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.
Monday, June 29, 2009
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.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Into The Breach
I set down the phone and stared at my hands for a long moment. Then I reached out and pulled open the bottom drawer of my desk, the drawer that most people would have kept locked but that I could leave unlocked based on sheer force of reputation. The hair I tugged over the clasp had been broken - someone had been in my drawer since my last perusal of its contents. Whoever the snoop was had been careful to replace the box containing my sidearm and ammunition just so, but I could see that the picture had been moved. I tugged the picture out from under the box and turned it over. It was no worse for wear beyond the fact that it was nine years old. I replaced the picture carefully and rose up, smoothed down the fabric of my suit.
Then I stepped out of my office. Jessica, the college intern, would hardly have been this canny, and besides, she wasn’t brave enough to paw through my desk. Laurie, on the other hand, was nosy. She thought she was my mother. Everyone in the office knew I’d been raised a foster kid, and Laurie must have taken pity on me.
I had to pause behind her desk - she never noticed me coming unless I wanted her to - and took a deep breath. Laurie was one of the few women in the office who was civil with me, and I didn’t want to upset her. Upsetting her would only be an unfortunate side-effect if, say, my address got out to other members of the Summers family besides Dan.
I cleared my throat. “Laurie, did you compile the list of police agencies for our survey sample?”
She paused the dictaphone she was working with and looked up at me. “What? Oh, yes.”
“Did you pick the Calgary Twenty-Seventh Police District on purpose?”
Laurie darted a glance at Jessica, who was arranging stacks of mail blithely. So she thought that she’d be able to intercept any incoming calls while she was on secretary duty instead of Jessica, did she?
“Miss Pierce,” Laurie began.
“I received a call from one Sergeant Daniel Summers just now.” It hadn’t been easy, playing cheerful like that. Oh, I had a cover story all set, a stack of letters sent that Kevin had undoubtedly hidden or destroyed, and I could feign innocent hurt with the best of them, but those letters were the back-up plan, not the primary engage switch. I leaned down and met Laurie’s gaze. “What possessed you to go through my desk?”
“Carolyn,” Laurie began.
Her motherly tone made me grit my teeth. “I’m sure you feel like you did something wonderful for me, but if one of the Summers brothers shows up on my doorstep --”
“Miss Pierce,” Jessica called. “A Vanya Ianevski is on line one for you.”
Vanya. John. I straightened up. “Thank you, Jessica.” I cast another look at Laurie. “I know you meant well, but the consequences of your action may have yet heretofore unseen unpleasantness. And I don’t mean professionally.”
I walked back into my office and closed the door loud enough to make a point, then picked up the phone. “Carolyn Pierce.”
“One Robert Summers just booked a flight from Bangkok to Los Angeles. What the hell happened?”
“I thought you vetted everyone at this office.” I disliked his tone and he knew it.
“You had a security breach?”
“A massive one,” I said.
(580 words)
Then I stepped out of my office. Jessica, the college intern, would hardly have been this canny, and besides, she wasn’t brave enough to paw through my desk. Laurie, on the other hand, was nosy. She thought she was my mother. Everyone in the office knew I’d been raised a foster kid, and Laurie must have taken pity on me.
I had to pause behind her desk - she never noticed me coming unless I wanted her to - and took a deep breath. Laurie was one of the few women in the office who was civil with me, and I didn’t want to upset her. Upsetting her would only be an unfortunate side-effect if, say, my address got out to other members of the Summers family besides Dan.
I cleared my throat. “Laurie, did you compile the list of police agencies for our survey sample?”
She paused the dictaphone she was working with and looked up at me. “What? Oh, yes.”
“Did you pick the Calgary Twenty-Seventh Police District on purpose?”
Laurie darted a glance at Jessica, who was arranging stacks of mail blithely. So she thought that she’d be able to intercept any incoming calls while she was on secretary duty instead of Jessica, did she?
“Miss Pierce,” Laurie began.
“I received a call from one Sergeant Daniel Summers just now.” It hadn’t been easy, playing cheerful like that. Oh, I had a cover story all set, a stack of letters sent that Kevin had undoubtedly hidden or destroyed, and I could feign innocent hurt with the best of them, but those letters were the back-up plan, not the primary engage switch. I leaned down and met Laurie’s gaze. “What possessed you to go through my desk?”
“Carolyn,” Laurie began.
Her motherly tone made me grit my teeth. “I’m sure you feel like you did something wonderful for me, but if one of the Summers brothers shows up on my doorstep --”
“Miss Pierce,” Jessica called. “A Vanya Ianevski is on line one for you.”
Vanya. John. I straightened up. “Thank you, Jessica.” I cast another look at Laurie. “I know you meant well, but the consequences of your action may have yet heretofore unseen unpleasantness. And I don’t mean professionally.”
I walked back into my office and closed the door loud enough to make a point, then picked up the phone. “Carolyn Pierce.”
“One Robert Summers just booked a flight from Bangkok to Los Angeles. What the hell happened?”
“I thought you vetted everyone at this office.” I disliked his tone and he knew it.
“You had a security breach?”
“A massive one,” I said.
(580 words)
Breaking
It was the middle of the night, and I was desperate. I needed a beer.
The night was cool. The smell of rain lifted from the sidewalk towards the sky and I inhaled deeply, smiled for the first time that day.
So much for a happy ending to a bad day. Some idiots, probably drunk, drove past me and threw a water balloon. All I wanted was a damn beer, a moment to think about all the bullshit that had gone on in the last twenty-four hour period.
I didn’t have my phone on me. Last thing I wanted was for Vince to call. I would answer, and do whatever he asked me to do. I needed a moment to myself, though truth be told, alone was probably the worst thing for me to be right now.
But the town was quiet as I approached the intersection, pressed the button on the traffic light to cross. It was a Sunday, so all the good God fearing people were at home reading their Bibles. All I wanted was a drink.
The bright neon lights made everything seem pale and sickly or drenched in red - it depended on if you were caught in the loud, red glow of the gas station sign. I walked in, grabbed a couple of six packs of fairly weak beer.
I had been concentrating on my goal since I walked through the door, so it wasn’t until I set the six packs down on the counter to pay for them that I noticed Corinn. Loud, stupid, fake redhead Corinn. And of course, she wanted to chat.
“Hey Samantha, going to a party?”
My expression must have told all because Corinn frowned and scanned the first six pack.
“You shouldn’t drink by yourself, you know. People will talk.”
In an instant, everything I had been holding back the entire day sparked and flamed and burst. I felt my eyes grow wide, my hands shake. My heartbeat thumped loudly in my ears.
“You know what Corinn? Maybe you should just shut your damn mouth! You’re half the reason people gossip in this town anyway!” I slammed a twenty on the counter, took my beer and stalked toward the door.
Corinn called after me, “Bitch!”
I didn’t bother to answer.
