The Boss Was Back
Carolyn drummed her fingertips on the desk and listened to Donna witter on about the wonderful date she’d had the night before. They were supposed to be talking about partnership agreements and sliding-scale contingent fees, but the senior partner had stepped out, and the harpies were on the loose.
“And then he gave me this new bracelet. See?” Donna cocked her wrist to show off a glitter of diamonds. She had long, thin hands, her fingers almost bony to the point of being sharp. If she gestured any more broadly than usual, she’d likely put out her neighbor’s eye.
Carolyn glanced down at her own hands, weapon-scarred and devoid of real fingerprints. After several moments, she realized the rhythm she was drumming was one Bob had taught her. The nearest handy distraction was a pen. Carolyn scooped it up and set a-twirling. She’d learnt several interesting pen-flips in her time. In fact, she was fully capable of shooting a pen across a room like a small spear. She’d almost blinded her weapons master once that way.
“So you think he’ll propose?” Suzy asked.
Donna tossed her head. “Oh, please. I’ll be done with him and onto the next man before he knows what hit him. This time I’m thinking...a guy with a Maserati.”
Carolyn bit the inside of her cheek to keep from blurting out a comment. Donna was about to get a pen through the eye.
“What about you, Carolyn? Any new men in your life?” Lola’s sudden question jolted Carolyn out of her pen-flipping rhythm, and the pen launched itself across the table. Toward Donna.
Carolyn squeaked and lunged, closed a fist over the pen mid-air. The other women went silent and stared at Carolyn’s hand.
“Um...nice catch,” Lola said faintly.
Carolyn lowered her hand slowly, set the pen down beside her notepad. Then she curled her hands demurely in her lap. “No man in my life. You know me - it’s all about billing hours.”
The admission earned precisely the frosty, dismissive look Carolyn had been hoping for, and then it was Amanda’s turn to brag about her latest fling. Carolyn stared down at her hands, two weapons curled around each other, and remembered candle-lit nights in foreign hotel rooms. She remembered laughter and pillow fights and curling up in her own corner of the bed, Bob’s arms wrapped around her, both of them watching as Scott and Clay squabbled over which channel to watch while Dan picked a movie and settled in. Bob would twine his fingers with hers and tease her gently about how small her hands were. She’d have to remind him that, in karate lessons, she had a much better punch, and he would kiss the argument away, and then Dan would fling a handful of popcorn at them, and --
“So, have we decided on new contingent fees?”
And the boss was back.
“And then he gave me this new bracelet. See?” Donna cocked her wrist to show off a glitter of diamonds. She had long, thin hands, her fingers almost bony to the point of being sharp. If she gestured any more broadly than usual, she’d likely put out her neighbor’s eye.
Carolyn glanced down at her own hands, weapon-scarred and devoid of real fingerprints. After several moments, she realized the rhythm she was drumming was one Bob had taught her. The nearest handy distraction was a pen. Carolyn scooped it up and set a-twirling. She’d learnt several interesting pen-flips in her time. In fact, she was fully capable of shooting a pen across a room like a small spear. She’d almost blinded her weapons master once that way.
“So you think he’ll propose?” Suzy asked.
Donna tossed her head. “Oh, please. I’ll be done with him and onto the next man before he knows what hit him. This time I’m thinking...a guy with a Maserati.”
Carolyn bit the inside of her cheek to keep from blurting out a comment. Donna was about to get a pen through the eye.
“What about you, Carolyn? Any new men in your life?” Lola’s sudden question jolted Carolyn out of her pen-flipping rhythm, and the pen launched itself across the table. Toward Donna.
Carolyn squeaked and lunged, closed a fist over the pen mid-air. The other women went silent and stared at Carolyn’s hand.
“Um...nice catch,” Lola said faintly.
Carolyn lowered her hand slowly, set the pen down beside her notepad. Then she curled her hands demurely in her lap. “No man in my life. You know me - it’s all about billing hours.”
The admission earned precisely the frosty, dismissive look Carolyn had been hoping for, and then it was Amanda’s turn to brag about her latest fling. Carolyn stared down at her hands, two weapons curled around each other, and remembered candle-lit nights in foreign hotel rooms. She remembered laughter and pillow fights and curling up in her own corner of the bed, Bob’s arms wrapped around her, both of them watching as Scott and Clay squabbled over which channel to watch while Dan picked a movie and settled in. Bob would twine his fingers with hers and tease her gently about how small her hands were. She’d have to remind him that, in karate lessons, she had a much better punch, and he would kiss the argument away, and then Dan would fling a handful of popcorn at them, and --
“So, have we decided on new contingent fees?”
And the boss was back.
My Own Hands
My own hands were once unscared. Once, the hands of a writter, a crafter, smooth. Of course they were not always as strong as they are now.
Deft and concise movments now are the strange grace to my hands. The smooth movements of the blade in my hands, rapidly dicing food into neat and even pieces, the same hands that can filet a salmon, can carve a cantalope into a flower, can pipe a rose out of icing for a cake.
They are perpetually brown from the heat in the kitchens. Always a new cut, a new scar. Burns turning smooth flesh puckered and angry red; burns that fade into grayish brown lines forever engraved into my skin, another story. Skin so dry from constant scrubbing, I could itch my face with the backs of my hands. It's strange, so brown, yet an ashy pallor from the lack of moisture in the air.
Torn and bleading fingers, scraped by a grater, singed on the grill, slammed in the washer. I don't want my hands touched by others; hands so harsh. Hands perpetually scented with garlic and onion, so much that I don't notice it anymore.
(Lame I know, but I was stuck for something to write. I know it's really bad, but c'est la vie. Can't have a great one every day, especially when I am on vacation.)
Deft and concise movments now are the strange grace to my hands. The smooth movements of the blade in my hands, rapidly dicing food into neat and even pieces, the same hands that can filet a salmon, can carve a cantalope into a flower, can pipe a rose out of icing for a cake.
They are perpetually brown from the heat in the kitchens. Always a new cut, a new scar. Burns turning smooth flesh puckered and angry red; burns that fade into grayish brown lines forever engraved into my skin, another story. Skin so dry from constant scrubbing, I could itch my face with the backs of my hands. It's strange, so brown, yet an ashy pallor from the lack of moisture in the air.
Torn and bleading fingers, scraped by a grater, singed on the grill, slammed in the washer. I don't want my hands touched by others; hands so harsh. Hands perpetually scented with garlic and onion, so much that I don't notice it anymore.
(Lame I know, but I was stuck for something to write. I know it's really bad, but c'est la vie. Can't have a great one every day, especially when I am on vacation.)
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Tiny Spiders
She was crying, and Clay didn’t know what to do. He would be the first to admit that Bob was by far the better teacher. It was Bob who’d fled to Thailand first, and his tales of glorious beaches and days in the sun had lured Clay away from California and his quixotic ideas about making it on the silver screen. At least twice a day, Clay wondered why he was still here when it was pretty obvious Bob didn’t need him to help teach.
Only Bob was gone, chasing something that was either a hoax, a dream, or a cruel joke, and now Clay was staring down at a crying five-year-old and wondering what the hell he should do. Bob usually handled things like this. Clay knelt so he was eye-level with the girl.
“Hey,” he said, doing his best to mimic Bob’s comforting tone. “He didn’t mean to hurt you - you just bonked heads. He said he’s sorry. Are you going to stop crying now?”
That just made her cry more.
Clay winced. He held out one hand. “Hey, you...want to come help Teacher Clay play his guitar while everyone eats lunch?”
Her tears subsided for a moment, and she stared at his hand. Clay had every urge to tug it back and let it fall to his side, and then she put her hand in his. For a moment, Clay could only stare. Her hand was tiny compared to his. Her entire hand, palm and chubby splayed fingers at all, fit onto the palm of his hand. He’d always had spidery hands for being the skinniest of the brothers Summers, but then he’d always joked he’d needed it for his bass - after all, his instrument was almost too much music for one man.
“Where Teacher Bob?” the girl asked.
“You mean where is Teacher Bob? He had to go to America, but he’ll be back.” I hope. Clay closed his hand carefully around hers, starkly aware of how tiny and fragile her bones were, how soft her skin was. “Now, you want to learn to play a song?”
Her eyes lit up at the word “play”, and Clay supposed he should have been glad that this wasn’t one of his good guitars, just a cheap acoustic he’d picked up at a pawn shop.
