A wedding story, in which the bride or groom goes missing, and the narrator, who finds her/him, convinces him/her to either return and wed or flees, according to the narrator's own personal motives.
Amy was not surprised that the bride was the better part of an hour late, with the church bedecked in lavender and white and full of foot tapping, watch glancing extended and largely unrelated family. She was not shocked at the sudden realization, brought on by a red faced and visibly sweating best man striding quickly to a suddenly very downcast groom, that perhaps the bride had fled, and was missing.
Though she’d only met the woman, Virginia was her name, only once, she’d formed an immediate and very strong impression. A nice enough woman, strong willed and Audry Hepburn beautiful, she was absolutely unreliable. No, she was not the least bit surprised that the groom, her cousin, was standing forlorn at the large rosewood altar just then.
It had been at the wedding rehearsal a few days before, which Amy went to because she liked the candid nature of ceremony without pomp or audience, when she first met Virginia. She’d been late to that too, but eventually came walking down the aisle smelling like cigarettes and walking like liquor. Amy had forgiven her then, for the moment at least, believing she understood how trying getting married could be. She rescinded that small grace, though, as she realized that Virginia was not stressed, was not in the middle of an emotional crisis, was not fretting over the sudden loss of her singleness and wild independence. She was loving every moment of a process that had darkened circles under the poor groom’s eyes, had the bride’s maids slouching and examining the vaulted church ceilings and half finished decorations, had her father snoring in the front pew, arms crossed, head tilted forward and to one side.
“Sorry I’m late,” she called as she weaved slightly down the aisle.
Amy was not fooled, did not believe for a second that this bride was not absolutely savoring the fact that everyone was waiting for her, that inside those double doors, the world had stopped and waited for her to finish her cigarette and sneak another draw from whatever bottle or flask she had hidden in her purse.
Maybe, Amy was thinking to herself, I’m biased. Maybe I don’t like her because she’s marrying my favorite cousin. She pondered this for some time, absently watching the empty ceremony come to a close. By that time, even she, one of the two people in the church who enjoyed the process, was ready to leave.
“Let’s do it again!” Virginia said with an almost childish enthusiasm. Groans seemed to rise from the floor of the church. The best man shot the groom a “what the hell” look and tapped his watch.
“Except this time, I want to watch.”
She strode over to the line of miserable bridesmaids and grabbed one, whom Amy noticed was the most attractive of the women, and slid her into place next to the very uncomfortable groom. Excitedly, Virginia bobbled over to Virginia’s pew and sat next to her, saying nothing except, “okay, start.”
They didn’t start, and Amy had only stayed long enough to hear the beginnings of a high pitched tantrum echoing down the aisle after her.
Amy was not surprised, despite the incredible amount of effort both sides of the family had poured into that event. She was not surprised, but she did not doubt that Virginia would turn up in her good time, if only people would continue waiting.
A morbidly obese man whom Amy had only seen once before at her great-aunt’s fiftieth wedding anniversary, looking red and short of breath in his impossibly large whale-gray suite, stood up and sidled his best sidle past Amy, who turned her legs sideways and pressed herself as far back into the pew as she could. His belly still grazed her, and she cringed visibly.
The woman sitting on other side of the large possible-uncle slide over next to Amy, and began to say something when the father of the bride, visibly irritated and sincerely apologetic, stepped to the front of the church with a microphone in hand.
“Hello everyone,” he began, pausing to cough and clear his throat.
“Its beautiful, isn’t it?” the woman next to Amy whispered.
“I’m very sorry for the delay. If you will please bear with us for just a little longer…”
“Look at the way they decorated this place. The lavender fabric goes lovely with the white roses. I absolutely love the roses.”
“we’re sure we’ll be able to resolve our little… problem.”
“My wedding is going to be so beautiful,” she almost squealed.
Amy turned suddenly, recognizing the smell of tobacco and rum before registering the face.
"Are you serious?" she shouted, her voice rising to a quivering pitch of disbelief, turning heads and raising grumbles and shouts from throughout the terribly lavender church.
Amy was very surprised.
The Other Side is in far better form, and probably got some sleep last night.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Sunday, December 10, 2006
A Small Celebration
I would like to take a moment to point to the most recent short posted, and kindly suggest that my reader guide their discerning eye to my first post to compare the two. In only eleven posts, I feel, and my colleague agrees, that I have made a considerable amount of progress. Needless to say I am pleased, though I will anyway. I am pleased.
Too bad for Megan, she started this project as an impressive and solid writer, so she doesn't get the benefit of such a dramatic change. It's hard to pity her for that.
Anyway, if you read this, thank you for visitting. I hope that you enjoy what we have created thusfar, and hope you will continue to return.
If you are not reading this, well then... I have nothing to say to you.
Too bad for Megan, she started this project as an impressive and solid writer, so she doesn't get the benefit of such a dramatic change. It's hard to pity her for that.
Anyway, if you read this, thank you for visitting. I hope that you enjoy what we have created thusfar, and hope you will continue to return.
If you are not reading this, well then... I have nothing to say to you.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
Moving On
Your housemate arrives home and the apartment is an absolute mess. Dishes are broken, sheets are torn, and there is an angry zoo animal loose. Explain what happened. 45 minutes
I was sitting in the old chair I like—the lumpy recliner with the rip in the back. I was going through the shoebox full of pictures of us, full of movie ticket stubs and souvenirs and memories. I was bleary eyed, drinking a greyhound and blowing smoke into the ceiling. She was so dear to me. I knew I shouldn't look at that shit. I knew wasn't good for me, and wouldn't do anything except upset me. I knew this, but I was doing it anyway.
The smoke made me emotional, tapping my mind directly to the feelings of the memories in the box, and that overwhelming sense of loss that I usually smother with smiles and busy thoughts. I’d gotten to the bottom of the box, where I rediscovered her favorite shirt—a threadbare tank-top commemorating a trip to Cancun. It was carefully sealed inside of a freezer bag, and hadn’t been opened since its original encasing those four months ago. I opened it then, tentatively drawing the talisman from its case.
It still smelled like her.
I breathed her in, closing my eyes and letting the tears flow. I pressed the cold wrinkled cloth into my face and let the memories fill me. My mind was too fluid to grasp any single memory for more than a moment, but I could feel her arms around me, her skin against mine.
But she was gone. She grew up and away from me, and this shirt she treasured for so long was forgotten. She did not comfort me then—she’d shed this skin long ago, and I could do nothing but clutch it to me and shake tears into it.
A knock on the door drew me out of my memory and into the present. I weaved my way to the door and fumbled with the deadbolt, jerking the door open and falling back slightly as it gave. Standing at my door was a fat clown who I smelled before I comprehended. His frilled costume was stained and yellowed, the seam of the right shoulder badly frayed and exposing a small patch of hairy flesh. His face paint was thick and greasy, but did not hide the considerable stubble or the scar that decorated his left cheek. His painted mouth was frowning, and so was his real one. His plastic orange hair was tangled and had twigs and probably insects forever trapped. He wore a grimy Dodger cap that they give away on Hat Tuesdays. In one hand he held a bicycle horn which at that moment he gave a halfhearted, wheezing squeeze. In the other hand he held a leash, which was attached to a monkey.
Nothing interesting ever happens when I’m sober.