I knew Corinn didn’t smoke, so I was safe sitting by the pay phone to open up my first bottle of many for the night. I didn’t feel like walking home, didn’t feel like hearing drunk catcalls, hearing my phone ring, or worse, not ringing.
I was almost done with the first six pack when Vince showed up.
“What the hell, Sam? Corinn called Layla and she called me and told me you were down here drinkin’ and causin’ problems.” He was trying his best to not seem concerned. He’d become really good at it as of late.
“Yeah, well, maybe Corinn should stop being a gossiping whore and let me be.”
Vince rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Sam…”
I could feel him looking at me. I opened another bottle and swallowed half of its contents in seconds. He sat next to me and nudged me gently.
“Mind if I have one of those?”
“Here.” I gave him one, because eleven was just as good as twelve.
We drank in silence - a stale, distant silence.
Vince glanced my way, and I finally looked over. We said nothing, but it didn’t matter. We’d already forgiven each other.
(580 words)
The night was cool. The smell of rain lifted from the sidewalk towards the sky and I inhaled deeply, smiled for the first time that day.
So much for a happy ending to a bad day. Some idiots, probably drunk, drove past me and threw a water balloon. All I wanted was a damn beer, a moment to think about all the bullshit that had gone on in the last twenty-four hour period.
I didn’t have my phone on me. Last thing I wanted was for Vince to call. I would answer, and do whatever he asked me to do. I needed a moment to myself, though truth be told, alone was probably the worst thing for me to be right now.
But the town was quiet as I approached the intersection, pressed the button on the traffic light to cross. It was a Sunday, so all the good God fearing people were at home reading their Bibles. All I wanted was a drink.
The bright neon lights made everything seem pale and sickly or drenched in red - it depended on if you were caught in the loud, red glow of the gas station sign. I walked in, grabbed a couple of six packs of fairly weak beer.
I had been concentrating on my goal since I walked through the door, so it wasn’t until I set the six packs down on the counter to pay for them that I noticed Corinn. Loud, stupid, fake redhead Corinn. And of course, she wanted to chat.
“Hey Samantha, going to a party?”
My expression must have told all because Corinn frowned and scanned the first six pack.
“You shouldn’t drink by yourself, you know. People will talk.”
In an instant, everything I had been holding back the entire day sparked and flamed and burst. I felt my eyes grow wide, my hands shake. My heartbeat thumped loudly in my ears.
“You know what Corinn? Maybe you should just shut your damn mouth! You’re half the reason people gossip in this town anyway!” I slammed a twenty on the counter, took my beer and stalked toward the door.
Corinn called after me, “Bitch!”
I didn’t bother to answer.
I knew Corinn didn’t smoke, so I was safe sitting by the pay phone to open up my first bottle of many for the night. I didn’t feel like walking home, didn’t feel like hearing drunk catcalls, hearing my phone ring, or worse, not ringing.
I was almost done with the first six pack when Vince showed up.
“What the hell, Sam? Corinn called Layla and she called me and told me you were down here drinkin’ and causin’ problems.” He was trying his best to not seem concerned. He’d become really good at it as of late.
“Yeah, well, maybe Corinn should stop being a gossiping whore and let me be.”
Vince rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Sam…”
I could feel him looking at me. I opened another bottle and swallowed half of its contents in seconds. He sat next to me and nudged me gently.
“Mind if I have one of those?”
“Here.” I gave him one, because eleven was just as good as twelve.
We drank in silence - a stale, distant silence.
Vince glanced my way, and I finally looked over. We said nothing, but it didn’t matter. We’d already forgiven each other.
(580 words)
Finally In A Place
I sank down on the cot in the back room and flung my forearm across my eyes to block out the light. I was tempted to plug into my iPod and let some music carry me away, but then I’d miss it if my pager went off, which meant the other boys would bang down the door when a call came in, which meant I’d have to endure another month of “boy-band wannabe” jokes, and...most days, I wasn’t sure why I’d come back to White Horse, other than to escape Dad.
I’d considered calling Dad and ratting Bob out, telling Dad that little Bobby was running halfway around the world to essentially beat a dead horse. But calling Dad wouldn’t have been fair. If Bob wanted to chase down a wasted dream, that was his choice. I was done with dreams, anyway. Time to sleep.
Only maybe dreams weren’t done with me, because my phone was ringing. Clay had already busted up my shift, and I still had scratches all up my face and arms from the girl I’d been watching. White Horse was a boring enough town to induce suicide, but really. I groaned, heaved myself up, and scooped my cell phone up off the floor.
Bob was calling me back. He’d probably chickened out.
“Y’ello.”
“Dia duit. I need your opinion.” Bob sounded irritatingly cheerful, for someone who was about to grovel.
“Yes, you’re an idiot. Go back to Thailand before Clay freaks out and tells Dad, and yes, Carolyn is probably dead. Good-bye.”
“That’s not why I called, but at least I know you’re in an honest mood.” Bob actually laughed. Softly, but it was real laughter. When was the last time he’d laughed? “I’m going to put you on speaker, all right? Tell me what you think.”
What was going on? I sat up and rested my elbow on my knee, waited. I could hear a lot of noise in the background - Bob was somewhere crowded. The airport, maybe? And then I heard an old man, say,
“Shush! He’s playin’ fer his brother!”
Bob had never been the best guitarist. After me, Clay was the handiest with a guitar, but then he played the bass. Even Dan was good with a guitar with a pinch, but Bob...had been learning from Clay over in Thailand. Some of his transitions were sketchy, but his chords were solid.
“Well it took a little while to remember how to smile
It takes time to give it up when you love someone that much
But I’m finally in a place where I can think about your face
Without feeling the pain
Without missing you again...”
I blinked and sat up straighter, pressed the phone to my ear. In the main bunker, some of the other idiots were playing foosball, and loudly, so I pressed a hand to my other ear to block them out.
It sounded country, like we hadn’t sung since we were twelve, but - it was good. Immediately I felt ashamed for being surprised that my own brother was a decent songwriter, but I concentrated on the lyrics a little more.
The song ended, and cheers erupted in the background. I listened to Bob fumble with the phone, wondered what I could say.
“So...what are you going to say to Carolyn?”
“I don’t think it matters anymore,” Bob said.
I swallowed hard. “Are you and Clay coming home, then?”
“When this is done.”
Done. What did that mean? “It’s a good song, Bobby.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks. I’ll call.”
“Ghráim tú."
“Slán.”
(598 words; lyrics unabashedly snitched from Two Bullet Parade's "This One's For You")
I’d considered calling Dad and ratting Bob out, telling Dad that little Bobby was running halfway around the world to essentially beat a dead horse. But calling Dad wouldn’t have been fair. If Bob wanted to chase down a wasted dream, that was his choice. I was done with dreams, anyway. Time to sleep.
Only maybe dreams weren’t done with me, because my phone was ringing. Clay had already busted up my shift, and I still had scratches all up my face and arms from the girl I’d been watching. White Horse was a boring enough town to induce suicide, but really. I groaned, heaved myself up, and scooped my cell phone up off the floor.