It took a bit of maneuvering, but then Clay had the girl on his lap and the guitar semi-perched on her knees even though he was supporting most of its weight. He let her explore the strings and the neck, the fretboard, the body and the pegs - although he turned the strings as soon as she was done poking at them. Her tiny hands were like little spiders alive with curiosity, and her eyes were wide with wonder, and Clay wondered when he’d stopped looking at music like that, when it became a shield and a retreat and the only way he knew how to be human once more.
Only Bob was gone, chasing something that was either a hoax, a dream, or a cruel joke, and now Clay was staring down at a crying five-year-old and wondering what the hell he should do. Bob usually handled things like this. Clay knelt so he was eye-level with the girl.
“Hey,” he said, doing his best to mimic Bob’s comforting tone. “He didn’t mean to hurt you - you just bonked heads. He said he’s sorry. Are you going to stop crying now?”
That just made her cry more.
Clay winced. He held out one hand. “Hey, you...want to come help Teacher Clay play his guitar while everyone eats lunch?”
Her tears subsided for a moment, and she stared at his hand. Clay had every urge to tug it back and let it fall to his side, and then she put her hand in his. For a moment, Clay could only stare. Her hand was tiny compared to his. Her entire hand, palm and chubby splayed fingers at all, fit onto the palm of his hand. He’d always had spidery hands for being the skinniest of the brothers Summers, but then he’d always joked he’d needed it for his bass - after all, his instrument was almost too much music for one man.
“Where Teacher Bob?” the girl asked.
“You mean where is Teacher Bob? He had to go to America, but he’ll be back.” I hope. Clay closed his hand carefully around hers, starkly aware of how tiny and fragile her bones were, how soft her skin was. “Now, you want to learn to play a song?”
Her eyes lit up at the word “play”, and Clay supposed he should have been glad that this wasn’t one of his good guitars, just a cheap acoustic he’d picked up at a pawn shop.
It took a bit of maneuvering, but then Clay had the girl on his lap and the guitar semi-perched on her knees even though he was supporting most of its weight. He let her explore the strings and the neck, the fretboard, the body and the pegs - although he turned the strings as soon as she was done poking at them. Her tiny hands were like little spiders alive with curiosity, and her eyes were wide with wonder, and Clay wondered when he’d stopped looking at music like that, when it became a shield and a retreat and the only way he knew how to be human once more.
Not Your Fault
“Don’t touch me!” The woman screamed and kicked out when Ellis tried to approach. He grunted when her heel connected with his thigh, and he staggered back.
Scott froze in the doorway. The woman’s face was bruised and swollen on one side, and she had thick scratches on her throat. Her shirt was torn and exposed more bruising on her ribs, scratches and bruises on her hips. After one horrified moment, Scott knew.
His hands curled into fists, and he felt his fingernails bite into his palms.
“Ma’am,” Ellis said. He reached for her.
She shrieked and tossed her head wildly, sank back against the closet door. Her chest heaved, and Scott realized she was crying.
“Ellis,” he said, “get back.”
“Summers, she’s obviously high --”
“Get back, moron.” Scott set down his emergency bag and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “My name is Scott Summers and I’m an EMT. We’re here to help. Officers will be here as soon as possible to secure the scene, but we need to take you to a hospital to get you checked over --”
“Stay back, monster!” She threw one of her shoes at him.
Scott ducked instinctively, then lowered himself to his knees. “We’re not going to hurt you. I promise.”
She twitched like a rabid animal when he extended one hand, palm up.
“I promise.” Scott caught her gaze and held it.
She lunged at him and sank her teeth into his hand. Scott bit back a curse and took the pain, felt the burn in his palm and let it wash through him, calm him down. He remembered sitting in his room with his beat-up old acoustic and playing till his fingers bled, playing louder and angrier so he didn’t have to hear Bob’s quiet sobs in the next room. Scott knew there was something wrong with him, that physical pain calmed his fury, but he took it.
After a moment, the woman pulled back. She was trembling. Scott instinctively curled his fingers over the wound and was surprised to realize that his calluses from playing the guitar were gone. Had it been that long?
“I’m sorry,” the woman whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry --”
Scott reached out to her once more. “Shhh,” he whispered. “We’re here to help. Come on with us.”
The woman reached out and curled her hand tightly around his. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Scott wished he’d been able to say these words to his brother back when he needed them. “It’s not your fault.”
Her grip on his hand tightened, but he ignored the pain, just stared at the convergence of fingers and skin where her hand clutched his. He studied the contrast in light and shadow, the delicate shadows between her knuckles and the thickness of his fingers compared to hers. Her fingers were almost as long as his, but more slender, and they curled like claws against his skin while she cried.
Scott froze in the doorway. The woman’s face was bruised and swollen on one side, and she had thick scratches on her throat. Her shirt was torn and exposed more bruising on her ribs, scratches and bruises on her hips. After one horrified moment, Scott knew.
His hands curled into fists, and he felt his fingernails bite into his palms.
“Ma’am,” Ellis said. He reached for her.
She shrieked and tossed her head wildly, sank back against the closet door. Her chest heaved, and Scott realized she was crying.
“Ellis,” he said, “get back.”
“Summers, she’s obviously high --”
“Get back, moron.” Scott set down his emergency bag and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “My name is Scott Summers and I’m an EMT. We’re here to help. Officers will be here as soon as possible to secure the scene, but we need to take you to a hospital to get you checked over --”
“Stay back, monster!” She threw one of her shoes at him.
Scott ducked instinctively, then lowered himself to his knees. “We’re not going to hurt you. I promise.”
She twitched like a rabid animal when he extended one hand, palm up.
“I promise.” Scott caught her gaze and held it.
She lunged at him and sank her teeth into his hand. Scott bit back a curse and took the pain, felt the burn in his palm and let it wash through him, calm him down. He remembered sitting in his room with his beat-up old acoustic and playing till his fingers bled, playing louder and angrier so he didn’t have to hear Bob’s quiet sobs in the next room. Scott knew there was something wrong with him, that physical pain calmed his fury, but he took it.
After a moment, the woman pulled back. She was trembling. Scott instinctively curled his fingers over the wound and was surprised to realize that his calluses from playing the guitar were gone. Had it been that long?
“I’m sorry,” the woman whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry --”
Scott reached out to her once more. “Shhh,” he whispered. “We’re here to help. Come on with us.”
The woman reached out and curled her hand tightly around his. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Scott wished he’d been able to say these words to his brother back when he needed them. “It’s not your fault.”
Her grip on his hand tightened, but he ignored the pain, just stared at the convergence of fingers and skin where her hand clutched his. He studied the contrast in light and shadow, the delicate shadows between her knuckles and the thickness of his fingers compared to hers. Her fingers were almost as long as his, but more slender, and they curled like claws against his skin while she cried.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Which Wire
"Okay, now locate the primary and the secondary switches and trace them back to the source," David's voice sounded loud and clear in his ear.
Steve's quick hands sifted through the wires attached to the bomb that he was practicing on. "Okay, this is the primary, but it looks like there is a third redundancy down here," Steve's long fingers traced a blue wire gently as it twisted back on itself and into the core of the device.
"Now the real question," David said, "is which wire do you cut? Bear in mind that you only have three more minutes before it goes off."
Steve grasped a small pair of wire cutters in his left hand, looking at the bomb. He looked again at the bundle of wires. Smiling, he grasped the green wire gently and cut it with a quick motion.
Steve couldn't help his cry of surprise when the little bomb went off in a shower of confetti.
Picking the colored paper out of his hair, Steve scowled in frustration. "I though I had it right for sure that time," Steve said as David came into the practice room.
"Don't worry about it, You'll get it eventually," David said, patting Steve on the shoulder. "Lets just hope it's before you have to disarm am bomb for real."
Steve's quick hands sifted through the wires attached to the bomb that he was practicing on. "Okay, this is the primary, but it looks like there is a third redundancy down here," Steve's long fingers traced a blue wire gently as it twisted back on itself and into the core of the device.
"Now the real question," David said, "is which wire do you cut? Bear in mind that you only have three more minutes before it goes off."
Steve grasped a small pair of wire cutters in his left hand, looking at the bomb. He looked again at the bundle of wires. Smiling, he grasped the green wire gently and cut it with a quick motion.
Steve couldn't help his cry of surprise when the little bomb went off in a shower of confetti.
Picking the colored paper out of his hair, Steve scowled in frustration. "I though I had it right for sure that time," Steve said as David came into the practice room.
"Don't worry about it, You'll get it eventually," David said, patting Steve on the shoulder. "Lets just hope it's before you have to disarm am bomb for real."
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Used To Play Piano
Dan could only stare at his hands, white-knuckled and trembling, as they curled around his gun. The shot was still ringing in his ears, and all he could think was, I used to play piano with these hands.