The monkey looked at me and with one hand shoved me backward. He (yes, it was a he) monkey-walked in, grasping the leash and pulling the clown stumbling after him. I don't know my monkeys, but I think this was a chimp. He didn't have a tail, and stood about waist high. It was the kind of monkey people put next to pictures of Bush. The clown held onto the leash and stumbled behind. The ape climbed up a barstool and deftly grabbed a grape from the fruit bowl my hospitable housemate had provided. He placed this is his mouth and began to chew, watching the clown expectantly.
“Where’s the birthday party,” the clown slurred, the smell of whiskey on his words.
The monkey threw a grape at the fat man. Monkeys can throw--or at least chimps can. The grape splattered flat and juicy on the clown's face.
“Fucking monkey!” he shouted, puffing himself up for a moment. The ape gave him a threatening glare and the clown deflated visibly.
“So I guess there’s no party. Little Suzy is going to be terribly disappointed. So, do you have any need for an alcoholic clown and a pain in the ass monkey?”
I wasn’t really sure how to react. I wasn’t doing any hard drugs, and certainly hadn’t had enough to smoke or drink to create a hallucination this strange, or a dream this real. The monkey unhooked the leash from his collar, which he adjusted like a businessman might straighten a tie, and leapt from the stool.
“Fucking monkey… Hey. You look like shit,” he said, suddenly taking a closer look at me.
I wanted to say something at that point along the lines of “look who’s talking” but I didn’t have time or wit to stammer such a thing before he slumped across the distance separating us and slung an arm around my shoulder. I immediately felt dirty, like fleas were migrating from body to body across the bridge he’d formed. Just thinking about it makes me want another shower.
“What was it, a woman? She take the kids and leave? She obviously didn’t take the money. Nice place. No no, you’re too young for children. Ah. I know. She broke your heart. First love? I can see it, yes. I’ll bet you have episodes where you don’t do laundry for a month, you’re moping so much. You haven’t done laundry, have you? You wore that shirt yesterday.”
I’d actually slept in that shirt, and had a mountain of laundry that would match the stack of dirty dishes if my housemate didn’t keep the kitchen spotless. And she had been my first love.
“Your hair looks terrible. You should stop getting twelve dollar hair cuts. At least you didn’t Flowbee it.”
Then the monkey came strutting back into the living room with my shoebox, wearing the tank top. He gave a knowing look to the clown, who glanced at the monkey and farted.
“Take some advice from someone older and wiser. Forget her. No! Fuck her! This bitch,” he said, pulling out a large portrait of us, smiling and holding each other, “is not worth it. Hot though.” He licked his lips and began folding the precious photo. I was about to object when another grape exploded on his cheek. He yelped.
“Okay, okay! Shit! Anyway, fuck her.”
He tore the picture lengthwise, and proceeded to shred it into dime size pieces of photo paper. He went into a frenzy then, dropping to his haunches and tearing through the box like a frothing beast, tearing notes, biting photos, disemboweling a stuffed bear she’d given me. He howled loudly and ran out of the room, flailing his hands above his head, throwing the confetti of my past into the air behind him.
“Fuck her!” he shouted as he overturned the glass-top table in the middle of the room. It cracked in half, and the large vase with the pair of birds of paradise shattered on the cold stone floor.
“Fuck her!” he screamed as he pulled the bookshelf away from the wall, dumping novels across the floor before sending the heavy wooden case crashing on top of them.
He panted for a moment, wheezing as though he’d forgotten he was a very fat man.
He picked up a barstool and flung it through the sliding glass door that lead to the backyard.
“Forget her.”
The monkey leapt from his perch on the barstool again, and clipped the leash to his collar once more. Placing the end of the leash in the clown’s hand, the monkey, still wearing the Cancun shirt, opened the front door and pulled the huffing clown out of my home. I stared after them for a few moments before I started to laugh, an uncontrollable fit that had me on my back, holding my sides, with tears running down the sides of my face.
That’s when you came home. You just missed them.
The Other Side is probably looking pretty good
I was sitting in the old chair I like—the lumpy recliner with the rip in the back. I was going through the shoebox full of pictures of us, full of movie ticket stubs and souvenirs and memories. I was bleary eyed, drinking a greyhound and blowing smoke into the ceiling. She was so dear to me. I knew I shouldn't look at that shit. I knew wasn't good for me, and wouldn't do anything except upset me. I knew this, but I was doing it anyway.
The smoke made me emotional, tapping my mind directly to the feelings of the memories in the box, and that overwhelming sense of loss that I usually smother with smiles and busy thoughts. I’d gotten to the bottom of the box, where I rediscovered her favorite shirt—a threadbare tank-top commemorating a trip to Cancun. It was carefully sealed inside of a freezer bag, and hadn’t been opened since its original encasing those four months ago. I opened it then, tentatively drawing the talisman from its case.
It still smelled like her.
I breathed her in, closing my eyes and letting the tears flow. I pressed the cold wrinkled cloth into my face and let the memories fill me. My mind was too fluid to grasp any single memory for more than a moment, but I could feel her arms around me, her skin against mine.
But she was gone. She grew up and away from me, and this shirt she treasured for so long was forgotten. She did not comfort me then—she’d shed this skin long ago, and I could do nothing but clutch it to me and shake tears into it.
A knock on the door drew me out of my memory and into the present. I weaved my way to the door and fumbled with the deadbolt, jerking the door open and falling back slightly as it gave. Standing at my door was a fat clown who I smelled before I comprehended. His frilled costume was stained and yellowed, the seam of the right shoulder badly frayed and exposing a small patch of hairy flesh. His face paint was thick and greasy, but did not hide the considerable stubble or the scar that decorated his left cheek. His painted mouth was frowning, and so was his real one. His plastic orange hair was tangled and had twigs and probably insects forever trapped. He wore a grimy Dodger cap that they give away on Hat Tuesdays. In one hand he held a bicycle horn which at that moment he gave a halfhearted, wheezing squeeze. In the other hand he held a leash, which was attached to a monkey.
Nothing interesting ever happens when I’m sober.
The monkey looked at me and with one hand shoved me backward. He (yes, it was a he) monkey-walked in, grasping the leash and pulling the clown stumbling after him. I don't know my monkeys, but I think this was a chimp. He didn't have a tail, and stood about waist high. It was the kind of monkey people put next to pictures of Bush. The clown held onto the leash and stumbled behind. The ape climbed up a barstool and deftly grabbed a grape from the fruit bowl my hospitable housemate had provided. He placed this is his mouth and began to chew, watching the clown expectantly.
“Where’s the birthday party,” the clown slurred, the smell of whiskey on his words.
The monkey threw a grape at the fat man. Monkeys can throw--or at least chimps can. The grape splattered flat and juicy on the clown's face.
“Fucking monkey!” he shouted, puffing himself up for a moment. The ape gave him a threatening glare and the clown deflated visibly.
“So I guess there’s no party. Little Suzy is going to be terribly disappointed. So, do you have any need for an alcoholic clown and a pain in the ass monkey?”
I wasn’t really sure how to react. I wasn’t doing any hard drugs, and certainly hadn’t had enough to smoke or drink to create a hallucination this strange, or a dream this real. The monkey unhooked the leash from his collar, which he adjusted like a businessman might straighten a tie, and leapt from the stool.
“Fucking monkey… Hey. You look like shit,” he said, suddenly taking a closer look at me.
