I finally finished revising a piece I started a while back called "Let Go." It's about 2000 words, so short in the world of fiction, but longer for me.
******************************
I settled down on the cement patio around the back of the house with a cold one and my half-empty pack of Marlboros. I took one out and lit it, watching intently as the paper caught fire, burned to the shade of hot copper, peaked to its brightest when I inhaled. A few ashes got caught on the sleeve of my rented black suit, and I brushed them off quickly. I noticed the details of my absence around the yard – the tomato garden was overgrown with thick-rooted weeds, the cement was dirty with mud and debris. Thankfully, little Max Keel had kept up on the mowing for me. I’d have to drop some cash off at their place later, despite Penny’s protests that it wasn’t a bother, they were just helping out.
The Keel’s had built Max and Kevin, their two youngest, a tree house the past summer. They called it a fort and stashed their Nerf guns up there. Currently, the boys were talking loud enough for me to hear twenty or so feet away.
“Max, do you want to hear a joke?”
Max grunted at his little brother, fiddling with the trigger on his latest weapon.
“It’s funny, I swear,” Kevin added.
Max continued to toy with the cheap plastic, clearly annoyed. “Shut it, Kev. I don’t give a crap about jokes. That’s baby stuff.”
I could see Kevin’s face through the tree house window. Suddenly quiet with that childlike pain, clear and uncomplicated. He crawled down the rope ladder and walked sadly into the house without another word. Max didn’t seem to notice, but cheered to himself as his gun was now firing Nerf pellets at my roof. I sighed, imagining finding thirty or so yellow foam balls stuck in my gutters.
I flicked shut the metal top of the old Zippo Jimmy gave me. The one with a Celtic cross painted on the front. It was nearly worn away from Jimmy’s nervous fingers running over and over the symbol of his faith – of our family.
They told me his body was in nineteen pieces. Nineteen. Nineteen years seems so young, nineteen dollars, so little. But a human corpse in nineteen pieces is difficult for me to wrap my head around. Some bits, they said, had already been carried off by critters in the valley below – vultures, raccoons, some others amongst nature’s scavengers, the lowest of the low.
I smoked my cigarette down to the filter, and then another, and one more before walking into my dark house alone.
&&&&
I have run over the argument a million times in my mind, til the details nearly blur together, like I’m watching in fast forward.
We were sitting at our favorite spot overlooking Slocan Valley, watching the sun set.
“All I’m saying, Chet, is that I’m thinking about it. I mean, look at me. I am thirty-six, I’m not married – hell, I haven’t even dated anyone worth mentioning in the past two years – and it has always felt like it’s been my, I don’t know, calling. Or something. You know, like when you figured out you wanted to work with your hands, wanted to take up Dad’s carpentry business, all that sum and substance. It’s not something you can explain that well, but you just know somewhere in your stomach that it’s right.”
“Oh, come on. You’re not meant for that sort of living. I mean, besides the obvious reasons for not doing it – the convoluted, backhanded way they have about swaying their congregation’s vote, the political scandals running amok through their ‘blessed’ ranks, the backwards way they look at society – you’d have to give up sex! You, Jimmy Gallagher, give up women for the rest of your life. It’s not just insane, it’s funny.” I forced a laugh. “Come on, Jim-bo, we called you Jim-bone all throughout high school for a reason. You couldn’t just give that up. You’d never make it.”
He sat quietly on a small boulder, contemplating my reaction. “I’ve considered that. I know it will be hard. That’s not the point. Just because something’s hard, doesn’t mean it’s not worth doing.” He paused for a moment. “Great-great-Grandpa Flynn was one.”
“So that’s what’s at the root of this whole stupid idea? You get engrossed in that genealogy bullshit and decide to change your life around to be a stupid matching leaf on the ole family tree?” I kicked a stone over the edge of the rock face to punctuate my irritation.
“That’s easy for you to say, Chet. You’re already part of the tradition. I’ve never seen Dad look prouder than when you told him you’d be taking up the business at his retirement party. Hell, I’m a day trader. There’s nothing special about me or what I do. I want to change that.”
My anger was becoming dangerous, volatile. “I’m done talking to you about this. It’s an irrational, half-baked idea. Do whatever the fuck you want with your life, but when it doesn’t work out, I don’t want to hear one goddamn word about it. You hear me? Not one goddamned word.”