He remembered being fifteen years old and sitting at a grand piano in a hotel restaurant, smiling at a camera and showing a stranger how his brothers’ rock’n’roll could be converted into a slow, poignant melody.
He’d always had the prettiest hands of the lot - whenever they rewatched old videos of themselves hosting the Juno awards, Clay would make fun of how girly his hands were for the Celine Dion joke. Dan always defended himself - he was the piano player. His hands were supposed to be graceful.
“Summers, I need you to let go of the gun.”
Dan blinked. Officer Henry was standing beside him, trying to ease the gun out of his hands. Dan’s hands tightened reflexively, and hell, when had his hands become so pale?
“Officer, the gun. It’s safe now.” Henry smiled weakly.
Dan took a deep breath. “Just give me a moment to unclench, okay?” He could remember twelve-hour-days in the basement in the house in Nashville, how swollen and cramped his hands were after rehearsals. His pretty little hands would curl into tight claws because he’d been playing so hard and so long, and he usually had to soak them in hot water and get Bob to rub them before he could even move them again.
Not even Bob would help now.
“Is he dead?” Dan asked.
Henry glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah.” He swallowed hard. “You’re lucky - he has a piece on him.”
He remembered being fifteen years old and sitting at a grand piano in a hotel restaurant, smiling at a camera and showing a stranger how his brothers’ rock’n’roll could be converted into a slow, poignant melody.
He’d always had the prettiest hands of the lot - whenever they rewatched old videos of themselves hosting the Juno awards, Clay would make fun of how girly his hands were for the Celine Dion joke. Dan always defended himself - he was the piano player. His hands were supposed to be graceful.
“Summers, I need you to let go of the gun.”
Dan blinked. Officer Henry was standing beside him, trying to ease the gun out of his hands. Dan’s hands tightened reflexively, and hell, when had his hands become so pale?
“Officer, the gun. It’s safe now.” Henry smiled weakly.
Dan took a deep breath. “Just give me a moment to unclench, okay?” He could remember twelve-hour-days in the basement in the house in Nashville, how swollen and cramped his hands were after rehearsals. His pretty little hands would curl into tight claws because he’d been playing so hard and so long, and he usually had to soak them in hot water and get Bob to rub them before he could even move them again.
Not even Bob would help now.
“Is he dead?” Dan asked.
Henry glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah.” He swallowed hard. “You’re lucky - he has a piece on him.”
Monday, July 6, 2009
Boy With the Beat
“Do you even know how to play a guitar?” Sonny asked. He hovered over Bob and watched while Bob fumbled with the chords.
Bob dragged a hand through his hair and stared down at the crumpled napkin where he’d scribbled hasty lyrics and a dash of chords, then set the guitar aside for a moment.
“You done with it?” Sonny asked. His breath was rancid and he definitely had several old meals in his beard, but Bob didn’t care.
“No, not yet. It’s just --”
“Can you even write a song?” Sonny asked.
“Yes! I’ve been writing songs since I was seven. It’s just -- I was the drummer, all right? Clay tried to teach me how to play the guitar, but my hands just weren’t made for that.”
Sonny blinked. “Breathe, kid. It’s just a song.”
Just a song. Bob wanted to laugh. He did take a deep breath, and then he stared down at his hands. For twelve years now he’d pretended that all that mattered was dexterity, the quick rhythm of palms and knuckles, from brushes and sticks to bare hands on a box. Clay had longer fingers, more graceful hands, but then he had the smaller, thinner frame. Somehow, despite the fact that they were twins, he was prettier.
“Going to try again?” Sonny reached for the guitar.
“My fifty bucks isn’t up yet,” Bob said. “I just - need a minute.” He closed his eyes and set his hands on his knees. Then he curled his hands into fists and began to play. It was the first beat, the easy beat, the oldest beat from their oldest song, and it evolved from one song to the next, one album to another. When he opened his eyes, his palms were red and tingling, his knuckles swollen. He stared down at his hands once more. He had blunt-fingered, broad hands, like a carpenter or a construction worker, not a musician.
“That was...you’re crazy,” Sonny said.
Bob scooped up the guitar and tried the chord sequence once more. He was surprised at how steady his hands were this time, and he smiled.
“That sounds pretty good, actually,” Sonny said.
“Thanks.” Bob’s smile widened. “Now, on to the second verse.”
He barely noticed when a crowd began to gather around the edges of his vision.
“Every step along the way is part of who we are today...”
Bob dragged a hand through his hair and stared down at the crumpled napkin where he’d scribbled hasty lyrics and a dash of chords, then set the guitar aside for a moment.
“You done with it?” Sonny asked. His breath was rancid and he definitely had several old meals in his beard, but Bob didn’t care.
“No, not yet. It’s just --”
“Can you even write a song?” Sonny asked.
“Yes! I’ve been writing songs since I was seven. It’s just -- I was the drummer, all right? Clay tried to teach me how to play the guitar, but my hands just weren’t made for that.”
Sonny blinked. “Breathe, kid. It’s just a song.”
Just a song. Bob wanted to laugh. He did take a deep breath, and then he stared down at his hands. For twelve years now he’d pretended that all that mattered was dexterity, the quick rhythm of palms and knuckles, from brushes and sticks to bare hands on a box. Clay had longer fingers, more graceful hands, but then he had the smaller, thinner frame. Somehow, despite the fact that they were twins, he was prettier.
“Going to try again?” Sonny reached for the guitar.
“My fifty bucks isn’t up yet,” Bob said. “I just - need a minute.” He closed his eyes and set his hands on his knees. Then he curled his hands into fists and began to play. It was the first beat, the easy beat, the oldest beat from their oldest song, and it evolved from one song to the next, one album to another. When he opened his eyes, his palms were red and tingling, his knuckles swollen. He stared down at his hands once more. He had blunt-fingered, broad hands, like a carpenter or a construction worker, not a musician.
“That was...you’re crazy,” Sonny said.
Bob scooped up the guitar and tried the chord sequence once more. He was surprised at how steady his hands were this time, and he smiled.
“That sounds pretty good, actually,” Sonny said.
“Thanks.” Bob’s smile widened. “Now, on to the second verse.”
He barely noticed when a crowd began to gather around the edges of his vision.
“Every step along the way is part of who we are today...”
Pictures and Memories
David pulled a scrap of a photo out of his pocket, it was torn and creased. DAvid studied the people in the picture, Arianna and himself. They were holding hands and smiling at the camera. David closed his eyes, he could remember that day as if it were yesterday. They had gone to the fair, Arianna had beaten him in the carnival games. They had ridden the Farris wheel, and cuddled under the stars. One of the carnival workers had agreed to take their picture.
David looked at his hands in the picture; looked at them now. In the picture they had been smooth, strong, yet cleans, unblemished and innocent. David placed the picture in his lap, and spread his hands to see them clearly. Palm, down, his hands were browner now than they were then, fine lines crossed the backs of his hands. Long fingers ended in blunt tips, fingers made leaner by a hard life. Turning his hands over and looking at the palms, David noted the deep red scars running across his fingers; fingers that were also thick with callouses from years of fighting and weapons training. Hands that were broken with years of hard use.
Looking at the photo again David shook his head. He could wish for clean and gentle hands again. He could wish for a lot of things that couldn't be or he couldn't have. Soft hands belong to the her, to the past, he mused. Slipping the picture back into his pocket he looked at his hands once more.
This was his life, his fate. The hands of a warrior.
David looked at his hands in the picture; looked at them now. In the picture they had been smooth, strong, yet cleans, unblemished and innocent. David placed the picture in his lap, and spread his hands to see them clearly. Palm, down, his hands were browner now than they were then, fine lines crossed the backs of his hands. Long fingers ended in blunt tips, fingers made leaner by a hard life. Turning his hands over and looking at the palms, David noted the deep red scars running across his fingers; fingers that were also thick with callouses from years of fighting and weapons training. Hands that were broken with years of hard use.
Looking at the photo again David shook his head. He could wish for clean and gentle hands again. He could wish for a lot of things that couldn't be or he couldn't have. Soft hands belong to the her, to the past, he mused. Slipping the picture back into his pocket he looked at his hands once more.
This was his life, his fate. The hands of a warrior.
Project Assignment # 34 - Hands
This week should focus on hands in the story. Is it an old ladies gnarled and wrinkled hands, a babies smooth perfect skin? Does Vince have strong hands? what kind of Hands does the wordsmith have? Hands can tell a lot about a character. Rough, smooth, calloused, manicured. Do their hands have a nervous twitch?
Have fun with your descriptions.
I promise I will do my overview later today.