I wanted to say something at that point along the lines of “look who’s talking” but I didn’t have time or wit to stammer such a thing before he slumped across the distance separating us and slung an arm around my shoulder. I immediately felt dirty, like fleas were migrating from body to body across the bridge he’d formed. Just thinking about it makes me want another shower.
“What was it, a woman? She take the kids and leave? She obviously didn’t take the money. Nice place. No no, you’re too young for children. Ah. I know. She broke your heart. First love? I can see it, yes. I’ll bet you have episodes where you don’t do laundry for a month, you’re moping so much. You haven’t done laundry, have you? You wore that shirt yesterday.”
I’d actually slept in that shirt, and had a mountain of laundry that would match the stack of dirty dishes if my housemate didn’t keep the kitchen spotless. And she had been my first love.
“Your hair looks terrible. You should stop getting twelve dollar hair cuts. At least you didn’t Flowbee it.”
Then the monkey came strutting back into the living room with my shoebox, wearing the tank top. He gave a knowing look to the clown, who glanced at the monkey and farted.
“Take some advice from someone older and wiser. Forget her. No! Fuck her! This bitch,” he said, pulling out a large portrait of us, smiling and holding each other, “is not worth it. Hot though.” He licked his lips and began folding the precious photo. I was about to object when another grape exploded on his cheek. He yelped.
“Okay, okay! Shit! Anyway, fuck her.”
He tore the picture lengthwise, and proceeded to shred it into dime size pieces of photo paper. He went into a frenzy then, dropping to his haunches and tearing through the box like a frothing beast, tearing notes, biting photos, disemboweling a stuffed bear she’d given me. He howled loudly and ran out of the room, flailing his hands above his head, throwing the confetti of my past into the air behind him.
“Fuck her!” he shouted as he overturned the glass-top table in the middle of the room. It cracked in half, and the large vase with the pair of birds of paradise shattered on the cold stone floor.
“Fuck her!” he screamed as he pulled the bookshelf away from the wall, dumping novels across the floor before sending the heavy wooden case crashing on top of them.
He panted for a moment, wheezing as though he’d forgotten he was a very fat man.
He picked up a barstool and flung it through the sliding glass door that lead to the backyard.
“Forget her.”
The monkey leapt from his perch on the barstool again, and clipped the leash to his collar once more. Placing the end of the leash in the clown’s hand, the monkey, still wearing the Cancun shirt, opened the front door and pulled the huffing clown out of my home. I stared after them for a few moments before I started to laugh, an uncontrollable fit that had me on my back, holding my sides, with tears running down the sides of my face.
That’s when you came home. You just missed them.
The Other Side is probably looking pretty good
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Putt Putt
Drunk grandma makes a scene at a family gathering.
I was beginning to hate the fact that Alex was born in July. Every year since he was old enough to understand the concept of a birthday, a child’s whim forced us out into the summer heat for a day of sweaty fun. This year it was miniature golf, and not just any miniature golf. This course was huge, easily covering an area the size of a real golf fairway. It had a total of 54 holes, each with its unique challenge, fantastic props and obstacles. The obligatory windmill was huge and wooden, creaking and clacking as though inside, one might actually find a grindstone or some sort of belt-driven machinery. There were dragons and farm houses, miniature landscapes, hills and bumps, and my personal favorite: a giant typewriter that spat the ball out the top where the paper feeds. The walkways were fancy flagstone, and the entire course was lined with flowers. It was a lovely place, and would have enjoyed myself thoroughly if I hadn’t already soaked my polo tee shirt through. Luckily I’d worn a hat, but that too was slimy with perspiration. Even Uncle Ted had rings under his armpits, and that dapper gentleman didn’t sweat even after the most rigorous of tennis matches.
A markedly unenthusiastic burst of applause rose from the small group of adults as Alex, after nine or ten hasty strokes, finally sank his ball into the hole. His young friends had finished shooting already, each finishing in about five shots. The children didn’t clap or cheer. They looked tired and wet and slightly flushed with the heat. The fat boy in the navy golf tee looked like he was melting, his curly hair wilting and sticking to his dripping face. One girl, the wealthy McDoyle daughter gave a loud sigh that began with a snotty irritation and slowly groaned into genuine misery.
And still Alex ran. He ran ahead to the next hole. It was a train. He loved trains. His smile was fresh and he danced on the spot as he waiting for the party to slug its way to the next tee.
My cell phone rang as the birthday boy teed off. I watched long enough to see an overenthusiastic swing that sent his red ball skittering sideways and into the flowers. Alex was running over to crawl through the plants when I flipped the phone open to hear my brother’s voice.
“What’s up?”
“Hey Ryan, sorry I’m late. I had to go get grandma, and…” he paused a moment, and I already knew what had happened.
Our grandmother hated children, which was a cruel joke on my father and uncles, who all had interesting issues of their own, but it worked out okay for my generation. The offspring of that woman had all at one time or another sworn they would be better parents. They succeeded to some extent.
“…and well, you know grandma. She was three sheets to the wind when I got there.”
She was also something of an alcoholic, though she would say it was only on special occasions. It seemed reasonable to her, and I don’t know how.
I found my mother slouched under the thin shadow of a light post, watching her youngest son putt like a six year old will, and smiling slightly.
“Mom. James has grandma. They’re almost here.”
She nodded and said nothing, choosing instead to raise an eyebrow at me.
“Yes, she is,” I answered.
She rolled her eyes and took a sip of water from her bottle.
I could smell the gin on my grandmother's breath, sweating out of her skin as she strode up to the party. She carried heals in her hand, but was wobbling on her ankles a little anyway. She was wearing a black dress, slightly shorter than I like grandmothers wearing, but she had aged well, and she knew it. She was old enough that softness should have started pulling her flesh earthward, wrinkling and sagging as is the right of every geriatric. She seemed to be defying the pull. “Sagging means the earth is ready to pull you in,” she liked to say, “and I’m not ready for a grave yet.”
“Ryan!”
She shouted and ran to me first, though I don’t know why. She was most vicious to me of all my family when she was sober and her sharp words were not lost in a bottle. She threw her arms around me in a quick hug, and I was sure I smelled like gin too when she pulled away.
“You’re very drunk, grandmother,” I informed her in a friendly voice. She immediately darkened, her eyebrows lowering and casting those menacing shadows over her eyes.
“I know that, you dumb shit. I did it on purpose so I didn’t have to sit sober through stupid crap like that. Stop talking.”
She thought she was using her quiet dramatic voice—she’d done it many times in the past. This time, though, she shouted, and it was much less effective in hurting me, and much better at raising eyebrows and forcing me to grin, slightly embarrassed.
She seemed to forget me, though, and rolled amiably into the middle of the party, greeting and smiling, laughing loudly and tilting dangerously, though never stumbling. She was a very practiced drunk.
My mother sidled up next to me, her shoulder touching mine as she said quietly, “How long before she does something that upsets the parents and ends the party?”
“I give her five minutes,” I answered.
I gave her too little credit by half. She hugged Alex and wished him the happiest of birthdays, telling him to grow up faster so she could tolerate him. I’m sure he didn’t know what she meant, because he giggled and laughed in her arms. She even took in a round of golf, drawing the eyes of some of the older fathers as she bent unsteadily over her club.