Bob was calling me back. He’d probably chickened out.
“Y’ello.”
“Dia duit. I need your opinion.” Bob sounded irritatingly cheerful, for someone who was about to grovel.
“Yes, you’re an idiot. Go back to Thailand before Clay freaks out and tells Dad, and yes, Carolyn is probably dead. Good-bye.”
“That’s not why I called, but at least I know you’re in an honest mood.” Bob actually laughed. Softly, but it was real laughter. When was the last time he’d laughed? “I’m going to put you on speaker, all right? Tell me what you think.”
What was going on? I sat up and rested my elbow on my knee, waited. I could hear a lot of noise in the background - Bob was somewhere crowded. The airport, maybe? And then I heard an old man, say,
“Shush! He’s playin’ fer his brother!”
Bob had never been the best guitarist. After me, Clay was the handiest with a guitar, but then he played the bass. Even Dan was good with a guitar with a pinch, but Bob...had been learning from Clay over in Thailand. Some of his transitions were sketchy, but his chords were solid.
“Well it took a little while to remember how to smile
It takes time to give it up when you love someone that much
But I’m finally in a place where I can think about your face
Without feeling the pain
Without missing you again...”
I blinked and sat up straighter, pressed the phone to my ear. In the main bunker, some of the other idiots were playing foosball, and loudly, so I pressed a hand to my other ear to block them out.
It sounded country, like we hadn’t sung since we were twelve, but - it was good. Immediately I felt ashamed for being surprised that my own brother was a decent songwriter, but I concentrated on the lyrics a little more.
The song ended, and cheers erupted in the background. I listened to Bob fumble with the phone, wondered what I could say.
“So...what are you going to say to Carolyn?”
“I don’t think it matters anymore,” Bob said.
I swallowed hard. “Are you and Clay coming home, then?”
“When this is done.”
Done. What did that mean? “It’s a good song, Bobby.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks. I’ll call.”
“Ghráim tú."
“Slán.”
(598 words; lyrics unabashedly snitched from Two Bullet Parade's "This One's For You")
Friday, June 26, 2009
Squee
"So. What was it like Ari?" A voice said from behind me.
Startled I turned to see my best friend Jenna. "I'm sorry?" I asked a bit puzzled. But that was par for course when dealing with Jenna.
"Your date. You went out with David Cole. Did you really think that I wouldn't know about it?" She grinned, her eyes wide behind her sliver framed glasses. Her long brown hair fell into her face and she pushed it away impatiently.
"Spill the beans," She commanded me.
I shrugged one shoulder, trying to play it cool, "We went to a play. A Midsummer Nights Dream."
"Ari," Jenna whined my name, "You are so holding out on me." Jenna was practically bouncing up and down.
I ducked my head, blushing just a bit.
Jenna continued, "every girl in school would love to go out with David. He is so cute, and very polite, not to mention a mystery to every girl here. But," She held up a finger, "He never dates. All the girls choice dances, he manages to have plans or be out of town. If he is asked at any other time, he gives work or studying as his excuse. In fact, as far as I know, you are the first girl to date him since he moved here a year ago," Jenna drew in a breath, "I hope you know all the other girls are insanely jealous of you. I would be too, but I am just glad that he asked you, and not Shaylin."
I shook my head. Shaylin was undoubtedly the most popular girl in school. Very stereotypical, if I were aloud my opinion. Head cheerleader, Dance Captain, dating the quarterback, and resident school slut.
"Well, I guess we should be glad that David has better taste than to want that," I said.
"Don't think I haven't noticed you changed the subject," Jenna said. "I want to know everything. Did he kiss you?"
I shook my head, "No. I believe he is to much a gentleman to kiss on the first date."
"Ari!" Jenna whined again.
"Alright, alright," I said. "He did hold my hand after the first half of the play.
"So do you think you will go out again?" Jenna asked, lowering her voice as Shaylin passed, her expression one of disbelief as she looked at me.
"We have a date next weekend," I said.
Jenna squeed and wrapped her arms around me, crushing the air from my body. I patted her on the back and let her hold on a moment. Finally I said, "Come on, we'll be late for English."
Startled I turned to see my best friend Jenna. "I'm sorry?" I asked a bit puzzled. But that was par for course when dealing with Jenna.
"Your date. You went out with David Cole. Did you really think that I wouldn't know about it?" She grinned, her eyes wide behind her sliver framed glasses. Her long brown hair fell into her face and she pushed it away impatiently.
"Spill the beans," She commanded me.
I shrugged one shoulder, trying to play it cool, "We went to a play. A Midsummer Nights Dream."
"Ari," Jenna whined my name, "You are so holding out on me." Jenna was practically bouncing up and down.
I ducked my head, blushing just a bit.
Jenna continued, "every girl in school would love to go out with David. He is so cute, and very polite, not to mention a mystery to every girl here. But," She held up a finger, "He never dates. All the girls choice dances, he manages to have plans or be out of town. If he is asked at any other time, he gives work or studying as his excuse. In fact, as far as I know, you are the first girl to date him since he moved here a year ago," Jenna drew in a breath, "I hope you know all the other girls are insanely jealous of you. I would be too, but I am just glad that he asked you, and not Shaylin."
I shook my head. Shaylin was undoubtedly the most popular girl in school. Very stereotypical, if I were aloud my opinion. Head cheerleader, Dance Captain, dating the quarterback, and resident school slut.
"Well, I guess we should be glad that David has better taste than to want that," I said.
"Don't think I haven't noticed you changed the subject," Jenna said. "I want to know everything. Did he kiss you?"
I shook my head, "No. I believe he is to much a gentleman to kiss on the first date."
"Ari!" Jenna whined again.
"Alright, alright," I said. "He did hold my hand after the first half of the play.
"So do you think you will go out again?" Jenna asked, lowering her voice as Shaylin passed, her expression one of disbelief as she looked at me.
"We have a date next weekend," I said.
Jenna squeed and wrapped her arms around me, crushing the air from my body. I patted her on the back and let her hold on a moment. Finally I said, "Come on, we'll be late for English."
Thursday, June 25, 2009
The Same Dream
I know I’m dreaming.
He would never hover this close, never slip his arm around my waist. His presence is - what’s that word they use to describe ghosts? - ethereal.
His lips are moving, but his voice is nowhere to be found. It wouldn’t matter, anyway. I know every word he isn’t saying. I know that he’s lying.
Everything feels slow, like time is moving at half speed. Layla’s here, going in and out of focus, but then she disappears and I read his lips, the only time I’m able.
“It doesn’t matter.”
We’re close, close, so close, but I can’t see his face. If I didn’t know it was Vince, if my heart wasn’t already preparing to ache the minute my eyes open, it could be anyone. Any guy, any touch, any smile, any kiss. Any heartbeat.
His face is clear the second before my eyes open. Here it comes. Reality crashing its way down.
You don’t know me, you don’t know me at all, you don’t know me, you don’t know me at all.