Have fun with your descriptions.
I promise I will do my overview later today.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Overview #33: World-Building
Ugh, I am so terrible at making myself write everyday. That, and I am quite scatterbrained in general, so I tend to just... forget. I know, terrible of me to forget M&M! What's wrong with me?!
Anyhow, the two entries I did write this week were... alright I suppose. I didn't really like the bowling alley one, but I wanted to describe a local haunt kind of thing, a place where pretty much everyone hangs out at one time or another. And I wrote about Sam's apartment complex because I feel like all you really get of Sam most of the time is her angsting over Vince. So I wanted to do something that was strictly Sam, for Sam.
Well... I promise I will try harder to write everyday. Not just for M&M, but also for myself. Thanks you guys.
Overview #33: World-Building
I essentially failed at this exercise. But whatever. I think switching to random characters for this week might have done me in, but there are worse things I could do. I'll fully admit to pretty much describing the different places I go to in Omaha, and I definitely caricatured them up a bit, but part of that was for Kyle's character as I made him up. The cheapness of literally calling places North Omaha, South Omaha, and West Omaha (there is no East Omaha - that is downtown) gave the world a more coherent feel than it really had, to me. It isn't easy to balance having characters and building a world, but Jade was right - a world comes alive because of the characters who inhabit it and interact with it, who observe it and comment on it and try to change it.
This exercise mostly brought home my utter inability to spatially process places alone in my head without visibly seeing what I'm describing. I think I improved as the week went, coming up with a lame if coherent story line and developing a fairly solid character for Kyle, who shall go the way of the dodo with whatever the impending challenge may be. In looking back, my sense of description improved, because in considering what I'd write for the day I'd watch the world around me and try to categorize the little visual details that fed into my overall impression of the place. (South Omaha has houses crammed closer together than in North Omaha, but North Omaha somehow feels more ghetto and unsettling than South Omaha.)
Well, better luck next week. At least I got my daily words, right?
This exercise mostly brought home my utter inability to spatially process places alone in my head without visibly seeing what I'm describing. I think I improved as the week went, coming up with a lame if coherent story line and developing a fairly solid character for Kyle, who shall go the way of the dodo with whatever the impending challenge may be. In looking back, my sense of description improved, because in considering what I'd write for the day I'd watch the world around me and try to categorize the little visual details that fed into my overall impression of the place. (South Omaha has houses crammed closer together than in North Omaha, but North Omaha somehow feels more ghetto and unsettling than South Omaha.)
Well, better luck next week. At least I got my daily words, right?
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Alleged Little Mexico
South Omaha was theoretically its own ghetto apart from North Omaha. Most didn’t call it the ghetto, though - it was Little Mexico. Maybe Kyle was just friends with too many white people, but in all his ventures south of Dodge he hadn’t seen a single Mexican market, piñata, taco joint, or remotely Catholic-looking church. The taco place around the corner from where he lived was more Mexican than any place he’d seen in South Omaha.
The alleged Little Mexico didn’t have the same desperate air that North Omaha carried. Its streets had the same bizarre grey overtones that Council Bluffs carried, and some of the houses could do with a new paint job, but Kyle didn’t feel nearly as suffocated there. Sure, the houses were crammed a little closer together, and the different families - most of whom were admittedly Mexican - did seem to spill from one property onto another, but their lawns were neater and Kyle did feel so uneasy as he drove the streets, searching for Drew’s new place. His lady had put the kaibash on a West Omaha mansion pretty quickly.
Children clustered around a new toy on the driveway of one of the houses and barely glanced Kyle’s car as he passed. One of them even smiled and waved. That was different - in North Omaha he’d get flipped off for making eye contact. The children’s mother came out and rounded them up, speaking in rapid Spanish, and she cast a wary look Kyle’s car, but he didn’t mind.
Drew lived in a strange white pocket of Little Mexico in a whitewashed townhome crammed into the middle of a series of identical townhomes. They had less color than the crowded-together houses across the streets, and after a moment Kyle realized it was because no one’s children were playing outside. He parked behind a beat-up black pick-up truck and reached for his cell phone. He still wasn’t going to stand around alone.
(327 words)
The alleged Little Mexico didn’t have the same desperate air that North Omaha carried. Its streets had the same bizarre grey overtones that Council Bluffs carried, and some of the houses could do with a new paint job, but Kyle didn’t feel nearly as suffocated there. Sure, the houses were crammed a little closer together, and the different families - most of whom were admittedly Mexican - did seem to spill from one property onto another, but their lawns were neater and Kyle did feel so uneasy as he drove the streets, searching for Drew’s new place. His lady had put the kaibash on a West Omaha mansion pretty quickly.
Children clustered around a new toy on the driveway of one of the houses and barely glanced Kyle’s car as he passed. One of them even smiled and waved. That was different - in North Omaha he’d get flipped off for making eye contact. The children’s mother came out and rounded them up, speaking in rapid Spanish, and she cast a wary look Kyle’s car, but he didn’t mind.
Drew lived in a strange white pocket of Little Mexico in a whitewashed townhome crammed into the middle of a series of identical townhomes. They had less color than the crowded-together houses across the streets, and after a moment Kyle realized it was because no one’s children were playing outside. He parked behind a beat-up black pick-up truck and reached for his cell phone. He still wasn’t going to stand around alone.
(327 words)
Friday, July 3, 2009
Over The Bridge
When they said Iowa was “just over the bridge”, they meant it. Kyle had been in downtown Omaha before - the place was a harrowing maze of one-way streets. The grid was at its most perfect downtown, all parallel streets and perfect right angles, but the idea that one could simply travel the grid to an intended destination was a fallacy, so Kyle had never ventured below tenth street in his desperation not to get lost.
What he didn’t realize was that Dodge - and Douglas running neatly parallel to it in the other direction - turned into Iowa below tenth street. Omaha went from tenth street to the bridge to a different state entirely.
Kyle could feel it when he crossed the bridge. Drew and the others in the office called Council Bluffs the ghetto, but it wasn’t a ghetto the same way North Omaha wasn’t really a ghetto. Something about the grey tinge to everything - buildings, streets, signs, even the lights - caused Kyle to automatically hunch his shoulders and tighten his grip on the steering wheel as he hunted for the shoe store where Drew’s girlfriend’s shoes were waiting to be picked up.
The sidewalks were disturbingly empty, given that Broadway was supposedly the main drag. Kyle watched the other cars cram the road and tried to figure out what it was that made the place so dingy. He’d rolled up his windows as soon as he hit thirty-second street, because a stench that greatly resembled raw sewage had attacked his car. Perhaps what was most disconcerting was the way none of the buildings were actually on Broadway itself. A dizzying array of dim and flickering signs advertising various establishments crowded for attention above the sidewalk, but everything was set back a ways, and Kyle had to crane his neck to see if the right building was there.
He missed the Payless Shoe Source and had to find a side street to flip around and backtrack. He couldn’t wait to get back over the bridge, but he was sure that once he made it, invisible fingers of unease would claw at the back of his neck until he fell asleep.
(361 words)
What he didn’t realize was that Dodge - and Douglas running neatly parallel to it in the other direction - turned into Iowa below tenth street. Omaha went from tenth street to the bridge to a different state entirely.
Kyle could feel it when he crossed the bridge. Drew and the others in the office called Council Bluffs the ghetto, but it wasn’t a ghetto the same way North Omaha wasn’t really a ghetto. Something about the grey tinge to everything - buildings, streets, signs, even the lights - caused Kyle to automatically hunch his shoulders and tighten his grip on the steering wheel as he hunted for the shoe store where Drew’s girlfriend’s shoes were waiting to be picked up.
The sidewalks were disturbingly empty, given that Broadway was supposedly the main drag. Kyle watched the other cars cram the road and tried to figure out what it was that made the place so dingy. He’d rolled up his windows as soon as he hit thirty-second street, because a stench that greatly resembled raw sewage had attacked his car. Perhaps what was most disconcerting was the way none of the buildings were actually on Broadway itself. A dizzying array of dim and flickering signs advertising various establishments crowded for attention above the sidewalk, but everything was set back a ways, and Kyle had to crane his neck to see if the right building was there.
He missed the Payless Shoe Source and had to find a side street to flip around and backtrack. He couldn’t wait to get back over the bridge, but he was sure that once he made it, invisible fingers of unease would claw at the back of his neck until he fell asleep.
(361 words)
Project in the Works
David walked into his room and placed his backpack on his desk. Kicking off his shoes he placed them on the floor of his closet and tossed his dirty socks into the hamper. Walking back to his desk, David unzipped his backpack and pulled out his textbook and notepads, placing them neatly on his desk.