It took about ten minutes, but I saw her standing next to one of the younger fathers. He was well dressed, handsome, and obviously in good shape. She was talking to him. He looked uncomfortable, even from where I was standing, but nobody could stop my grandmother once she started flirting. I couldn't hear her, but I saw him shake his head and step back. I saw her throw her head back with a very fake laugh. I saw her give him a playful shove, and I watched with only a little surprise as she proceeded to throw herself over the flowery hedge and into the very blue pond.
"You pushed me!" She shouted, splashing water toward the parents. "You naughty man! Now come swim with me!"
She laughed loudly and peeled her dress over her head, throwing it toward the McDoyles yelling "hold this". The pond must have been a foot and a half deep- enough for her to lay down in her black underwear and sigh happily.
Parents were snatching up there children and doing their best to storm. Most were too tired, and only managed a dragging sort of stomp. The party was over. Alex was still shooting golf. I was fumbling for my camera—It was, after all, my brother’s turn to keep her from being arrested.
The Other Side
I was beginning to hate the fact that Alex was born in July. Every year since he was old enough to understand the concept of a birthday, a child’s whim forced us out into the summer heat for a day of sweaty fun. This year it was miniature golf, and not just any miniature golf. This course was huge, easily covering an area the size of a real golf fairway. It had a total of 54 holes, each with its unique challenge, fantastic props and obstacles. The obligatory windmill was huge and wooden, creaking and clacking as though inside, one might actually find a grindstone or some sort of belt-driven machinery. There were dragons and farm houses, miniature landscapes, hills and bumps, and my personal favorite: a giant typewriter that spat the ball out the top where the paper feeds. The walkways were fancy flagstone, and the entire course was lined with flowers. It was a lovely place, and would have enjoyed myself thoroughly if I hadn’t already soaked my polo tee shirt through. Luckily I’d worn a hat, but that too was slimy with perspiration. Even Uncle Ted had rings under his armpits, and that dapper gentleman didn’t sweat even after the most rigorous of tennis matches.
A markedly unenthusiastic burst of applause rose from the small group of adults as Alex, after nine or ten hasty strokes, finally sank his ball into the hole. His young friends had finished shooting already, each finishing in about five shots. The children didn’t clap or cheer. They looked tired and wet and slightly flushed with the heat. The fat boy in the navy golf tee looked like he was melting, his curly hair wilting and sticking to his dripping face. One girl, the wealthy McDoyle daughter gave a loud sigh that began with a snotty irritation and slowly groaned into genuine misery.
And still Alex ran. He ran ahead to the next hole. It was a train. He loved trains. His smile was fresh and he danced on the spot as he waiting for the party to slug its way to the next tee.
My cell phone rang as the birthday boy teed off. I watched long enough to see an overenthusiastic swing that sent his red ball skittering sideways and into the flowers. Alex was running over to crawl through the plants when I flipped the phone open to hear my brother’s voice.
“What’s up?”
“Hey Ryan, sorry I’m late. I had to go get grandma, and…” he paused a moment, and I already knew what had happened.
Our grandmother hated children, which was a cruel joke on my father and uncles, who all had interesting issues of their own, but it worked out okay for my generation. The offspring of that woman had all at one time or another sworn they would be better parents. They succeeded to some extent.
“…and well, you know grandma. She was three sheets to the wind when I got there.”
She was also something of an alcoholic, though she would say it was only on special occasions. It seemed reasonable to her, and I don’t know how.
I found my mother slouched under the thin shadow of a light post, watching her youngest son putt like a six year old will, and smiling slightly.
“Mom. James has grandma. They’re almost here.”
She nodded and said nothing, choosing instead to raise an eyebrow at me.
“Yes, she is,” I answered.
She rolled her eyes and took a sip of water from her bottle.
I could smell the gin on my grandmother's breath, sweating out of her skin as she strode up to the party. She carried heals in her hand, but was wobbling on her ankles a little anyway. She was wearing a black dress, slightly shorter than I like grandmothers wearing, but she had aged well, and she knew it. She was old enough that softness should have started pulling her flesh earthward, wrinkling and sagging as is the right of every geriatric. She seemed to be defying the pull. “Sagging means the earth is ready to pull you in,” she liked to say, “and I’m not ready for a grave yet.”
“Ryan!”
She shouted and ran to me first, though I don’t know why. She was most vicious to me of all my family when she was sober and her sharp words were not lost in a bottle. She threw her arms around me in a quick hug, and I was sure I smelled like gin too when she pulled away.
“You’re very drunk, grandmother,” I informed her in a friendly voice. She immediately darkened, her eyebrows lowering and casting those menacing shadows over her eyes.
“I know that, you dumb shit. I did it on purpose so I didn’t have to sit sober through stupid crap like that. Stop talking.”
She thought she was using her quiet dramatic voice—she’d done it many times in the past. This time, though, she shouted, and it was much less effective in hurting me, and much better at raising eyebrows and forcing me to grin, slightly embarrassed.
She seemed to forget me, though, and rolled amiably into the middle of the party, greeting and smiling, laughing loudly and tilting dangerously, though never stumbling. She was a very practiced drunk.
My mother sidled up next to me, her shoulder touching mine as she said quietly, “How long before she does something that upsets the parents and ends the party?”
“I give her five minutes,” I answered.
I gave her too little credit by half. She hugged Alex and wished him the happiest of birthdays, telling him to grow up faster so she could tolerate him. I’m sure he didn’t know what she meant, because he giggled and laughed in her arms. She even took in a round of golf, drawing the eyes of some of the older fathers as she bent unsteadily over her club.
It took about ten minutes, but I saw her standing next to one of the younger fathers. He was well dressed, handsome, and obviously in good shape. She was talking to him. He looked uncomfortable, even from where I was standing, but nobody could stop my grandmother once she started flirting. I couldn't hear her, but I saw him shake his head and step back. I saw her throw her head back with a very fake laugh. I saw her give him a playful shove, and I watched with only a little surprise as she proceeded to throw herself over the flowery hedge and into the very blue pond.
"You pushed me!" She shouted, splashing water toward the parents. "You naughty man! Now come swim with me!"
She laughed loudly and peeled her dress over her head, throwing it toward the McDoyles yelling "hold this". The pond must have been a foot and a half deep- enough for her to lay down in her black underwear and sigh happily.
Parents were snatching up there children and doing their best to storm. Most were too tired, and only managed a dragging sort of stomp. The party was over. Alex was still shooting golf. I was fumbling for my camera—It was, after all, my brother’s turn to keep her from being arrested.
The Other Side
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
And a Very Fine Scotch
We're both rather spooked tonight. We'll write a ghost story.
“Do you think,” Ryan said, looking up from his antiquated typewriter, “that simple acknowledgement of ghosts could make them… I don’t know, more real?”
Megan gave a quick glance across the old wooden dining table before returning her attention to the blue glow of her laptop.
“Absolutely,” she said, still staring at the screen.
It was a discussion they had with considerable frequency, despite their mutual preference to avoid the subject. They lived together in an old, moderately sized house that belonged to a great-uncle before he lost his mind and went missing some twenty years prior. It was a strange arrangement which neither of them could quite explain, though they tried. It only seemed right that two writers of such similar minds should congregate. They spent most of their nights like this, sitting across that heavy oak table, he using one of a variety of old typewriters, clacking out pages of poorly edited fiction, she tapping softly and rarely printing. They would sip at fancy drink, often sharing a new discovery or an old treasure. Tonight, both were sampling an ancient bottle of scotch, found in a dusty box behind a set of very old encyclopedias. The label on the bottle was faded and yellowed, and beginning to peel, but the cork was in fine condition, and the liquid so finely aged and delectable that even a wine drinker like Megan could not wrinkle her nose.