He’s already calling.
This once, I’m refusing to answer.
(186 words, a shout out to the week I missed)
He would never hover this close, never slip his arm around my waist. His presence is - what’s that word they use to describe ghosts? - ethereal.
His lips are moving, but his voice is nowhere to be found. It wouldn’t matter, anyway. I know every word he isn’t saying. I know that he’s lying.
Everything feels slow, like time is moving at half speed. Layla’s here, going in and out of focus, but then she disappears and I read his lips, the only time I’m able.
“It doesn’t matter.”
We’re close, close, so close, but I can’t see his face. If I didn’t know it was Vince, if my heart wasn’t already preparing to ache the minute my eyes open, it could be anyone. Any guy, any touch, any smile, any kiss. Any heartbeat.
His face is clear the second before my eyes open. Here it comes. Reality crashing its way down.
You don’t know me, you don’t know me at all, you don’t know me, you don’t know me at all.
He’s already calling.
This once, I’m refusing to answer.
(186 words, a shout out to the week I missed)
My Friend, the Rock Star
I have some pictures of Vince on my cell phone. Most of them are pretty dumb. He’s usually just pulling a face or making some sort of joke or something. But there is one that I like in particular. One that I can’t seem to get out of my head.
“Sam,” his text message began, “I just got a great offer on a bass. I can afford it too. Should I do it?” I hated when he asked me questions like that. It was his money, why should my opinion count? Still, I answered.
I typed, “I don’t know. Is it in good condition?” He answered with a quick, “Yes!” I smiled.
Then I remembered a story Vince had told me long ago, about living in Texas and getting into trouble. He had a distinct knack for that. This particular story was about playing bass guitar in a band of twenty year olds when he was only thirteen, playing gigs, and loving it. Sometimes he would reminisce, especially after he found out that I had played the bass some in high school.
Thinking about the look in his eyes when the regret washed over him, I knew the answer I had to give him.
“I think you should do it. It might get you to play again.”
And so, impulsive boy that he was, he bought it from his friend in the next minute, and the minute after that, he sent me the picture.
It’s at kind of a weird angle. Most of the picture is taken up by the wall and carpet in the hallway of his apartment. His skinny, gangly body takes up the right of the picture, the black and white bass guitar slung around his body. He isn’t smiling. He’s got the rock star look perfectly.
My breath still catches a bit whenever he calls, and the picture flashes across the screen.
(316 words)
“Sam,” his text message began, “I just got a great offer on a bass. I can afford it too. Should I do it?” I hated when he asked me questions like that. It was his money, why should my opinion count? Still, I answered.
I typed, “I don’t know. Is it in good condition?” He answered with a quick, “Yes!” I smiled.
Then I remembered a story Vince had told me long ago, about living in Texas and getting into trouble. He had a distinct knack for that. This particular story was about playing bass guitar in a band of twenty year olds when he was only thirteen, playing gigs, and loving it. Sometimes he would reminisce, especially after he found out that I had played the bass some in high school.
Thinking about the look in his eyes when the regret washed over him, I knew the answer I had to give him.
“I think you should do it. It might get you to play again.”
And so, impulsive boy that he was, he bought it from his friend in the next minute, and the minute after that, he sent me the picture.
It’s at kind of a weird angle. Most of the picture is taken up by the wall and carpet in the hallway of his apartment. His skinny, gangly body takes up the right of the picture, the black and white bass guitar slung around his body. He isn’t smiling. He’s got the rock star look perfectly.
My breath still catches a bit whenever he calls, and the picture flashes across the screen.
(316 words)
Right Now
I love you.
I hate you.
Why did you leave me?
None of them adequately covered how pathetically I’d fallen apart for the past five years. I knew all of my brothers thought it. Dad had no clue - he just thought Carolyn had escaped from the “earthquake” in the hotel and that her foster parents decided they didn’t want her on the road anymore, and after that law school swept her away down the river of time. Of course, Dad rarely cared about what any of us felt, and he’d assumed that my love for Carolyn was purely adolescent.
Maybe it was adolescent, but I still loved her, damn me. I’d tried and tried with girls, but I’d failed and taken their dismissals with my head bowed. Carolyn had stolen my soul, and now - now maybe I’d be able to get it back from her.
But what could I possibly say?
I needed time to think about it. Time to figure out what, exactly, I still felt for Carolyn, even though every time I heard her name its syllables hollowed out a hole in my chest where my heart usually beat.
Jet-lag never got easier over the years, and I was half-asleep on my feet as I hauled myself across the arrivals terminal. I’d picked up a ticket at the airport in Bangkok and didn’t have a connecting flight to Las Vegas which, according to google map, was the closest airport to Cedarville, so I’d have to talk to a ticketing agent, and...
I halted mid-stride, tipped my head back, and closed my eyes.
What the hell was I doing? Why was I even here? Scott was right. I was an idiot. I should just go back to Thailand and help Clay finish out the teaching stint and then...maybe I’d finally go to college or do something normal with my life.
Right. Back to Thailand. Apologize to Clay. I opened my eyes and saw a sign for Greyhound Buses. A bus ride to Nevada or Cedarville had to be about ten hours from LA, right? Ten hours. On a bus. Just me. I could think of something to say by then, right?
But that was the voice of my resolve wavering. I’d decided to go back to Thailand and be productive, to put Carolyn behind me once and for all. Only how many times had I told myself that?
No. I couldn’t put her behind me until I’d seen her face to face and gotten my answers - about why she left, about whether or not she’d even ever loved me. There. I was resolved. I marched over to the Greyhound counter and asked for a ticket to Cedarville, Utah. The clerk was pretty and blonde but I didn’t care, although I thanked her when she told me to enjoy the Shakespearean Festival.
I found the bus depot easily enough and sank down on one of the cheap plastic seats. Maybe I could take a nap and get my head on straight for some serious thinking during the bus ride. My eyes were half-closed when a shadow fell over me, and I curled my hands into fists. Even now, Carolyn’s childhood-taught paranoia stuck with me.
“What can I do for you?”
“Care for a song, sonny?”
It was an old hobo with a beat-up guitar. I considered him for a long moment, then said,
“I’ll pay you fifty bucks if you let me borrow that.”
He considered. “What for?”
“To write a song,” I said.
He blinked. “Right now?”
I nodded. “Right now.”
I hate you.
Why did you leave me?
None of them adequately covered how pathetically I’d fallen apart for the past five years. I knew all of my brothers thought it. Dad had no clue - he just thought Carolyn had escaped from the “earthquake” in the hotel and that her foster parents decided they didn’t want her on the road anymore, and after that law school swept her away down the river of time. Of course, Dad rarely cared about what any of us felt, and he’d assumed that my love for Carolyn was purely adolescent.
Maybe it was adolescent, but I still loved her, damn me. I’d tried and tried with girls, but I’d failed and taken their dismissals with my head bowed. Carolyn had stolen my soul, and now - now maybe I’d be able to get it back from her.