The room was spacious, the walls lined neatly with posters and pictures in frames. A computer sat humming in one corner of the room. A bookshelf was near the window, the titles organized by genre and author. An electronic keyboard was tucked into one corner, sheets of music spread on the music stand.
Strangely the only disorderly aspect to the room was the bed. Sheets and blankets were tangled on the end of the bed. Papers were crumpled and scattered over the bedding, sketches and snatches of writing. Drawings lay at strange angles and bizarre juxtapositions to each other. A pillow and a light blanket lay on the floor, as if he had chosen to sleep on the floor rather than disturb the pattern of the papers.
David glanced over at the bed, twitching as if he were going to jump up and rearrange the papers on the bed. Sighing he turned back to his homework, working out a few sums. Looking at the bed again, David almost made it out of his chair before he stopped himself. Grinding his teeth, David turned his back squarely on his project and forced himself to finish his work.
"Soon enough," he said.
The room was spacious, the walls lined neatly with posters and pictures in frames. A computer sat humming in one corner of the room. A bookshelf was near the window, the titles organized by genre and author. An electronic keyboard was tucked into one corner, sheets of music spread on the music stand.
Strangely the only disorderly aspect to the room was the bed. Sheets and blankets were tangled on the end of the bed. Papers were crumpled and scattered over the bedding, sketches and snatches of writing. Drawings lay at strange angles and bizarre juxtapositions to each other. A pillow and a light blanket lay on the floor, as if he had chosen to sleep on the floor rather than disturb the pattern of the papers.
David glanced over at the bed, twitching as if he were going to jump up and rearrange the papers on the bed. Sighing he turned back to his homework, working out a few sums. Looking at the bed again, David almost made it out of his chair before he stopped himself. Grinding his teeth, David turned his back squarely on his project and forced himself to finish his work.
"Soon enough," he said.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
West Omaha
“Now this is a house call.” Drew whistled appreciatively as Kyle steered the car off the main drag and down a side street.
Maybe this neighborhood was safer, but to Kyle it was...boring. Sure, the houses were big, and the lawns were neat, but everything looked the same. It was suburban hell at its finest. Most of the houses were cookie-cutter generic, from the fancy molding around the windows and the stylish wooden shutters set to make the places look semi-rustic. If just one of the houses had looked like that, it would have been fine, but driving through a bewildering subdivision of over a hundred of them was like being lost in some sort of Jungian nightmare hell. It was Kyle’s subconscious reminding him why he had a loft downtown on the borders of Little Mexico, the ghetto, and corporate satanism.
“I’d kill to be able to afford a place out here,” Drew said. “When Melissa and I get married, if I can score a place like this --”
Kyle privately thought that if Drew moved Melissa out to one of these mansion-wannabe monsters with the fake chandeliers and overly thick cream carpets, she’d tear her own hair out. All of the streets had ridiculous names on overly-gilded signs that were difficult to read in the glare of fading sunlight. Did that say Black Swan or Black Dawn? And who’d want to live on Black Dawn anyway?
Predictably, the house that had summoned them was at the end of a cul-de-sac, perched at the top of a ridiculously long and curved driveway. Golden light spilled from the massive front windows - a bay window on the second floor - and it felt like a three-eyed demon was staring down at them. The squat doors for the three-car-garage grimaced like so many teeth.
Kyle parked the car at the sidewalk and followed the curving path up the slope, nervous about stepping on the immaculately manicured lawn. From the doorstep, he could see the fake chandelier, and - oh hell, the woman coming to answer the door was wearing a 1950’s house dress, complete with pearls and high heels.
So this was West Omaha.
(370 words)
Maybe this neighborhood was safer, but to Kyle it was...boring. Sure, the houses were big, and the lawns were neat, but everything looked the same. It was suburban hell at its finest. Most of the houses were cookie-cutter generic, from the fancy molding around the windows and the stylish wooden shutters set to make the places look semi-rustic. If just one of the houses had looked like that, it would have been fine, but driving through a bewildering subdivision of over a hundred of them was like being lost in some sort of Jungian nightmare hell. It was Kyle’s subconscious reminding him why he had a loft downtown on the borders of Little Mexico, the ghetto, and corporate satanism.
“I’d kill to be able to afford a place out here,” Drew said. “When Melissa and I get married, if I can score a place like this --”
Kyle privately thought that if Drew moved Melissa out to one of these mansion-wannabe monsters with the fake chandeliers and overly thick cream carpets, she’d tear her own hair out. All of the streets had ridiculous names on overly-gilded signs that were difficult to read in the glare of fading sunlight. Did that say Black Swan or Black Dawn? And who’d want to live on Black Dawn anyway?
Predictably, the house that had summoned them was at the end of a cul-de-sac, perched at the top of a ridiculously long and curved driveway. Golden light spilled from the massive front windows - a bay window on the second floor - and it felt like a three-eyed demon was staring down at them. The squat doors for the three-car-garage grimaced like so many teeth.
Kyle parked the car at the sidewalk and followed the curving path up the slope, nervous about stepping on the immaculately manicured lawn. From the doorstep, he could see the fake chandelier, and - oh hell, the woman coming to answer the door was wearing a 1950’s house dress, complete with pearls and high heels.
So this was West Omaha.
(370 words)
The Trenches
David and Joe huddled in a fox hole; a few feet away, Mark, Bryan, and Steve were crouched in another. The steep earthen walls crumbled and dirt slithered to the ground as another mortar shell landed nearby.
"Join the Army, they said. See the world they said," Joe grumbled, shifting as more dirt found it's way down his shirt. He felt like it was caked on an inch thick by now.
David's smile was crooked, "this isn't the Army, we are a branch of the Marines. We go where they tell us, do what they tell us, no questions."
David stood up and fired a few rounds at the enemy. The screams of pain reported a direct hit. "I feel a bit like that game Whack-a-Mole. We pop up and pop down. And if we're lucky, we don't get hit back," David said as he crouched back beside Joe.
"At least can we have a war where it's cooler?" Joe asked, mopping the sweat out of his eyes and taking a long pull from his canteen.
"Can't help that the hot spots in the world right now are in the Middle East," David said, shrugging, and taking a swallow of his own warm water. He took in one more mouthful, swishing it around, and standing, spit it out quickly to get the grit out of his mouth. "Just imagine being in Alaska, salmon fishing in the rivers," David said, sitting back down, "at least trench warfare is nothing like it was in the other wars. Here it's relatively clean and sanitary."
"Hey Boss!" Steve hollered from the other hole.
"Yeah?"
"What is the deepest part of the ocean?"
"Challenger Deep," David hollered back.
David could hear a scuffle from the next hole over, and a faint, "ha, I told you so. Pay up."
David rolled his eyes. His team could be immature, but he wouldn't trust his life to any other group of men.
"Hey boss!" It was Bryan this time.
"What?"
"When can we go home?"
"We go home when we've won," David said.
"When we've won," He whispered to himself.
"Join the Army, they said. See the world they said," Joe grumbled, shifting as more dirt found it's way down his shirt. He felt like it was caked on an inch thick by now.
David's smile was crooked, "this isn't the Army, we are a branch of the Marines. We go where they tell us, do what they tell us, no questions."
David stood up and fired a few rounds at the enemy. The screams of pain reported a direct hit. "I feel a bit like that game Whack-a-Mole. We pop up and pop down. And if we're lucky, we don't get hit back," David said as he crouched back beside Joe.
"At least can we have a war where it's cooler?" Joe asked, mopping the sweat out of his eyes and taking a long pull from his canteen.
"Can't help that the hot spots in the world right now are in the Middle East," David said, shrugging, and taking a swallow of his own warm water. He took in one more mouthful, swishing it around, and standing, spit it out quickly to get the grit out of his mouth. "Just imagine being in Alaska, salmon fishing in the rivers," David said, sitting back down, "at least trench warfare is nothing like it was in the other wars. Here it's relatively clean and sanitary."
"Hey Boss!" Steve hollered from the other hole.
"Yeah?"
"What is the deepest part of the ocean?"
"Challenger Deep," David hollered back.
David could hear a scuffle from the next hole over, and a faint, "ha, I told you so. Pay up."
David rolled his eyes. His team could be immature, but he wouldn't trust his life to any other group of men.
"Hey boss!" It was Bryan this time.
"What?"
"When can we go home?"
"We go home when we've won," David said.