“Did you ever read ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’,” he asked, pausing his rapping again.
“Poe, right?”
He nodded, and knew that she would perceive this, though she did not look up from her laptop.
“I wish you’d stop,” she said. “You know it makes me uneasy.”
He knew, of course—He must have. Who could focus in that house, especially at night when the heat of the sun began to dissipate and the old wooden walls began to creak and settle beneath the weight of darkness? Sometimes, it sounded like footfalls through a hallway, or knocking on a wall, or a heavy man shifting his weight in the next room.
One such creak raced its way through the kitchen, directly adjacent to the yellow-papered dining room where they were seated. Ryan shivered visibly and stood.
“I need a blanket,” he said, indicated the tall window behind him. “Its cold on this side of the room.”
She nodded again without looking up. He left, certainly wishing she’d come with him, too embarrassed to ask. She most likely did not relish being left in that room. Neither said anything, feeling too foolish to indulge childish fears.
She could hear him climbing the stairs up to the bedrooms, could hear the old closet door squeak open. She could hear the whole house settling, noting a soft tapping in the kitchen to which she had her back turned. She probably found it unusual that the tapping was so persistent—usually such sounds lasted only a second, but this had been tapping like an impatient foot for at least a half a minute. Then it stopped, and she shivered and hugged herself, looking toward the door through which Ryan had left. Behind her in the kitchen, there was a sudden shattering of glass, and all the lights in the house were extinguished, except the glow of her laptop.
A shout of surprise and terror erupted from upstairs, followed by a heavy thud as though a bushel of potatoes had been dropped.
“Ryan?” She called, her voice wavering, her throat nearly stopped by her pounding heart.
He offered no answer, though she strained her ears for his voice. She heard something then, but it was not from upstairs. It was a very soft tapping, almost inaudible, and not noteworthy except that it was most definitely moving. Through the hall, in through the same door through which Ryan left, and to the center of the room, where it made a slow deliberate line toward her. An observer would have seen Megan’s eyes go wide, though the blue of her laptop screen would have hidden the sudden paleness. Quickly, she turned the computer around and shone the screen toward the noise. Eyes illuminated yellow and a long yowl filled the room.
She sneezed violently, an immediate reaction to the presence of dander. Her eyes were only squeezed shut for that second, but when she looked up, the cat was gone, and the lights were on, yellow and soft and slightly wavering—it was very old wiring, after all.
She breathed a sigh of relief and looked around for the cat. There were wet footprints on the table. She pondered this a second before remembering Ryan, and noticing that his untidy stack of papers had been scattered, thrown about the floor. His typewriter was gone, and so was his drink. The bottle was gone too.
She ran upstairs, searched the three cavernous bedrooms. In his room, she found his favorite quilt crumpled on the floor, but no sign of him.
She returned downstairs, unsure of what to think. Her feet carried her to the kitchen, where his crystal tumbler was shattered on the floor, the old liquor splashed across the rough wood.
She left the house then, running, wide eyed and fumbling with her cell phone, calling a friend to come pick her up from that old place.
Ryan was never found.
The Other Side
“Do you think,” Ryan said, looking up from his antiquated typewriter, “that simple acknowledgement of ghosts could make them… I don’t know, more real?”
Megan gave a quick glance across the old wooden dining table before returning her attention to the blue glow of her laptop.
“Absolutely,” she said, still staring at the screen.
It was a discussion they had with considerable frequency, despite their mutual preference to avoid the subject. They lived together in an old, moderately sized house that belonged to a great-uncle before he lost his mind and went missing some twenty years prior. It was a strange arrangement which neither of them could quite explain, though they tried. It only seemed right that two writers of such similar minds should congregate. They spent most of their nights like this, sitting across that heavy oak table, he using one of a variety of old typewriters, clacking out pages of poorly edited fiction, she tapping softly and rarely printing. They would sip at fancy drink, often sharing a new discovery or an old treasure. Tonight, both were sampling an ancient bottle of scotch, found in a dusty box behind a set of very old encyclopedias. The label on the bottle was faded and yellowed, and beginning to peel, but the cork was in fine condition, and the liquid so finely aged and delectable that even a wine drinker like Megan could not wrinkle her nose.
“Did you ever read ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’,” he asked, pausing his rapping again.
“Poe, right?”
He nodded, and knew that she would perceive this, though she did not look up from her laptop.
“I wish you’d stop,” she said. “You know it makes me uneasy.”
He knew, of course—He must have. Who could focus in that house, especially at night when the heat of the sun began to dissipate and the old wooden walls began to creak and settle beneath the weight of darkness? Sometimes, it sounded like footfalls through a hallway, or knocking on a wall, or a heavy man shifting his weight in the next room.
One such creak raced its way through the kitchen, directly adjacent to the yellow-papered dining room where they were seated. Ryan shivered visibly and stood.
“I need a blanket,” he said, indicated the tall window behind him. “Its cold on this side of the room.”
She nodded again without looking up. He left, certainly wishing she’d come with him, too embarrassed to ask. She most likely did not relish being left in that room. Neither said anything, feeling too foolish to indulge childish fears.
She could hear him climbing the stairs up to the bedrooms, could hear the old closet door squeak open. She could hear the whole house settling, noting a soft tapping in the kitchen to which she had her back turned. She probably found it unusual that the tapping was so persistent—usually such sounds lasted only a second, but this had been tapping like an impatient foot for at least a half a minute. Then it stopped, and she shivered and hugged herself, looking toward the door through which Ryan had left. Behind her in the kitchen, there was a sudden shattering of glass, and all the lights in the house were extinguished, except the glow of her laptop.
A shout of surprise and terror erupted from upstairs, followed by a heavy thud as though a bushel of potatoes had been dropped.
“Ryan?” She called, her voice wavering, her throat nearly stopped by her pounding heart.
He offered no answer, though she strained her ears for his voice. She heard something then, but it was not from upstairs. It was a very soft tapping, almost inaudible, and not noteworthy except that it was most definitely moving. Through the hall, in through the same door through which Ryan left, and to the center of the room, where it made a slow deliberate line toward her. An observer would have seen Megan’s eyes go wide, though the blue of her laptop screen would have hidden the sudden paleness. Quickly, she turned the computer around and shone the screen toward the noise. Eyes illuminated yellow and a long yowl filled the room.
She sneezed violently, an immediate reaction to the presence of dander. Her eyes were only squeezed shut for that second, but when she looked up, the cat was gone, and the lights were on, yellow and soft and slightly wavering—it was very old wiring, after all.
She breathed a sigh of relief and looked around for the cat. There were wet footprints on the table. She pondered this a second before remembering Ryan, and noticing that his untidy stack of papers had been scattered, thrown about the floor. His typewriter was gone, and so was his drink. The bottle was gone too.
She ran upstairs, searched the three cavernous bedrooms. In his room, she found his favorite quilt crumpled on the floor, but no sign of him.
She returned downstairs, unsure of what to think. Her feet carried her to the kitchen, where his crystal tumbler was shattered on the floor, the old liquor splashed across the rough wood.