I stormed off towards camp, leaving him to that sad quietness that was so like Jimmy, not one word to defend himself, but taking in everything I’d said.
He hadn’t returned that night, or the next morning either. I made coffee on the portable stove, even frying up a bit of bacon in a skillet as a sort of peace offering.
By that afternoon, I knew something was wrong. We’d camped outside of Denver before, and the wildlife that is normally considered dangerous to humans wasn’t known to be populous around that particular camp. But that didn’t mean much. As upset as he was, he wouldn’t have avoided me for so long.
I spent several hours calling his name and wandering to our usual places for hiking and fishing. Finally, I climbed up to an area where I could often get one bar of signal on my old Motorola and called to report him missing.
I went back to where we’d argued once more. Then it hit me. I felt something cold seize me, gripping my insides in a vice. I knew. I looked out over the edge of the rock face.
About two hundred feet below was a crimson, mangled mess of flesh, bones, and tattered clothes. I recognized the remains of Jimmy’s Orioles jersey and remember tasting bile before I blacked out.
&&&&
The funeral was simple, quiet. The sun was shining contrarily on the black-clad mourners standing around us as Father Patrick gave his eulogy. It was a traditional service, a customary burial. Dad said Jimmy would have liked it like that. Me, I don’t know.
“Beautiful service,” his friends gently complimented my mother. Her smile was forced, her eyes focused not on the figures, but on the spaces in between them.
As everyone filtered out amongst the headstones, careful to avoid those with fresh sod, I stood silently staring down into the square hole my brother was to spend eternity in.
“Jimmy was a great man.” I flinched at Father Patrick’s sudden proximity. He paused, but I didn’t respond. “I’m sure he discussed his spiritual ambitions with you. He spoke of you often.” Still, I couldn’t muster more than a nod. Father ventured once more, “In our talks, he often brought up his questions about why you broke with the church. You were young, am I correct?”
I narrowed my eyes and raised them to meet his. “Excuse me, father, but that’s really none of your concern.”
He gazed at me, unsurprised by my reply. He reached forward and placed a comforting hand on my shoulder.
“Let go,” I fairly shouted, making several lingering family members turn and chastise my outburst with disapproving eyes.
Father Patrick withdrew his arm. He never broke eye contact. There was a sad understanding in his gaze. I fought fury and an urge to hit him.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Chet.”
&&&&
Once inside my house, I stripped down to my undershirt and boxers and immediately poured myself a highball. I walked upstairs to my study and sat in an old recliner facing the big picture window. I sipped, savoring the burn and watching the sun sink into a sea of maroon and indigo behind the neighborhood treeline. The phone rang, interrupting my solitude. I checked the caller I.D. – my parent’s number. I answered. “Hey, Mom.”
“Is that you, honey? You sound awful. Are you doing okay? You disappeared so fast after…” She trailed off. I knew what she meant – after they lowered Jimmy into the ground.
“Yeah. I’m alright. How are you doing? How’s Dad?”
“Oh, he’s… he’s getting along, I suppose.” I noticed she didn’t answer for herself. “It was a nice service.” She thought for a moment. “I hate that word, nice. I’ve heard it all day. It really doesn’t mean much, does it?” I didn’t know what to say. She ventured a change in subject. “I hate to bring it up, but did something happen between you and Father Patrick?”
I set my drink down a little too forcefully, and amber liquid sloshed down the sides. “Why would you think something happened?”
“He spoke to your father and I after the service. He said he’s worried about you.”
“He’s just a fucking busybody. It’s none of his business what’s going on with our family.” I picked my drink back up and took a gulp. “I can’t believe Jimmy wanted to be one of them.”
Mom was quiet for a few moments. “I know you didn’t always see eye to eye with your brother, but he’s gone now. You’re not disagreeing with anyone except yourself. All of your feelings about his ambitions – honey, you need to let go.”
I could feel my face flush with heat. With all she had been through that day, the last thing she needed was for me to yell at her. “Mom, I’ll call you back later.” Without waiting for her response, I set the phone back on its cradle and stared out the window.
Little Kevin Keel had joined his brother outside again. “Can I try your new gun?”
“Not on your life, shrimp,” Max said. Penny, who had been listening at the screen door, came outside. “Max, let your brother have a turn.”