"When we've won," He whispered to himself.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
The Vein
Some people are bothered by the sounds of traffic, especially out here. Not me. My apartment complex sat right by the interstate and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The complex was made up of four buildings that stood straight and narrow, all alike, almost like giant bread boxes looming towards the sky. Of course, they weren’t very tall, with only a ground floor and one flight of stairs to speak of. Lights burned quietly between each set of apartments. The doors came in twos, with their numbers rusting away bold and black against the white paint.
The light was out near my apartment. It was the only one that didn’t shine. I didn’t care too much.
All that stood between me and that stretch of freeway was a small drain that bubbled along its way every time it rained, and a fence. If I could climb that fence, I’d be home free, thumbing my way to some other state, to some other city.
But I liked it here. I never heard many sirens, and I could always see the stars - lying on the hood of my beat up car, I could see everything, hear the noise, and at the same time drown it out.
(207 words)
The complex was made up of four buildings that stood straight and narrow, all alike, almost like giant bread boxes looming towards the sky. Of course, they weren’t very tall, with only a ground floor and one flight of stairs to speak of. Lights burned quietly between each set of apartments. The doors came in twos, with their numbers rusting away bold and black against the white paint.
The light was out near my apartment. It was the only one that didn’t shine. I didn’t care too much.
All that stood between me and that stretch of freeway was a small drain that bubbled along its way every time it rained, and a fence. If I could climb that fence, I’d be home free, thumbing my way to some other state, to some other city.
But I liked it here. I never heard many sirens, and I could always see the stars - lying on the hood of my beat up car, I could see everything, hear the noise, and at the same time drown it out.
(207 words)
Home
The place that David had come to call home was austere. On the surface it was a small bunker, but underneath was a world of concrete and florescent lights. Corridors that stretched on forever were designated alphanumerically. The walls were stark, bare concrete, reinforced with re bar at their core. Pipes were exposed in the ceiling, color coded for identification. Blast doors, accessible only through a key card blocked much of the facility. Sound seemed dampened here, the air sterile, scrubbed a thousand times by the filtration system.
Barrack rooms were kept spotless. Fifty beds to a room for new recruits, five to ten beds for the team barracks. The common areas were even silent, as if holding a breath, waiting for a slight movement.
Strobe lights and sirens sat at junctions, waiting to go off. Weapons lockers and equipment storage were immaculately organized. Everything spoke of flawless military precision.
Barrack rooms were kept spotless. Fifty beds to a room for new recruits, five to ten beds for the team barracks. The common areas were even silent, as if holding a breath, waiting for a slight movement.
Strobe lights and sirens sat at junctions, waiting to go off. Weapons lockers and equipment storage were immaculately organized. Everything spoke of flawless military precision.
The Right Address
“We’re not doctors. Why are we making house calls?” Drew asked.
Kyle hitched his laptop bag higher and sighed. “Keep your chin up and walk a little faster. Then we won’t get mugged.”
“Mugged?” Drew squeaked.
Kyle rolled his eyes. “Don’t be such a wuss.”
“We’re in the ghetto, man. Two white guys in the ghetto - we’re walking targets.”
“We will be if you keep talking like that,” Kyle said. “And this isn’t a ghetto.” At least, North Omaha wasn’t like the ghettos people saw on TV. The streets followed the semi-organized grid-system that the rest of Omaha pretended to follow, but the further north of Dodge the streets got, the more broken-down they became. Kyle and Drew would have been driving if Drew hadn’t blown a tire on a pothole. The cracks in the broken sidewalk seemed to have been timed to match the potholes in the tar, and Drew had almost tripped over his own shoes five times now.
“You told the caller what a house visit costs?” Drew asked.
“It’s not like Holgren would let us out of the office if I hadn’t pinned the caller down to actual payment,” Kyle said. Drew’s skepticism was understandable, though. Most of the houses in these neighborhoods were from the sixties and seventies, and a good number of them hadn’t had paint jobs since then. Lawns were overgrown and choked with weeds, and the scent of grits that wafted from open windows. Drew looked guilty when his stomach growled. Kyle would have paused to admire one of the ma-an-pa corner stores a little longer if the group of teenagers pouting over soda pop bottles weren’t glaring quite so fiercely.
“...Are we still even in the city limits anymore?” Drew asked.
Kyle peered at the GPS on his cell phone, then looked up. They’d reached the end of Maple Street, which had dead-ended here even though it was a main street further west, and there was a single house, ramshackle and made of what looked suspiciously like bamboo. It stood in the middle of a single, grassy field, and Kyle was convinced that a gang of men would emerge, singing songs about picking cotton. The grassy field was huge and dotted with trees, and the rest of the neighborhood seemed to have vanished from around it.
“Well,” Kyle said at last. “It’s the right address.”
Kyle hitched his laptop bag higher and sighed. “Keep your chin up and walk a little faster. Then we won’t get mugged.”
“Mugged?” Drew squeaked.
Kyle rolled his eyes. “Don’t be such a wuss.”
“We’re in the ghetto, man. Two white guys in the ghetto - we’re walking targets.”
“We will be if you keep talking like that,” Kyle said. “And this isn’t a ghetto.” At least, North Omaha wasn’t like the ghettos people saw on TV. The streets followed the semi-organized grid-system that the rest of Omaha pretended to follow, but the further north of Dodge the streets got, the more broken-down they became. Kyle and Drew would have been driving if Drew hadn’t blown a tire on a pothole. The cracks in the broken sidewalk seemed to have been timed to match the potholes in the tar, and Drew had almost tripped over his own shoes five times now.
“You told the caller what a house visit costs?” Drew asked.
“It’s not like Holgren would let us out of the office if I hadn’t pinned the caller down to actual payment,” Kyle said. Drew’s skepticism was understandable, though. Most of the houses in these neighborhoods were from the sixties and seventies, and a good number of them hadn’t had paint jobs since then. Lawns were overgrown and choked with weeds, and the scent of grits that wafted from open windows. Drew looked guilty when his stomach growled. Kyle would have paused to admire one of the ma-an-pa corner stores a little longer if the group of teenagers pouting over soda pop bottles weren’t glaring quite so fiercely.
“...Are we still even in the city limits anymore?” Drew asked.
Kyle peered at the GPS on his cell phone, then looked up. They’d reached the end of Maple Street, which had dead-ended here even though it was a main street further west, and there was a single house, ramshackle and made of what looked suspiciously like bamboo. It stood in the middle of a single, grassy field, and Kyle was convinced that a gang of men would emerge, singing songs about picking cotton. The grassy field was huge and dotted with trees, and the rest of the neighborhood seemed to have vanished from around it.
“Well,” Kyle said at last. “It’s the right address.”
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Warren Buffett's Neighborhood
“I’m telling you, this is Warren Buffet’s neighborhood.” Drew gestured to the view beyond the windshield.
Kyle sat back and stared at the row of suburban houses and wondered where Omaha had gone. Sure, this wasn’t downtown, but this wasn’t really the suburbs either. If he glanced over his shoulder, he could see the rush and zoom of cars on Dodge, which was the city’s main artery, but when he looked forward, it was as if he were staring into a whole new world.
And a whole new world it was, with dozens of little gingerbread houses topping fairy-tale adorable lawns. Each lawn was perfectly manicured and dotted with patches of flowery color that resembled carelessly-strewn candy. There was something uncanny to the overly-sharp slope of the roofs and the too-bright flowers in the trees that made Kyle wonder if he’d stepped into Wonderland. The faux-tudor finish in the front was kitschy and unsettling, and any moment a little dwarf with a pointed cap and a shovel was going to come a-whistling out the front door to the tune of “hi-ho, it’s off to work we go.”
“If I ever pay off my student loans, I’d totally love to buy a house here,” Drew said. “And not just because super-man Buffett lives here. It’d be a great place to raise kids, right?”
Kyle cast Drew a glance askance. “To raise kids. Sure.”
Drew rolled his eyes. “Are you sure you’re not gay?”
The woman who’d crawled out of Kyle’s bed this morning before he woke was pretty sure.
“All right.” Drew revved the car. “C’mon, I’ll take you to the Dundee Dell - they’ve got great imports on tap as well as seriously good food. You’ll like Omaha - you’ll see.”
Kyle sat back and stared at the row of suburban houses and wondered where Omaha had gone. Sure, this wasn’t downtown, but this wasn’t really the suburbs either. If he glanced over his shoulder, he could see the rush and zoom of cars on Dodge, which was the city’s main artery, but when he looked forward, it was as if he were staring into a whole new world.