She left the house then, running, wide eyed and fumbling with her cell phone, calling a friend to come pick her up from that old place.
Ryan was never found.
The Other Side
Uruguay
Bros vs. Hos, 45 minutes
I’d been visiting that house for more than half of my life, and it had become a second home for me. It was the home of a childhood friend with whom I was fortunate enough to maintain a constant and strong friendship well into adulthood.
We were sitting at his kitchen table—the same table I’d eaten at when his family invited me for dinner all those years ago—chatting and rolling joint after joint and sliding them into empty cigarette boxes. The blinds to the large window behind him were open, the dark of the very early morning pressing cold through the glass. I wondered if neighbors would know what we were doing.
“Two years is a long ass time,” he said, his tone as dim and somber as the lighting.
“Yeah, it is,” was all I could reply.
I’d already expressed how excited I was to be leaving, how great an adventure the Peace Corps would provide. I’d already assured him that I was sure I’d be able to find a steady source of marijuana in Uruguay. I mentioned it again as he placed another full cigarette box on the growing stack, and reached for another of the many empties.
“You never know,” he said, not looking up from his paper.
I almost didn’t get to spend that evening with him. Fortunately for me, he finally decided to be assertive.
“No, he’s coming over… Listen, we’ll fight about this later. He’s leaving for South America tomorrow. Amanda. Amanda. Amanda listen. He’s my best friend. He’s leaving for two years…. AMANDA. You can go back to your place if you’re going to act like that.”
He slapped the phone shut abruptly. I knew he was in deep shit, and appreciated the gesture more than anything he could have done for me. I wondered how many hours of grumbling and glaring he would have to endure after they finished their shouting match.
I arrived at his place before the summer sun began tinting the sky orange, and we wasted away the hours comfortably, as though we both knew that no extravagant plans or fancy celebration would compare to a few more hours of ‘chilling’.
More of my old friend trickled in, each wishing me well, some gripping my shoulder and letting me know with appropriate emotion that I would be missed. We spent that evening playing video games, drinking, and laughing over old memories. Twice, Amanda descended the stairs, stopping short of the living room, never leaving the stairs. Twice she glared around the living room full of smiles, and twice she climbed the stairs, more heavy-footed than her considerable heft usually caused.
We ignored her, and enjoyed the dying night. One by one my comrades left, leaving me with manly hugs and well wishes, leaving Jake and I to make our final preparations. A popcorn bowl full of fresh plant matter, a carton’s worth of empty Marlboro Red boxes, and several hundred rolling papers.
We worked and chatted like old women knitting, commenting on the irony that we should be crafting on the same table we’d done cub scout projects.
Somehow, she sidled up to the table without us noticing her, so we both jumped slightly when she spoke.
“Don’t you think you have enough joints?”
The tone of her voice was a familiar one, employed many a night when she decided it was time for us to leave. Before she came around I could often be found sleeping on one of the sofas in that house, but that summer, I’d been lucky to see Jake more than once a week. I knew what she wanted, but wasn’t ready to leave yet. I looked at the half carton of cigarette boxes full of expertly wrapped marijuana buds, considered the quantity with a very serious look on my face, looked at her and told her that I doubted it.
I’d never stood up to her before. Jake always had her back, and it was his house. She’s become so accustomed to the power, I was quite sure she had forgotten whose house it really was.
“Jacob Robert, I’m tired of having your fucking friends over here all the time. They stay too late. They’re too loud, and I’m tired.”
I would have rolled my eyes if I wasn’t so appalled at the title so recently bestowed. I was almost speechless. Almost.
“Hey Amanda,” I said cheerfully, “fuck off.”
I gave her a broad smile and she turned a funny color.
“I think maybe you’d better go home, Ryan,” she said to me, hands on hips.
I looked over at Jake, wondering how the night would end.
"I... Think its time for you to leave," he said, not looking at me.
Amanda smirked at me and nodded toward the door.
"Good night, Amanda," Jake finished, looking her straight in the face before turning back to his work.
The Other Side
I’d been visiting that house for more than half of my life, and it had become a second home for me. It was the home of a childhood friend with whom I was fortunate enough to maintain a constant and strong friendship well into adulthood.
We were sitting at his kitchen table—the same table I’d eaten at when his family invited me for dinner all those years ago—chatting and rolling joint after joint and sliding them into empty cigarette boxes. The blinds to the large window behind him were open, the dark of the very early morning pressing cold through the glass. I wondered if neighbors would know what we were doing.
“Two years is a long ass time,” he said, his tone as dim and somber as the lighting.
“Yeah, it is,” was all I could reply.
I’d already expressed how excited I was to be leaving, how great an adventure the Peace Corps would provide. I’d already assured him that I was sure I’d be able to find a steady source of marijuana in Uruguay. I mentioned it again as he placed another full cigarette box on the growing stack, and reached for another of the many empties.
“You never know,” he said, not looking up from his paper.
I almost didn’t get to spend that evening with him. Fortunately for me, he finally decided to be assertive.
“No, he’s coming over… Listen, we’ll fight about this later. He’s leaving for South America tomorrow. Amanda. Amanda. Amanda listen. He’s my best friend. He’s leaving for two years…. AMANDA. You can go back to your place if you’re going to act like that.”
He slapped the phone shut abruptly. I knew he was in deep shit, and appreciated the gesture more than anything he could have done for me. I wondered how many hours of grumbling and glaring he would have to endure after they finished their shouting match.
I arrived at his place before the summer sun began tinting the sky orange, and we wasted away the hours comfortably, as though we both knew that no extravagant plans or fancy celebration would compare to a few more hours of ‘chilling’.
More of my old friend trickled in, each wishing me well, some gripping my shoulder and letting me know with appropriate emotion that I would be missed. We spent that evening playing video games, drinking, and laughing over old memories. Twice, Amanda descended the stairs, stopping short of the living room, never leaving the stairs. Twice she glared around the living room full of smiles, and twice she climbed the stairs, more heavy-footed than her considerable heft usually caused.
We ignored her, and enjoyed the dying night. One by one my comrades left, leaving me with manly hugs and well wishes, leaving Jake and I to make our final preparations. A popcorn bowl full of fresh plant matter, a carton’s worth of empty Marlboro Red boxes, and several hundred rolling papers.
We worked and chatted like old women knitting, commenting on the irony that we should be crafting on the same table we’d done cub scout projects.
Somehow, she sidled up to the table without us noticing her, so we both jumped slightly when she spoke.
“Don’t you think you have enough joints?”
The tone of her voice was a familiar one, employed many a night when she decided it was time for us to leave. Before she came around I could often be found sleeping on one of the sofas in that house, but that summer, I’d been lucky to see Jake more than once a week. I knew what she wanted, but wasn’t ready to leave yet. I looked at the half carton of cigarette boxes full of expertly wrapped marijuana buds, considered the quantity with a very serious look on my face, looked at her and told her that I doubted it.
I’d never stood up to her before. Jake always had her back, and it was his house. She’s become so accustomed to the power, I was quite sure she had forgotten whose house it really was.
“Jacob Robert, I’m tired of having your fucking friends over here all the time. They stay too late. They’re too loud, and I’m tired.”
I would have rolled my eyes if I wasn’t so appalled at the title so recently bestowed. I was almost speechless. Almost.
“Hey Amanda,” I said cheerfully, “fuck off.”