But what could I possibly say?
I needed time to think about it. Time to figure out what, exactly, I still felt for Carolyn, even though every time I heard her name its syllables hollowed out a hole in my chest where my heart usually beat.
Jet-lag never got easier over the years, and I was half-asleep on my feet as I hauled myself across the arrivals terminal. I’d picked up a ticket at the airport in Bangkok and didn’t have a connecting flight to Las Vegas which, according to google map, was the closest airport to Cedarville, so I’d have to talk to a ticketing agent, and...
I halted mid-stride, tipped my head back, and closed my eyes.
What the hell was I doing? Why was I even here? Scott was right. I was an idiot. I should just go back to Thailand and help Clay finish out the teaching stint and then...maybe I’d finally go to college or do something normal with my life.
Right. Back to Thailand. Apologize to Clay. I opened my eyes and saw a sign for Greyhound Buses. A bus ride to Nevada or Cedarville had to be about ten hours from LA, right? Ten hours. On a bus. Just me. I could think of something to say by then, right?
But that was the voice of my resolve wavering. I’d decided to go back to Thailand and be productive, to put Carolyn behind me once and for all. Only how many times had I told myself that?
No. I couldn’t put her behind me until I’d seen her face to face and gotten my answers - about why she left, about whether or not she’d even ever loved me. There. I was resolved. I marched over to the Greyhound counter and asked for a ticket to Cedarville, Utah. The clerk was pretty and blonde but I didn’t care, although I thanked her when she told me to enjoy the Shakespearean Festival.
I found the bus depot easily enough and sank down on one of the cheap plastic seats. Maybe I could take a nap and get my head on straight for some serious thinking during the bus ride. My eyes were half-closed when a shadow fell over me, and I curled my hands into fists. Even now, Carolyn’s childhood-taught paranoia stuck with me.
“What can I do for you?”
“Care for a song, sonny?”
It was an old hobo with a beat-up guitar. I considered him for a long moment, then said,
“I’ll pay you fifty bucks if you let me borrow that.”
He considered. “What for?”
“To write a song,” I said.
He blinked. “Right now?”
I nodded. “Right now.”
A Night Out.
My fingers twitched nervously, and I glanced at the clock again. I wonder if he will remember. I glance in the mirror one last time, making sure that my hair is nice. He didn't say where we were going, only to look nice. I looked down at the simple blue skirt and black top I was wearing, I hoped it would be alright. Smiling, I thought back to how this all started.
"Arianna!" I heard my name being called from down the hallway. I didn't recognize the voice. Turning, I saw the boy with black hair and blue eyes that I had run into yesterday. David was his name. I had seen him around school, but yesterday was the first time I had spoken to him.
"David," I said smiling as he jogged up to me, "how are you today?"
"I'm fine. You?" David asked in return. I noticed that he looked a little nervous, fidgety almost. His smile was warm, if hesitant.
"I'm doing okay. My Calculus assignment is going to give me a headache though," I said. The student body was flowing around us.
David grimaced, "I never did like Calculus, but I am good at it. Would you like some help?"
I was a little surprised, but I couldn't help the grin from spreading over my face. "I would really like that," I said.
I looked away and then back at him. David was still watching me.
I bit my lip, suppressing a laugh. "Did you just want to know about my Calculus homework?" I asked.
David blinked, seeming to snap out of whatever thoughts had carried him away.
"No. Actually I wanted to know If you wanted to go out with me," David said, his voice was low, nervous.
I couldn't help the smile spreading across my face, little shivers running down my spine. "I would love to," I said, meeting his eye briefly before ducking my head.
"Great!" David said, sounding a bit relieved.
"When?" I asked.
"Tomorrow," he said.
"What are we going to do? Not homework hopefully," I said.
David's cheek dimpled when he grinned, "No. It's a surprise, but dress nice. I'll pick you up at seven."
"Seven it is," I said. I pulled out a sheet of paper and scribbled my address on it. "Here's my address."
David accepted the paper and smiled, "Well, I have to get to History. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," I said.
I was startled out of my thought when a knock sounded in the front hall. Opening the door I saw David on the front step, looking very nice in black slacks and a dark blue dress shirt and tie.
"Ready?" He asked.
I nodded. "Where are we going," I asked.
"Have you ever seen A Midsummer Nights Dream?" He asked as he opened the car door for me. I slid into the seat and bucked up, "No, I haven't."
"You'll love it."
"Arianna!" I heard my name being called from down the hallway. I didn't recognize the voice. Turning, I saw the boy with black hair and blue eyes that I had run into yesterday. David was his name. I had seen him around school, but yesterday was the first time I had spoken to him.
"David," I said smiling as he jogged up to me, "how are you today?"
"I'm fine. You?" David asked in return. I noticed that he looked a little nervous, fidgety almost. His smile was warm, if hesitant.
"I'm doing okay. My Calculus assignment is going to give me a headache though," I said. The student body was flowing around us.
David grimaced, "I never did like Calculus, but I am good at it. Would you like some help?"
I was a little surprised, but I couldn't help the grin from spreading over my face. "I would really like that," I said.
I looked away and then back at him. David was still watching me.
I bit my lip, suppressing a laugh. "Did you just want to know about my Calculus homework?" I asked.
David blinked, seeming to snap out of whatever thoughts had carried him away.
"No. Actually I wanted to know If you wanted to go out with me," David said, his voice was low, nervous.
I couldn't help the smile spreading across my face, little shivers running down my spine. "I would love to," I said, meeting his eye briefly before ducking my head.
"Great!" David said, sounding a bit relieved.
"When?" I asked.
"Tomorrow," he said.
"What are we going to do? Not homework hopefully," I said.
David's cheek dimpled when he grinned, "No. It's a surprise, but dress nice. I'll pick you up at seven."
"Seven it is," I said. I pulled out a sheet of paper and scribbled my address on it. "Here's my address."
David accepted the paper and smiled, "Well, I have to get to History. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," I said.
I was startled out of my thought when a knock sounded in the front hall. Opening the door I saw David on the front step, looking very nice in black slacks and a dark blue dress shirt and tie.
"Ready?" He asked.
I nodded. "Where are we going," I asked.
"Have you ever seen A Midsummer Nights Dream?" He asked as he opened the car door for me. I slid into the seat and bucked up, "No, I haven't."
"You'll love it."
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Dance
It's raining outside again. I love the rain. How it smells, makes the world look clean I love how it obscures the city; in a way it's protecting, it hides me. I don't understand how people can say they don't like the rain. If you don't like it, why live in Seattle.
Training my fingers down the glass, I sigh in contentment, watching the rain beat down on the window.
"Come on Ari; we have work to do," David said, tugging on my arm.
I shook my head in response. "Nope."
"But..."
I grabbed David's hand a pulled him along with me. I opened the front door and drew in a deep breath. The rain made a gentle hiss on the pavement.
I pulled David over to the lawn, and drew him close.