“Why?” Max shot back. “He’s stupid. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’ll just break it.” Kevin looked down, that same quiet, sad expression coming across his face. He walked inside the house again.
I resisted the urge to shout out the window at Max, to scream in his face to give his brother a chance, to listen to his mother, to stop being such a little asshole. I bit my tongue and downed the rest of my drink in one swallow. Kids have no idea how fucking easy they have it.
I blinked, realizing why Kevin’s look was so familiar. I went downstairs to refill my glass, but something stopped me. I pulled on some jeans, grabbed my keys, and headed out the front door.
&&&&
It’s always been a strange anomaly to me how long a drive can take when you are wary of where you’re headed. Every traffic light seems like a sign; every pedestrian, a messenger. I watched them all, waiting for an indication telling me to turn around. None appeared. Really, I guess I already knew where I was headed.
The gates were shut when I pulled up, but not yet locked. I opened them, listening to the hinges groan in protest. His was easy to pick out – the fresh brown dirt stood a few inches higher than the rest of the soil. I walked over and sat down on the grass next to the earthen rectangle.
“Sorry about running off so fast earlier, Jimbo.” The silence seemed forgiving. I leaned back on my palms, legs stretched outward. “So.” The dirt lay still. I could hear an owl hooting in the semidarkness. I closed my eyes. The soft whoosh of cars passing on the nearby road was comforting. A slow breeze rustled the leaves in the oak trees lining the cemetery.
I laid back on the grass, my head in my hands, and listened.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Less about the Sum, more about the Substance
The opening scene of a story I started a few years ago. I put it down, but I want to finish it sometime.
***
With one final lift and a heavy sigh, sweaty and shaking with adrenaline, I turn to my side and lay next to you. I don’t need to study your silhouette to know exactly how to trace it with my eyes: a heavy brow, long eyelashes, your father’s nose (which you hate, and I love), slightly pink lips, a masculine chin. I reach out gently and brush the back of my hand against the 5 o’clock shadow you inevitably sport by noon. You still don’t move; your eyes are locked on the ceiling, as if something fascinating, much more interesting than me, is unfolding somewhere far above your bed where we lay.
This is where it always hits me – that strike, deeper than the pit of my stomach – where it racks me with an insatiable mixture of pain, longing, and something inviolable that I’d give anything to lessen. It’s a rush, and it’s too much. I’ve never felt this much before, and I feel like I could detonate at any moment.
Say it. You’ve said it before, and he said it too, and it made everything feel better – like you were sharing this with him, as if you weren’t just in this alone. But how could I be in it alone? It’s a relationship, isn’t it? What a juvenile thought. I’m just letting my mind run away again. You always tell me I do that, I just never listen. You can say it. Stop overthinking it. Stop thinking, and just say what you –
“I love you.” It’s a whisper, but it’s audible, even over the cicadas that chant softly just outside the window. I lean in to kiss you on the cheek when your eyes suddenly focus, and turn to meet mine.
“No.”
I freeze midway between our pillows. My heart, which had been thumping tremendously, seizes in my chest. “What?”
“I thought about it, and it just doesn’t make sense. I mean, I can probably count the number of times we’ve dated each other on two hands,” yeah, but I’ve known you for years “and it feels like you’re taking this sort of fast,” but you just slept with me “and I don’t care about you that way.” THEN WHY DID YOU FUCKING SAY IT BEFORE?!
Arguments are screaming, echoing, resounding in my head, but all I can do is stare at you, catatonic and shipwrecked. My nakedness suddenly feels so wrong, and I pull the sheets around me tightly before slowly turning over, defeated and more alone next to you than I’ve ever been.
I feel a half-hearted shake to my covered shoulder. “Come on, don’t be like that. Let’s talk about it.”
What the hell is there to talk about? I can’t say anything. Stuck between a clash of white-hot anger and nauseating pain, I can’t force any words to the surface, so I lay there, listening to you sigh in annoyance and turn so our backs are facing each other.
Minutes later, my pillow damp with tears, I hear you begin to snore. The space between us is overcast, and the thought of you being angry with me is too much when added to the burden already simmering in my stomach.
I turn to face your back and watch your sides expand and contract with your untroubled breath and that longing, so intricate it’s woven itself into my core, arrests my lungs.