I gave her a broad smile and she turned a funny color.
“I think maybe you’d better go home, Ryan,” she said to me, hands on hips.
I looked over at Jake, wondering how the night would end.
"I... Think its time for you to leave," he said, not looking at me.
Amanda smirked at me and nodded toward the door.
"Good night, Amanda," Jake finished, looking her straight in the face before turning back to his work.
The Other Side
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Road Trip
You and a friend are very lost, and arguing, because there's nothing around to help you figure out where you are.
We were still slightly drunk. I know I shouldn’t have been driving, but we’d made it out of that little Mexican town and found open road. My old jeep was handling the roughly paved road with ease, and did not complain in the least when we drifted every so often into the dirt and shrubs that edged along the road.
We were still slightly drunk, with cameras full of strange people lifting drinks and shouting under the greasy yellow and sleepy blue of the incandescent bulbs and neon beer signs. Cameras full of drinking contests and strange women dancing with drunken recklessness in a country obviously not their own. Heads full of memories, heads full of dance, and of drink.
We’d entered this land three in number, but we lost one brave soul to a hooker who was beautiful except for that eye that refused to look forward. She was cheap, and James had been shouting “Cuanto cuestas” at women after the first round of tequila shots. “How much do you cost,” he’d been asking them, though I knew that his Spanish did not extend beyond that phrase, and where to find beer or a bathroom.
And so he bought that woman for the night, and promised to find his own way back into the states. We knew he would not be dissuaded, though his wife would be sure to ask us where he was. We would deal with that later.
For we were slightly drunk, and full of good memories, driving beneath Mexican stars and wondering at a world without street lamps.
“Dude,” Greg slurred as his eyes opens and his arm reach up to wipe the drool from his cheek. “Where the fuck are we?”
I didn’t know, and had not thought about it until he said those words. I must have been very drunk when we began driving, because I couldn’t remember how exactly we’d left.
“Are we even going the right direction?”
That was me saying that, though there was no way my companion could have known—he’d passed out within minutes of sitting down. He pointed this out to me, only he used the word “fuck” somewhere in the sentence to emphasize his displeasure with the geographic confusion. I lit a cigarette at this point, and breathed deep to unknot the tension.
“I guess we could drive until we find the coast,” I suggested, “or another town. Does any of this shit look familiar to you?”
We both looked around, seeing only shrub and brush and stones beneath the moonlight.
“Wait!” he exclaimed, his excitement giving me reassurance. “That bush! Right there! We passed it on our way here!”
He paused a moment, his excitement shifting quickly to a darker shade as he turned to me and informed me that no, of course nothing looks fucking familiar. He threw an empty can at my head and crossed his arms.
“Why don’t you call Boots? He knows how to get anywhere,” I offered.
Greg rolled his eyes and pulled out his cell phone, flipping it open and pressing it immediately to his face. He didn’t dial.
“Hey Boots! What’s up? Yeah man, I’m good. Listen, we’re lost in Mexico. We left La Puebla… how long ago bro? An hour? Yeah, an hour ago. No, I don’t know which direction we’re driving. No, I don’t know what road we’re on. No, I don’t see any signs. Its pretty much dessert.”
He snapped the phone shut and glared at me hard enough that I could feel it while staring forward.
“You seriously want me to have a conversation like that with Boots at three in the morning? You’re a fucking retard.”
Greg is an interesting person. He is soft spoken, meek even, with the good manners and strict upbringing of a very Asian family. He is also very kind—that is, until he starts to drink. Then he gets like this.
“I’m a retard?” I shouted back. “Mexico was your fucking idea. I wanted to go mountain climbing, you ornery fuck. I wanted to stay in my own god damned country.”
I flicked my half spent cigarette at him without looking. I must have aimed true, because he yelped and began shaking out his shirt. He called me a fucker then, and reached across and punched me on the jaw.
Now normally, this would be the part of the story where the car goes flying off the road, slamming into a conveniently placed boulder. Consider, however, that I can take a punch, and that I was still numb from tequila, and that Greg is a pussy.
No, we crashed anyway, tires swerving and squealing. There wasn’t a boulder, but there was a rather deep ditch in which we entrenched ourselves nicely. The impact slammed my face into the steering wheel, and I could feel blood leap from my mashed nose. Greg groaned and whispered his favorite word before informing me that his arm was broken.
“Crashed, lost in the middle of this backward ass country. My fucking arm is broken, and my cell phone was out of batteries before we crossed the border yesterday.”
I climbed out of the Jeep. It was desert cold out, chilled by early morning. I didn’t have any flares—the result of another bit of drunken “fun” a month prior. There was juggling involved.
Tires will burn for a good long time, though, and produce enough smoke to attract attention if there were any eyes to see. I suddenly saw myself standing beneath the heat of a desert noon, with a smoldering tire next to me and no help within miles. We had no food, no water… And who knew what kind of unsavory character would find us in our vulnerable situation.
I pulled the spare tire off of my tailgate and rolled it downwind of the jeep. I grabbed the gas can I always kept full and doused the tire. We had four tired, I figured as I lit the spare. It burst into flames, the rubber stinking and hissing as it began to melt. Black smoke twisted into the sky, though it was the flame that would attract attention at this dark hour. I went back to the jeep and fell asleep.
I awoke to tapping at my window.
“You fellas needing help?”
He spoke English. This alone pleased me beyond words. I nodded and opened the door.
“Sit tight then,” he said, smiling and climbing back into his faded blue Civic. “I’m sure I can find someone at the border check who can help.”
I told him he didn’t need to drive all that way, if only he would help us dislodge my jeep from its grave.
“I’d be easier,” he informed me, “to drive the three miles to the border and find a real tow truck.”
And with that, he hopped into his little car and drove in the very same direction I’d been going hours before.
The Other Side looks rather nice.
We were still slightly drunk. I know I shouldn’t have been driving, but we’d made it out of that little Mexican town and found open road. My old jeep was handling the roughly paved road with ease, and did not complain in the least when we drifted every so often into the dirt and shrubs that edged along the road.
We were still slightly drunk, with cameras full of strange people lifting drinks and shouting under the greasy yellow and sleepy blue of the incandescent bulbs and neon beer signs. Cameras full of drinking contests and strange women dancing with drunken recklessness in a country obviously not their own. Heads full of memories, heads full of dance, and of drink.
We’d entered this land three in number, but we lost one brave soul to a hooker who was beautiful except for that eye that refused to look forward. She was cheap, and James had been shouting “Cuanto cuestas” at women after the first round of tequila shots. “How much do you cost,” he’d been asking them, though I knew that his Spanish did not extend beyond that phrase, and where to find beer or a bathroom.
And so he bought that woman for the night, and promised to find his own way back into the states. We knew he would not be dissuaded, though his wife would be sure to ask us where he was. We would deal with that later.
For we were slightly drunk, and full of good memories, driving beneath Mexican stars and wondering at a world without street lamps.
“Dude,” Greg slurred as his eyes opens and his arm reach up to wipe the drool from his cheek. “Where the fuck are we?”
I didn’t know, and had not thought about it until he said those words. I must have been very drunk when we began driving, because I couldn’t remember how exactly we’d left.
“Are we even going the right direction?”
That was me saying that, though there was no way my companion could have known—he’d passed out within minutes of sitting down. He pointed this out to me, only he used the word “fuck” somewhere in the sentence to emphasize his displeasure with the geographic confusion. I lit a cigarette at this point, and breathed deep to unknot the tension.