And a whole new world it was, with dozens of little gingerbread houses topping fairy-tale adorable lawns. Each lawn was perfectly manicured and dotted with patches of flowery color that resembled carelessly-strewn candy. There was something uncanny to the overly-sharp slope of the roofs and the too-bright flowers in the trees that made Kyle wonder if he’d stepped into Wonderland. The faux-tudor finish in the front was kitschy and unsettling, and any moment a little dwarf with a pointed cap and a shovel was going to come a-whistling out the front door to the tune of “hi-ho, it’s off to work we go.”
“If I ever pay off my student loans, I’d totally love to buy a house here,” Drew said. “And not just because super-man Buffett lives here. It’d be a great place to raise kids, right?”
Kyle cast Drew a glance askance. “To raise kids. Sure.”
Drew rolled his eyes. “Are you sure you’re not gay?”
The woman who’d crawled out of Kyle’s bed this morning before he woke was pretty sure.
“All right.” Drew revved the car. “C’mon, I’ll take you to the Dundee Dell - they’ve got great imports on tap as well as seriously good food. You’ll like Omaha - you’ll see.”
Remembrance
Dim light filtered into the alley; reflections from the windows across the street. Busy shops, full of people and prosperity, just around the corner from hell.
Refuse was strewn on the ground; the air stale and rank with urine and vomit from any number of homeless people who would squat there at night. There was an empty dumpster near the mouth of the alley, lidless and reeking, one wheel missing from the front. It looked like it hadn't been moved for an age. The rest of the alley was filled with broken bits of human life. A T.V. with a smashed in screen, a child's bike, the paint faded and the once bright silver rusted, newspapers dating back to the previous decade, empty beer bottles and copious amounts of glass. Spray paint covered the walls, gang tags, claiming territory hardly worth defending.
David stood from where he crouched among the rubbish, a breeze carrying the stink of the alley into his face; making him scrunch his nose in distaste. A bunch of Forget-me-not left on the ground. They would be dead and shriveled in a few hours. David turned from the alley and walked to his car.
Dead and as lifeless as his love.
Refuse was strewn on the ground; the air stale and rank with urine and vomit from any number of homeless people who would squat there at night. There was an empty dumpster near the mouth of the alley, lidless and reeking, one wheel missing from the front. It looked like it hadn't been moved for an age. The rest of the alley was filled with broken bits of human life. A T.V. with a smashed in screen, a child's bike, the paint faded and the once bright silver rusted, newspapers dating back to the previous decade, empty beer bottles and copious amounts of glass. Spray paint covered the walls, gang tags, claiming territory hardly worth defending.
David stood from where he crouched among the rubbish, a breeze carrying the stink of the alley into his face; making him scrunch his nose in distaste. A bunch of Forget-me-not left on the ground. They would be dead and shriveled in a few hours. David turned from the alley and walked to his car.
Dead and as lifeless as his love.
Monday, June 29, 2009
King Pin
There weren’t many places to hang out in Fayeville. Vince and I always seemed to wind up at the bar (yes, one bar in a town of drunks), or at the bowling alley. I liked the nights where we pulled into the bowling alley parking lot more, because I knew I would have fun, instead of getting drunk and pretending to have fun.
The parking lot was fairly big, simply because business was usually booming every single night for one reason or another. Even though it was big, it had few lights, so what it did light up seemed ghostly. It kind of freaked me out sometimes. I hated going out to my truck alone when it got late. I always made Vince walk out with me.
Inside, you get thrown back a few decades, but in a teeny tiny town like Fayeville, you got used to it. It was like that everywhere you went. The pool tables stuck out like sore thumbs because Brad has only gotten them a few months ago. That’s what Vince and I did. We were slowly but surely becoming pool sharks.
“So what’ll it be tonight, Sam? Eight? Nine? Trick shots?” Vince was gathering the pool balls and putting them in the rack. I was mildly distracted by the rumble of the lanes, the whirring of the ball machines, the distant clicks and clacks of the one pinball machine that stood in the corner, lonely and itching for a quarter.
“Sam?”
“Hmmm?”
“Sam, why are you always spacing out on me? I think you’re coming down with a case of EDD or something.”
“It’s ADD, Vince. I’ll go get us some cues.”
(278 words)
The parking lot was fairly big, simply because business was usually booming every single night for one reason or another. Even though it was big, it had few lights, so what it did light up seemed ghostly. It kind of freaked me out sometimes. I hated going out to my truck alone when it got late. I always made Vince walk out with me.
Inside, you get thrown back a few decades, but in a teeny tiny town like Fayeville, you got used to it. It was like that everywhere you went. The pool tables stuck out like sore thumbs because Brad has only gotten them a few months ago. That’s what Vince and I did. We were slowly but surely becoming pool sharks.
“So what’ll it be tonight, Sam? Eight? Nine? Trick shots?” Vince was gathering the pool balls and putting them in the rack. I was mildly distracted by the rumble of the lanes, the whirring of the ball machines, the distant clicks and clacks of the one pinball machine that stood in the corner, lonely and itching for a quarter.
“Sam?”
“Hmmm?”
“Sam, why are you always spacing out on me? I think you’re coming down with a case of EDD or something.”
“It’s ADD, Vince. I’ll go get us some cues.”
(278 words)
Old Park Bench
The scent of loamy earth rose on the damp air. The sun had set behind the city, painting it a vivid orange, and dusk was falling. The city lights were starting to come on, glowing pale in the misty night. Fog was gathering and drifting into the streets, flowing like river currents towards the center of the city. The moon was rising, bathing the night in silver light.
A bench, partly hidden by the drooping branches of an ancient Elm tree, was tucked away near the trunk. The gnarled branches cradling the bench and casting deeper shadows on Arianna and David as they sat on the old park bench, nestled at the top of a hill, just outside of the city to the East. The breeze was blowing gently from the south, cool and soft.
Arianna snuggled into David's side, her head against his shoulder. She shivered lightly under his leather jacket that was slung around her shoulders. David placed his arm around her shoulders, sighing in contentment. Right now, he thought, right now, I'm happy.
David tipped his head back to look up at the sky. The clouds were starting to thin out, and he could see the first spots of light in the distance.
Arianna watched David watching the stars and smiled, her hand resting on his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath her fingers. She leaned over and kissed his neck as his head was tilted back.
David's breath hitched, his skin goosebumping under her lips. He looked down at her, his eyes dark in the night. He brought his lips to hers and kissed her slowly and passionately.
"I love you Arianna," David said.
"I love you too."
It was the first time those words had been exchanged.
A bench, partly hidden by the drooping branches of an ancient Elm tree, was tucked away near the trunk. The gnarled branches cradling the bench and casting deeper shadows on Arianna and David as they sat on the old park bench, nestled at the top of a hill, just outside of the city to the East. The breeze was blowing gently from the south, cool and soft.
Arianna snuggled into David's side, her head against his shoulder. She shivered lightly under his leather jacket that was slung around her shoulders. David placed his arm around her shoulders, sighing in contentment. Right now, he thought, right now, I'm happy.
David tipped his head back to look up at the sky. The clouds were starting to thin out, and he could see the first spots of light in the distance.
Arianna watched David watching the stars and smiled, her hand resting on his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath her fingers. She leaned over and kissed his neck as his head was tilted back.
David's breath hitched, his skin goosebumping under her lips. He looked down at her, his eyes dark in the night. He brought his lips to hers and kissed her slowly and passionately.
"I love you Arianna," David said.
"I love you too."
It was the first time those words had been exchanged.
Downtown
It was almost romantic, standing beside the window in his darkened apartment, staring out at the city while soft piano music played in the background. Of course, the dim glow out of the corner of his eye came from his laptop instead of candlelight, and his neck was craned at an awkward angle so he could catch a glimpse of the fireworks hailing the end of the annual city arts festival, so it still wasn't quite romantic.
Downtown Omaha from the fringes from the north side of Dodge, on a night like this, looked like someone had carved a piece of Victorian London of the past and dumped it down in the middle of the plains. Then giant hands had rearranged it to form a semi-neat grid and smeared it in golden light. The rooftops were flat and even, punctuated in spots by the highrise buildings of the banks and law firms that corroded the downtown skyline. Most of the buildings were old brick with high, roman-arch windows. They were old factories and warehouses remodeled into stylish studio apartments with sky-high rent and starving students lounging on the stairwells, trading talk about Heidigger and the latest college world series game.
Some cities were modern halogen-bright, stark with blue-white light cutting into the dingy shadows that crept alongside decrepit buildings, but Omaha had older lights, golden and warmer, if a bit foggy on a humid Sunday night. Edges of buildings and billboards looked softer, almost dream-like.
If he squinted just right, he could see the sudden dip in the even rooftop world, like a black hole had clawed up through the bottom of the pseudo chimney-sweep universe and swept away the singing Dick Van Dykes. The county jail was over there, right in the middle of downtown next to the world-class performing arts center modeled after some fancy Viennese institution.