"Dance with me."
Training my fingers down the glass, I sigh in contentment, watching the rain beat down on the window.
"Come on Ari; we have work to do," David said, tugging on my arm.
I shook my head in response. "Nope."
"But..."
I grabbed David's hand a pulled him along with me. I opened the front door and drew in a deep breath. The rain made a gentle hiss on the pavement.
I pulled David over to the lawn, and drew him close.
"Dance with me."
Gone To Find C~~~
There were many times in my life when I was more than glad to wake up after a crazy late night and discover that the stranger who’d slept beside me was long gone.
I was less than glad, however, to wake up this morning and discover that the person who usually slept beside me in our pathetic one-room, one-bed hovel had taken half of our clothes and left little more notice than illegible scrawls on the back of a crumpled napkin.
I swallowed another mouthful of coffee and squinted at the note while I tried to pull on my jeans. Where the hell was Bob? We had to be at the school in half an hour, and my bleeding-heart twin had promised the wide-eyed kiddies fun and games today. According to his middle-of-the-night missive, however, he was gone to find C-squiggle. Really helpful.
I was halfway into my shirt when I remembered Dan’s ill-timed call. What had he told Bob that would make him just take off like that? I glanced at the phone, but hell if Bob hadn’t take it. He must’ve forgotten it was the only connection we had to the civilized world. I sighed and finished the rest of my coffee, snagged a slice of bread from the icebox, and toed on my shoes at the door.
I was assaulted on all sides by the little old ladies who lived on my street, so bowing and saying good morning made my haul to the bus stop twice as long as usual. The hunchbacked old man who ran the corner market at the bus stop peered at me.
“Teacher Clay. Where is Same Same?”
I really didn’t look that much like Bob. I mean, technically we were the twins, but honestly - we hadn’t looked the same since we were fourteen and Bob grew a few inches taller than he deserved, being the younger twin. “Same Same didn’t get enough oxygen in the womb and took off in the middle of the night with our cellphone. Can I use your phone?”
The man blinked at me, uncomprehending of my English-speaking rant. I made a phone call motion with one hand. He nodded, grinned toothlessly, and waved me behind the counter. There was only one number I’d memorized, so I shoved a few coins into the rickety machine and dialed.
“Y’ello.” Scott sounded drowsy. I heard a woman murmur in the background. I’d be the first to admit I didn’t know what time it was in Canada.
“This isn’t a conversation I want to have with the lady du jour. Boot her.” I flashed a smile at the old man.
“I’m at work, brat. Suicide watch. Get to the point quickly, before she tries to -- hey! Knock it off. Don’t make me tie you down again.”
I waited a beat. Sometimes I forgot that Scott was no longer a drunken philanderer, that he’d wandered back to White Horse and was now a semi-respectable EMT.
“What’s your point, Clay?”
“My point is that Bob took off in the middle of the night with our cellphone. I need you to send me a new phone and find out where he went.”
“Did he leave a note?”
“His handwriting sucks. It said ‘Gone to find C-squiggle.’ I don’t know anyone whose name begins with C, let alone who’d make Bob pull a Houdini.”
“...Carolyn.”
I swore under my breath. “I thought she was dead.”
“So did I.” Scott sighed. “Hang tight, all right?”
“Right. Slán.”
“Slán.”
(597 words)
I was less than glad, however, to wake up this morning and discover that the person who usually slept beside me in our pathetic one-room, one-bed hovel had taken half of our clothes and left little more notice than illegible scrawls on the back of a crumpled napkin.
I swallowed another mouthful of coffee and squinted at the note while I tried to pull on my jeans. Where the hell was Bob? We had to be at the school in half an hour, and my bleeding-heart twin had promised the wide-eyed kiddies fun and games today. According to his middle-of-the-night missive, however, he was gone to find C-squiggle. Really helpful.
I was halfway into my shirt when I remembered Dan’s ill-timed call. What had he told Bob that would make him just take off like that? I glanced at the phone, but hell if Bob hadn’t take it. He must’ve forgotten it was the only connection we had to the civilized world. I sighed and finished the rest of my coffee, snagged a slice of bread from the icebox, and toed on my shoes at the door.
I was assaulted on all sides by the little old ladies who lived on my street, so bowing and saying good morning made my haul to the bus stop twice as long as usual. The hunchbacked old man who ran the corner market at the bus stop peered at me.
“Teacher Clay. Where is Same Same?”
I really didn’t look that much like Bob. I mean, technically we were the twins, but honestly - we hadn’t looked the same since we were fourteen and Bob grew a few inches taller than he deserved, being the younger twin. “Same Same didn’t get enough oxygen in the womb and took off in the middle of the night with our cellphone. Can I use your phone?”
The man blinked at me, uncomprehending of my English-speaking rant. I made a phone call motion with one hand. He nodded, grinned toothlessly, and waved me behind the counter. There was only one number I’d memorized, so I shoved a few coins into the rickety machine and dialed.
“Y’ello.” Scott sounded drowsy. I heard a woman murmur in the background. I’d be the first to admit I didn’t know what time it was in Canada.
“This isn’t a conversation I want to have with the lady du jour. Boot her.” I flashed a smile at the old man.
“I’m at work, brat. Suicide watch. Get to the point quickly, before she tries to -- hey! Knock it off. Don’t make me tie you down again.”
I waited a beat. Sometimes I forgot that Scott was no longer a drunken philanderer, that he’d wandered back to White Horse and was now a semi-respectable EMT.
“What’s your point, Clay?”
“My point is that Bob took off in the middle of the night with our cellphone. I need you to send me a new phone and find out where he went.”
“Did he leave a note?”
“His handwriting sucks. It said ‘Gone to find C-squiggle.’ I don’t know anyone whose name begins with C, let alone who’d make Bob pull a Houdini.”
“...Carolyn.”
I swore under my breath. “I thought she was dead.”
“So did I.” Scott sighed. “Hang tight, all right?”
“Right. Slán.”
“Slán.”
(597 words)
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Veritaserum
Vince was – what’s that word again? – oh yeah, an enigma at times.
Unfortunately, that enigma liked to unravel right before my eyes whenever we were drinking more than just a six pack between us. When the hard stuff was brought out, our defenses dropped like rocks.
I never went to a party without him. I felt safe with him, more at ease with the people surrounding us. Together, we were a strange group of people – kids who were holding on to dreams of the past and ignoring the hard truths of the present.
“Sam, you’re my best friend.” He had a goofy smile on his face, and I knew he was crossing the Sober-Drunk state line.
“Uh huh, right, Vince.” I said it nicely, but any person liquored up or stone cold sober could hear the cynicism in my voice. I always wanted to believe it, and for a few short minutes, I let myself. I let myself believe that Vince considered me his best friend. Once, he told me he didn’t believe in the concept of best friends.
It had hurt, but then, so did a lot of other things.