I slide behind your back and wrap an arm around your waist. It’s wounded, but it’s forgiving. I hear you stir, sigh again in annoyance, and drift off once more. The rhythm of your chest moves in time with the chant of the cicadas, and I am, once again, out of sync.
***
***
With one final lift and a heavy sigh, sweaty and shaking with adrenaline, I turn to my side and lay next to you. I don’t need to study your silhouette to know exactly how to trace it with my eyes: a heavy brow, long eyelashes, your father’s nose (which you hate, and I love), slightly pink lips, a masculine chin. I reach out gently and brush the back of my hand against the 5 o’clock shadow you inevitably sport by noon. You still don’t move; your eyes are locked on the ceiling, as if something fascinating, much more interesting than me, is unfolding somewhere far above your bed where we lay.
This is where it always hits me – that strike, deeper than the pit of my stomach – where it racks me with an insatiable mixture of pain, longing, and something inviolable that I’d give anything to lessen. It’s a rush, and it’s too much. I’ve never felt this much before, and I feel like I could detonate at any moment.
Say it. You’ve said it before, and he said it too, and it made everything feel better – like you were sharing this with him, as if you weren’t just in this alone. But how could I be in it alone? It’s a relationship, isn’t it? What a juvenile thought. I’m just letting my mind run away again. You always tell me I do that, I just never listen. You can say it. Stop overthinking it. Stop thinking, and just say what you –
“I love you.” It’s a whisper, but it’s audible, even over the cicadas that chant softly just outside the window. I lean in to kiss you on the cheek when your eyes suddenly focus, and turn to meet mine.
“No.”
I freeze midway between our pillows. My heart, which had been thumping tremendously, seizes in my chest. “What?”
“I thought about it, and it just doesn’t make sense. I mean, I can probably count the number of times we’ve dated each other on two hands,” yeah, but I’ve known you for years “and it feels like you’re taking this sort of fast,” but you just slept with me “and I don’t care about you that way.” THEN WHY DID YOU FUCKING SAY IT BEFORE?!
Arguments are screaming, echoing, resounding in my head, but all I can do is stare at you, catatonic and shipwrecked. My nakedness suddenly feels so wrong, and I pull the sheets around me tightly before slowly turning over, defeated and more alone next to you than I’ve ever been.
I feel a half-hearted shake to my covered shoulder. “Come on, don’t be like that. Let’s talk about it.”
What the hell is there to talk about? I can’t say anything. Stuck between a clash of white-hot anger and nauseating pain, I can’t force any words to the surface, so I lay there, listening to you sigh in annoyance and turn so our backs are facing each other.
Minutes later, my pillow damp with tears, I hear you begin to snore. The space between us is overcast, and the thought of you being angry with me is too much when added to the burden already simmering in my stomach.
I turn to face your back and watch your sides expand and contract with your untroubled breath and that longing, so intricate it’s woven itself into my core, arrests my lungs.
I slide behind your back and wrap an arm around your waist. It’s wounded, but it’s forgiving. I hear you stir, sigh again in annoyance, and drift off once more. The rhythm of your chest moves in time with the chant of the cicadas, and I am, once again, out of sync.
***
Thursday, December 3, 2009
More flash.
Today's challenge: Write a flash fiction scene that fits on a regular-sized postcard. (I wrote really, really small).
No Place
Maila walked through the doors of Cindy's house, moving quietly on the hardwood floors. The red, sparkled shoes her mother bought for her recent eighth birthday clacked in spite of her attempts to be silent. She could hear Cindy's mother and stepfather shouting upstairs - short, percussive words, the turpentine kind that drip from your tongue, poisoning yourself and anyone who listens. She covered her ears and walked down the wooden steps to the unfinished basement where she knew Cindy hid during afternoons like these. She flickered her flashlight twice in the air to identify herself in the musty darkness. Cindy flipped on her own to show where she was sitting, huddled on the floor. Maila sat down next to her, listening to her soft sobs. She took her hand. Maila closed her eyes, stretched her legs out, and clicked her heels together three times in the darkness. They sat, holding on to one another, dreaming of another place.