The fireworks echoed across the sky like gunshots, lit up the factory-ancient roofs, and for a moment, a dull city night was colorful.
Downtown Omaha from the fringes from the north side of Dodge, on a night like this, looked like someone had carved a piece of Victorian London of the past and dumped it down in the middle of the plains. Then giant hands had rearranged it to form a semi-neat grid and smeared it in golden light. The rooftops were flat and even, punctuated in spots by the highrise buildings of the banks and law firms that corroded the downtown skyline. Most of the buildings were old brick with high, roman-arch windows. They were old factories and warehouses remodeled into stylish studio apartments with sky-high rent and starving students lounging on the stairwells, trading talk about Heidigger and the latest college world series game.
Some cities were modern halogen-bright, stark with blue-white light cutting into the dingy shadows that crept alongside decrepit buildings, but Omaha had older lights, golden and warmer, if a bit foggy on a humid Sunday night. Edges of buildings and billboards looked softer, almost dream-like.
If he squinted just right, he could see the sudden dip in the even rooftop world, like a black hole had clawed up through the bottom of the pseudo chimney-sweep universe and swept away the singing Dick Van Dykes. The county jail was over there, right in the middle of downtown next to the world-class performing arts center modeled after some fancy Viennese institution.
The fireworks echoed across the sky like gunshots, lit up the factory-ancient roofs, and for a moment, a dull city night was colorful.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Overview #32: First Person POV
Ugh. First of all, I know I didn't write yesterday. Had a bunch of things going on, like party planning.
Anyway, I thought this challenge went pretty well for me. Once I got writing, I fell into a rhythm, and that hasn't happened for me in a long time. I also very much like my characters. While at first I was simply basing them on people I knew in real life, I felt like they finally took on their own personality and image as the week wore on.
I thought I wasn't too keen on the whole first person thing, but then I remembered that I wrote an entire novella in first person. So maybe I've just been out of practice. (And the novella also stopped me from writing prose for a very, very long time.)
On to the new assignment!
Anyway, I thought this challenge went pretty well for me. Once I got writing, I fell into a rhythm, and that hasn't happened for me in a long time. I also very much like my characters. While at first I was simply basing them on people I knew in real life, I felt like they finally took on their own personality and image as the week wore on.
I thought I wasn't too keen on the whole first person thing, but then I remembered that I wrote an entire novella in first person. So maybe I've just been out of practice. (And the novella also stopped me from writing prose for a very, very long time.)
On to the new assignment!
Overview #32: First Person POV
Okay, so while I don't think I totally suck at first person, I could definitely use some improvement. I noticed, and it was pointed out that I have inconsistencies in my characters. I think part of that is that they are still kind of new characters and so they don't have a set and definite personality and form yet. I liked the one from David's POV, and then I tried it from Arianna's. I found that as I was working with the others that they are to underdeveloped; I'm not really sure what they are prone to do at any given moment. I did enjoy viewing David from Arianna's perspective though. I am still having troubles with the technical aspect of writing, though I am slowly improving. It seems like it is good for a while, and then the misplaced modifiers of doom or some strange punctuation slips in. Perhaps those are the posts that I am hurrying to get written because the characters are not being cooperative. I will try this next week to be especially vigilant about that.
Project #33: World-building
I'll be the first to admit that this is something I shy away from and rarely relish in, even when I'm GMing, and it's the reason I avoid high fantasy and stick to urban fantasy - because there's no world-building. Or so I thought. And then I read this post by the lovely SRB and thought, well, maybe I do some of that after all. Even when you write urban fantasy or set your story in a place that really exists, you're building a world when you make that place a home for your reader. So, this week, build a world! Take us on a tour of your characters' home town - where do the rowdy kids hang out on a Friday night where Sam and Vince live? Was 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' out on the green at the local university or in a fancy theatre downtown for Ari and David?
Keep it no more than 400 words, no less than 100 words a day, and hopefully after six days we'll have worlds built. Happy writing!
Keep it no more than 400 words, no less than 100 words a day, and hopefully after six days we'll have worlds built. Happy writing!
Rules 2.2
Hi and hello from the Mod!
Feedback consistency: friends and fellow writers, let us attempt to be as consistent as possible with feedback. Sometimes we fall behind and it feels like a rush, to make up for back posts missed (click on the "post options" button so you can back-date posts) and catch up on the posts we haven't read, but this game is for the improvement of all, and improvement comes through constructive criticism. Do make a point to try to find posts you missed reading - it's only fair to the other writers.
First - constructive: be helpful. We're mature here, and so far the feedback here has been friendly and decent and full of camaraderie, and we do our best not to waste the pixels our comrades have to read. If someone points something out, pay attention to it. What may seem like nitpicking to you may be where someone at the bookstore closes your novel and sets it back on the shelf and never gets to that cool scene in the third chapter. Don't take things personally, either - just because you might have grammar/spelling/style issues doesn't mean you're a horrible person or we think you're horrible for mentioning them. Yes, writing comes from your soul, but just because we may not like something you wrote doesn't mean we dislike you as a person all of a sudden.
Second - criticism: try to have something useful to say. Sometimes all you can do is nitpick, but do it, because it's that fine-toothed comb that makes good writing better. We want to encourage each other and help each other keep up with this tasks, but we want to help each other improve, and gushing only love and puppies to each other (which we've all been guilty of) doesn't always help/isn't useful to the writer. Did you hate a particular sentence? Why? Tell the writer and let her know, and she will take your criticism under advisement.
Yes, under advisement. We have free agency, and we will listen to criticism with open minds, but don't be offended if someone doesn't take it. You might be annoyed, but try not to be offended. We love each other.
Remember that.
Feedback consistency: friends and fellow writers, let us attempt to be as consistent as possible with feedback. Sometimes we fall behind and it feels like a rush, to make up for back posts missed (click on the "post options" button so you can back-date posts) and catch up on the posts we haven't read, but this game is for the improvement of all, and improvement comes through constructive criticism. Do make a point to try to find posts you missed reading - it's only fair to the other writers.
First - constructive: be helpful. We're mature here, and so far the feedback here has been friendly and decent and full of camaraderie, and we do our best not to waste the pixels our comrades have to read. If someone points something out, pay attention to it. What may seem like nitpicking to you may be where someone at the bookstore closes your novel and sets it back on the shelf and never gets to that cool scene in the third chapter. Don't take things personally, either - just because you might have grammar/spelling/style issues doesn't mean you're a horrible person or we think you're horrible for mentioning them. Yes, writing comes from your soul, but just because we may not like something you wrote doesn't mean we dislike you as a person all of a sudden.
Second - criticism: try to have something useful to say. Sometimes all you can do is nitpick, but do it, because it's that fine-toothed comb that makes good writing better. We want to encourage each other and help each other keep up with this tasks, but we want to help each other improve, and gushing only love and puppies to each other (which we've all been guilty of) doesn't always help/isn't useful to the writer. Did you hate a particular sentence? Why? Tell the writer and let her know, and she will take your criticism under advisement.
Yes, under advisement. We have free agency, and we will listen to criticism with open minds, but don't be offended if someone doesn't take it. You might be annoyed, but try not to be offended. We love each other.
Remember that.
Overview #32: First Person POV
This was a good exercise for me to do, because, let's face it, I'm not so awesome at the first person POV. It could be an extension of my own interpersonal/trust issues, but that's neither here no there. I really needed the improvement, especially since an exercise in the first person is also an exercise in voice, and I've always been a bit iffy about how well individual characters have different voices in my writing. The First Person does tend to bring out someone's unique voice a bit more, and I feel a bit more free to take liberties or new angles with grammar and punctuation to find a voice. In the beginning, I was definitely writing third person limited with pronoun changes, which was pretty lame, and I was half-pleased, half-annoyed to discover that in the first piece Clay and Bob had more distinct voices even though the piece was in Dan's POV. As the week wore on, though, I found that I didn't know the characters like I thought I did. For some reason, Clay came easiest. Bob, who is probably my baby of the group, gave me hell as far as finding a voice, and every line was pulling teeth (although I was pretty pleased at being able to sneak in another 2BP song, especially one that had the grainy over-the-phone quality that fit the piece). Scott came fairly easily after that. I was surprised at just how much trouble Carolyn gave me, probably because in my head she's so inconsistent. As a character within herself she's inconsistent, and I had to fight to make her work without making her sound incoherent. Still, I applaud Jade's choice for this week's challenge and am glad to have improved, if only minimally.
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