“No, really, Samantha—“
“Don’t call me Samantha. You know I hate that.” I tried to sound annoyed and started to walk away, but he was the only person I would let call me Samantha, if it came down to it. It always sounded right when he said it aloud.
“Sam, Sam, Sam, no, don’t, c’mere.” Vince grabbed a hold of my arm and I stopped, and I felt a stupid smile creeping across my face. I both hated and loved us together this way, drunker than skunks, honest, frightening, and free.
“What, Vince?”
“Sam, I really do mean it. You’re my best friend.”
I closed my eyes, and opened them again slowly. “What happened to the Vince who didn’t believe in best friends?”
He chuckled and tugged my arm over towards the liquor and the empty shot glasses, concentrating hard on pouring two of the shots half full with Everclear. Vince then motioned me to grab a hold of mine, because the shot was best taken right after the tonic water was poured. It was a stupid way to get drunk, but it was quick and after a while, painless. It was our way.
“You are my best friend, Sam.” His eyes met mine and we looked at each other – I mean, really looked at each other. The party raged around us, but for some reason, I couldn’t hear or see anything else except his slight smirk, his hand reaching for the bottle of tonic water.
“And I promise you, I’ll say it the next time we’re together. When I’m high and dry. And I’ll mean it.” He quickly poured enough tonic to fill the shots and we downed them. I did my usual Everclear spasm and he cleared his throat. “Alright, it’s time to break the seal. Don’t go anywhere.” Vince stumbled a bit as he walked towards the bathroom, and the party continued in it’s normal haphazard fashion.
I haven’t heard him say it since then.
(520 words)
Unfortunately, that enigma liked to unravel right before my eyes whenever we were drinking more than just a six pack between us. When the hard stuff was brought out, our defenses dropped like rocks.
I never went to a party without him. I felt safe with him, more at ease with the people surrounding us. Together, we were a strange group of people – kids who were holding on to dreams of the past and ignoring the hard truths of the present.
“Sam, you’re my best friend.” He had a goofy smile on his face, and I knew he was crossing the Sober-Drunk state line.
“Uh huh, right, Vince.” I said it nicely, but any person liquored up or stone cold sober could hear the cynicism in my voice. I always wanted to believe it, and for a few short minutes, I let myself. I let myself believe that Vince considered me his best friend. Once, he told me he didn’t believe in the concept of best friends.
It had hurt, but then, so did a lot of other things.
“No, really, Samantha—“
“Don’t call me Samantha. You know I hate that.” I tried to sound annoyed and started to walk away, but he was the only person I would let call me Samantha, if it came down to it. It always sounded right when he said it aloud.
“Sam, Sam, Sam, no, don’t, c’mere.” Vince grabbed a hold of my arm and I stopped, and I felt a stupid smile creeping across my face. I both hated and loved us together this way, drunker than skunks, honest, frightening, and free.
“What, Vince?”
“Sam, I really do mean it. You’re my best friend.”
I closed my eyes, and opened them again slowly. “What happened to the Vince who didn’t believe in best friends?”
He chuckled and tugged my arm over towards the liquor and the empty shot glasses, concentrating hard on pouring two of the shots half full with Everclear. Vince then motioned me to grab a hold of mine, because the shot was best taken right after the tonic water was poured. It was a stupid way to get drunk, but it was quick and after a while, painless. It was our way.
“You are my best friend, Sam.” His eyes met mine and we looked at each other – I mean, really looked at each other. The party raged around us, but for some reason, I couldn’t hear or see anything else except his slight smirk, his hand reaching for the bottle of tonic water.
“And I promise you, I’ll say it the next time we’re together. When I’m high and dry. And I’ll mean it.” He quickly poured enough tonic to fill the shots and we downed them. I did my usual Everclear spasm and he cleared his throat. “Alright, it’s time to break the seal. Don’t go anywhere.” Vince stumbled a bit as he walked towards the bathroom, and the party continued in it’s normal haphazard fashion.
I haven’t heard him say it since then.
(520 words)
A chance meeting turns into fate.
I have to admit it, at least to myself, I am completely in love.
Who would have imagined it. Me, Arianna, in love. And not just with anyone. He's the most perfect man I could have imagined. I had never thought to be so lucky in finding a man like David. Handsome, smart, brave and shy. He is an interesting paradox at times. So passionate, and yet so private. His eyes draw me in every time, depth-less blue. Silky hair, coal black.
Of course I had noticed him before, but I had never thought to have a chance. There are so many girls at school much prettier than I am. I suppose I could call it fate when he ran into me. Fate. A beautiful chance that may just turn into a lifetime of happiness.
(This one didn't really go as I wanted it to.)
Who would have imagined it. Me, Arianna, in love. And not just with anyone. He's the most perfect man I could have imagined. I had never thought to be so lucky in finding a man like David. Handsome, smart, brave and shy. He is an interesting paradox at times. So passionate, and yet so private. His eyes draw me in every time, depth-less blue. Silky hair, coal black.
Of course I had noticed him before, but I had never thought to have a chance. There are so many girls at school much prettier than I am. I suppose I could call it fate when he ran into me. Fate. A beautiful chance that may just turn into a lifetime of happiness.
(This one didn't really go as I wanted it to.)
Approval or Denial
The silence on the other end of the line was disconcerting. Finally, Bob said, “Thanks for telling me, Danny. I should sleep now - Clay and I have class first thing in the morning.”
I remembered that subdued tone, and I hated it. When had my brother become so divided, that he could be bright-eyed and humorous onstage and sound so broken with the people who knew him best? Of course, it had been five years since we’d given up the stage.
“How are classes going?” I cradled the phone against my shoulder and flipped open the nearest file in case the shift lieutenant came by and decided to yell at me.
“We got the good students, so it’s pretty all right. I just - Clay’s gonna hit me over the head with one of his shoes if I don’t shut up. Good night, Danny.”
“’Night, Bobby.”
And the line went dead.
For a long moment, I stared at my cellphone, wondered if I should call back and tell Bob it was probably just a coincidence, that Carolyn Pierce was a common name in America, and he should just put it out of his mind. Then I flattened the letter with one hand, flipped open my cellphone again, and dialed the number listed in the letterhead. For a second, I was confused - why hadn’t I given Bob the number as well? But I knew why. I dialed.
After several rings, someone picked up. An unfamiliar girl’s voice greeted me.
“Law office, how can I help you?”
I cleared my throat. Time to be authoritative. “This is Sergeant Summers from the Calgary Twenty-Seventh Police District. I’m calling regarding an academic survey request submitted by Carolyn Pierce?”
“One moment, please,” the girl said, and I was assaulted by elevator music.
I waited, phone canted away from my ear. As an afterthought, I scrambled for a pen so I could take notes on the letter itself before I turned the request over. Also, a pen gave me something to fidget with.
A moment later, a woman said, “Hello?”
I froze. It was Carolyn.
She said again, “Hello?”
Years of being a performer bowled over me, and I was in professional mode before I knew it. “This is Sergeant Daniel Summers from the Calgary Twenty-Seventh Police District. Is this Carolyn Pierce?”