No Place
Maila walked through the doors of Cindy's house, moving quietly on the hardwood floors. The red, sparkled shoes her mother bought for her recent eighth birthday clacked in spite of her attempts to be silent. She could hear Cindy's mother and stepfather shouting upstairs - short, percussive words, the turpentine kind that drip from your tongue, poisoning yourself and anyone who listens. She covered her ears and walked down the wooden steps to the unfinished basement where she knew Cindy hid during afternoons like these. She flickered her flashlight twice in the air to identify herself in the musty darkness. Cindy flipped on her own to show where she was sitting, huddled on the floor. Maila sat down next to her, listening to her soft sobs. She took her hand. Maila closed her eyes, stretched her legs out, and clicked her heels together three times in the darkness. They sat, holding on to one another, dreaming of another place.
First things first.
I've always been paralyzed by fear thinking of someone else reading my writing. However, I've recently come to terms with the fact that if I don't ever get over that fear, I won't ever be a writer. (Can someone be a writer if no one reads their work? I don't know.)
So I'll start with a few flash fiction pieces I've been working on. Any feedback is always welcome.
This is from my creative writing class. The prompt was a man and a woman are sitting at a table in Kansas. She's preoccupied. There's a glass and cufflinks. Use the words 'light' and 'salvation'. Tell their story in 300 words or less.
Her fingers look graceful, lithe as a dancer as she twirls the crystal stemware we got at our wedding (from her parents? My parents?) The light from the kitchen chandelier hits it just right, refracts into a thousand rainbow slivers that spin, dizzying and beautiful. She doesn't seem to notice; she stares blankly at nothing, as if something, anything, is more important than us, here and now.
"It's nice to be able to drink champagne again," she says flatly. She sets the empty glass down.
I nod. I don't know what else to do.
"My mother will be by in the morning to pick up the crib. Since we don't need it, and Julie's pregnant again, it just makes sense that she takes it back."
I attempt to vocalize a yes, but nothing comes out, so I nod again.
"She told me to pray." She scoffs. "She said it was just God's will, that it wasn't meant to be. She is so deluded! 'Forgiveness, salvation, eternity.' Buzz words. Trying to push that religious shit on me right now." She runs her finger along the glass's rim, creating a high-pitched ring. "Julie called after and apologized. She knows Ma means best, but she's not a believer either. She thinks the world is random. I don't know which way is sadder."
I fiddle with my cufflinks, trying to think of something to say.
"Do you think she's right? That what happens is what's meant to happen? Or do you think it's all just random?"
I am silent. I can't answer. There is no answer. I link her fingers through mine and press down gently. She considers it for a moment, then looks up at me, but I see her gaze goes straight through me as if I, too, am nothing.
JK 12/2/09
So I'll start with a few flash fiction pieces I've been working on. Any feedback is always welcome.
This is from my creative writing class. The prompt was a man and a woman are sitting at a table in Kansas. She's preoccupied. There's a glass and cufflinks. Use the words 'light' and 'salvation'. Tell their story in 300 words or less.
Her fingers look graceful, lithe as a dancer as she twirls the crystal stemware we got at our wedding (from her parents? My parents?) The light from the kitchen chandelier hits it just right, refracts into a thousand rainbow slivers that spin, dizzying and beautiful. She doesn't seem to notice; she stares blankly at nothing, as if something, anything, is more important than us, here and now.
"It's nice to be able to drink champagne again," she says flatly. She sets the empty glass down.
I nod. I don't know what else to do.
"My mother will be by in the morning to pick up the crib. Since we don't need it, and Julie's pregnant again, it just makes sense that she takes it back."
I attempt to vocalize a yes, but nothing comes out, so I nod again.
"She told me to pray." She scoffs. "She said it was just God's will, that it wasn't meant to be. She is so deluded! 'Forgiveness, salvation, eternity.' Buzz words. Trying to push that religious shit on me right now." She runs her finger along the glass's rim, creating a high-pitched ring. "Julie called after and apologized. She knows Ma means best, but she's not a believer either. She thinks the world is random. I don't know which way is sadder."
I fiddle with my cufflinks, trying to think of something to say.
"Do you think she's right? That what happens is what's meant to happen? Or do you think it's all just random?"
I am silent. I can't answer. There is no answer. I link her fingers through mine and press down gently. She considers it for a moment, then looks up at me, but I see her gaze goes straight through me as if I, too, am nothing.
JK 12/2/09
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