“This is she. Is this about the survey request I sent? I want you to know up front that the results will be kept completely confidential and I’m collecting data for statistical purposes.” Her words tumbled over each other with oh-so-familiar Carolyn enthusiasm.
My voice caught in my throat. “Of course,” I began. Now what could I say? I didn’t have authority to either deny or approve her request.
She broke in with, “Did you say your name was Daniel Summers?”
“I - yes.” Did she recognize my voice? Scott swore up and down it had broken some more since we’d disbanded. “I’m a sergeant. For the Calgary --”
“Dan? When did you become a cop?” Her voice was bright and cheerful and almost excited to hear me, and who the hell was she, to sound so happy when my brother had been quietly falling apart these last five years? “What a coincidence! How are the others?”
That was it. “I was just calling to inform you that we have received your request and it will be forwarded to the Chief for approval or denial.” And I hung up. I sank back in my chair with a sigh and tipped my head back to stare at the ceiling. What had I done?
(600 words)
I remembered that subdued tone, and I hated it. When had my brother become so divided, that he could be bright-eyed and humorous onstage and sound so broken with the people who knew him best? Of course, it had been five years since we’d given up the stage.
“How are classes going?” I cradled the phone against my shoulder and flipped open the nearest file in case the shift lieutenant came by and decided to yell at me.
“We got the good students, so it’s pretty all right. I just - Clay’s gonna hit me over the head with one of his shoes if I don’t shut up. Good night, Danny.”
“’Night, Bobby.”
And the line went dead.
For a long moment, I stared at my cellphone, wondered if I should call back and tell Bob it was probably just a coincidence, that Carolyn Pierce was a common name in America, and he should just put it out of his mind. Then I flattened the letter with one hand, flipped open my cellphone again, and dialed the number listed in the letterhead. For a second, I was confused - why hadn’t I given Bob the number as well? But I knew why. I dialed.
After several rings, someone picked up. An unfamiliar girl’s voice greeted me.
“Law office, how can I help you?”
I cleared my throat. Time to be authoritative. “This is Sergeant Summers from the Calgary Twenty-Seventh Police District. I’m calling regarding an academic survey request submitted by Carolyn Pierce?”
“One moment, please,” the girl said, and I was assaulted by elevator music.
I waited, phone canted away from my ear. As an afterthought, I scrambled for a pen so I could take notes on the letter itself before I turned the request over. Also, a pen gave me something to fidget with.
A moment later, a woman said, “Hello?”
I froze. It was Carolyn.
She said again, “Hello?”
Years of being a performer bowled over me, and I was in professional mode before I knew it. “This is Sergeant Daniel Summers from the Calgary Twenty-Seventh Police District. Is this Carolyn Pierce?”
“This is she. Is this about the survey request I sent? I want you to know up front that the results will be kept completely confidential and I’m collecting data for statistical purposes.” Her words tumbled over each other with oh-so-familiar Carolyn enthusiasm.
My voice caught in my throat. “Of course,” I began. Now what could I say? I didn’t have authority to either deny or approve her request.
She broke in with, “Did you say your name was Daniel Summers?”
“I - yes.” Did she recognize my voice? Scott swore up and down it had broken some more since we’d disbanded. “I’m a sergeant. For the Calgary --”
“Dan? When did you become a cop?” Her voice was bright and cheerful and almost excited to hear me, and who the hell was she, to sound so happy when my brother had been quietly falling apart these last five years? “What a coincidence! How are the others?”
That was it. “I was just calling to inform you that we have received your request and it will be forwarded to the Chief for approval or denial.” And I hung up. I sank back in my chair with a sigh and tipped my head back to stare at the ceiling. What had I done?
(600 words)
Monday, June 22, 2009
Just Us
I could hear him talking, but he wasn’t really talking to me. He was talking at me, and I hated that.
I guess in a way, I appreciated it too. I mean, I know he didn’t open his mouth and blab about his life to just anybody. I suppose that would make me lucky. I didn’t necessarily feel that way. I let him say his peace, because I knew he was annoyed with his roommate, with his job, with the direction his life was taking. And I wasn’t gonna tell anybody.
Why should I? I didn’t really talk to anybody else.
“Sam, am I boring you?” Vince had stopped talking and I hadn’t realized it - too lost on my own derailed train of thought. Sam is short for Samantha. I hate being called Samantha.
“No, I’m sorry Vince. I got trapped in my head for a second. What were we talking about?”
Vince raised an eyebrow at me, but continued the conversation like normal. “Well, I was telling you about John ruining the camping trip, but… I don’t know, it was pretty fun all the same. Nice to get out.”
He sipped his beer, and I sipped mine. Silence did happen between us occasionally, but it wasn’t what you would call uncomfortable.
The question flew from my mouth before I had a chance to stop it. “How’s Layla doin’? You heard much from her since she moved to Oregon?”
Vince took a long swallow from his beer, thinking about how to answer what appeared to be a simple question. “She’s alright, I s’pose. She’s out and about a lot, like she wants. So that’s doing her a world of good. In all honesty, I don’t hear much from her. Maybe once every couple of days, and even then sometimes it’s only a text message. But it’s something.”
He looked away then, staring off into a distance I probably couldn’t begin to fathom. I smiled, mostly to myself because Vince was too busy thinking about the girl of his dreams.
Sometimes I wish it was me he thought about.
(349 words)
I guess in a way, I appreciated it too. I mean, I know he didn’t open his mouth and blab about his life to just anybody. I suppose that would make me lucky. I didn’t necessarily feel that way. I let him say his peace, because I knew he was annoyed with his roommate, with his job, with the direction his life was taking. And I wasn’t gonna tell anybody.
Why should I? I didn’t really talk to anybody else.
“Sam, am I boring you?” Vince had stopped talking and I hadn’t realized it - too lost on my own derailed train of thought. Sam is short for Samantha. I hate being called Samantha.
“No, I’m sorry Vince. I got trapped in my head for a second. What were we talking about?”
Vince raised an eyebrow at me, but continued the conversation like normal. “Well, I was telling you about John ruining the camping trip, but… I don’t know, it was pretty fun all the same. Nice to get out.”
He sipped his beer, and I sipped mine. Silence did happen between us occasionally, but it wasn’t what you would call uncomfortable.
The question flew from my mouth before I had a chance to stop it. “How’s Layla doin’? You heard much from her since she moved to Oregon?”
Vince took a long swallow from his beer, thinking about how to answer what appeared to be a simple question. “She’s alright, I s’pose. She’s out and about a lot, like she wants. So that’s doing her a world of good. In all honesty, I don’t hear much from her. Maybe once every couple of days, and even then sometimes it’s only a text message. But it’s something.”
He looked away then, staring off into a distance I probably couldn’t begin to fathom. I smiled, mostly to myself because Vince was too busy thinking about the girl of his dreams.
Sometimes I wish it was me he thought about.
(349 words)
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