“I guess we could drive until we find the coast,” I suggested, “or another town. Does any of this shit look familiar to you?”
We both looked around, seeing only shrub and brush and stones beneath the moonlight.
“Wait!” he exclaimed, his excitement giving me reassurance. “That bush! Right there! We passed it on our way here!”
He paused a moment, his excitement shifting quickly to a darker shade as he turned to me and informed me that no, of course nothing looks fucking familiar. He threw an empty can at my head and crossed his arms.
“Why don’t you call Boots? He knows how to get anywhere,” I offered.
Greg rolled his eyes and pulled out his cell phone, flipping it open and pressing it immediately to his face. He didn’t dial.
“Hey Boots! What’s up? Yeah man, I’m good. Listen, we’re lost in Mexico. We left La Puebla… how long ago bro? An hour? Yeah, an hour ago. No, I don’t know which direction we’re driving. No, I don’t know what road we’re on. No, I don’t see any signs. Its pretty much dessert.”
He snapped the phone shut and glared at me hard enough that I could feel it while staring forward.
“You seriously want me to have a conversation like that with Boots at three in the morning? You’re a fucking retard.”
Greg is an interesting person. He is soft spoken, meek even, with the good manners and strict upbringing of a very Asian family. He is also very kind—that is, until he starts to drink. Then he gets like this.
“I’m a retard?” I shouted back. “Mexico was your fucking idea. I wanted to go mountain climbing, you ornery fuck. I wanted to stay in my own god damned country.”
I flicked my half spent cigarette at him without looking. I must have aimed true, because he yelped and began shaking out his shirt. He called me a fucker then, and reached across and punched me on the jaw.
Now normally, this would be the part of the story where the car goes flying off the road, slamming into a conveniently placed boulder. Consider, however, that I can take a punch, and that I was still numb from tequila, and that Greg is a pussy.
No, we crashed anyway, tires swerving and squealing. There wasn’t a boulder, but there was a rather deep ditch in which we entrenched ourselves nicely. The impact slammed my face into the steering wheel, and I could feel blood leap from my mashed nose. Greg groaned and whispered his favorite word before informing me that his arm was broken.
“Crashed, lost in the middle of this backward ass country. My fucking arm is broken, and my cell phone was out of batteries before we crossed the border yesterday.”
I climbed out of the Jeep. It was desert cold out, chilled by early morning. I didn’t have any flares—the result of another bit of drunken “fun” a month prior. There was juggling involved.
Tires will burn for a good long time, though, and produce enough smoke to attract attention if there were any eyes to see. I suddenly saw myself standing beneath the heat of a desert noon, with a smoldering tire next to me and no help within miles. We had no food, no water… And who knew what kind of unsavory character would find us in our vulnerable situation.
I pulled the spare tire off of my tailgate and rolled it downwind of the jeep. I grabbed the gas can I always kept full and doused the tire. We had four tired, I figured as I lit the spare. It burst into flames, the rubber stinking and hissing as it began to melt. Black smoke twisted into the sky, though it was the flame that would attract attention at this dark hour. I went back to the jeep and fell asleep.
I awoke to tapping at my window.
“You fellas needing help?”
He spoke English. This alone pleased me beyond words. I nodded and opened the door.
“Sit tight then,” he said, smiling and climbing back into his faded blue Civic. “I’m sure I can find someone at the border check who can help.”
I told him he didn’t need to drive all that way, if only he would help us dislodge my jeep from its grave.
“I’d be easier,” he informed me, “to drive the three miles to the border and find a real tow truck.”
And with that, he hopped into his little car and drove in the very same direction I’d been going hours before.
The Other Side looks rather nice.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
A Birthday Party
Tell me how you got that scar. 45 minutes
“The way I see it,” Steve slurred, his eyes shining with the yellow of a nearby lamp, “all we are really left with are memories and this body of ours.”
He puffed thoughtfully at his cigar, blowing the smoke into the night air. He leaned back on the imported granite boulder, its unnaturally flowing curves cradling the curve of his back. He wiggled his toes in the lovingly manicured grass and looked around the lush courtyard of his moderately opulent apartment complex. He took another puff and smiled.
“This is a beautiful night. I have had good food and excellent drink. I am smoking the finest Cuban cigar the son of a customs officer could ask for.”
He puffed again smiling. It had been an evening of opulence, beginning with an aged steak, cooked perfectly, as only the Old Loafer can. The restaurant had been ridiculously sophisticated, the low chatter and soft clinking a crooning song of comfort in that softly lit redwood room. We returned to his apartment to gather cigars and a dusty bottle of bourbon before venturing into the night, our footsteps and banter punctuated by the occasional clink of heavy tumblers.
“A beautiful night.”
I said nothing. I agreed, absolutely. The woody taste of the old bourbon washed over the complex sharpness of the cigars to create a flavor and feel I had never experienced with lesser cigars and more common liquors.
He smiled once more, looked at his cigar, and pressed it into the inside of his wrist. The impressive stack of ash smeared across his pale skin and the sizzle was masked by his sharp intake of breath. He held it there, smoking, his entire body clenched in a silent shaking screams.
“Memories,” he gasped, “are buried, are lost, are forgotten. If we lose our memories, then all we are have our dying day…”
He tossed the shredded stub of tobacco into a stately clump of reeds and held up his wrist. Twisted black and smeared gray and vengeful red spun a jagged circle on his pampered skin.
“…is a broken body. Time will not rob me of this night.”
I wondered for a moment where the years would lead us. This man, my dearest friend, might become a memory, lost to recollection. If I forgot him, he may have never lived at all. The night was certainly worth remembering, but the friendship was a treasure I’d grieve losing.
I looked for a moment at my cigar, the smoke slicking softly skyward, the ember pulsing with the beat of my heart, with the hush of the wind. I nodded across the puddle of light to Steve, who was smiling with tears on his cheeks and a tremor in his shoulders.
I chose the palm of my left hand. It seemed to itch with symbolic perfection, and in a night of esoteric philosophy and drunken ritual, the symbolism was fully appreciated.
I drew one last sample of the smoke, and it tasted sweet on my tongue as the ember flared red, ready, excited to singe its moment into time.
I felt the heat of it on my skin before I ever touched it to me, and for a second, I was jerked away from the moment, fear of regret freezing my hand.
“Be the hero,” came his whisper, “in your story. Don’t let life happen, and don’t let it happen. Make your life. Make your memories, or in the end, it was nothing at all.”
The pain was excruciating. My scream was caught, crushed, rolled into a tight, deep moan. The fingers of my anguished hand locked into a twisted claw as my body fought to escape my resolve. I fell to my knees, my entire world locked into that inch of flesh. A tearing piercing, demon claws that tore into me. I pressed the ember harder, my body a knot, my shoulders tightly clenched across my back.
I couldn’t take any more. My will failed, my body took control and flung the cigar to the ground. Flecks of orange skittered from the still smoldering end. My entire arm trembled, and my lungs filled again, shaking.
I knew I would never forget that night, but I wondered if I would remember how beautiful the grass looked beneath my feet.
You're probably looking for The Other Side
“The way I see it,” Steve slurred, his eyes shining with the yellow of a nearby lamp, “all we are really left with are memories and this body of ours.”
He puffed thoughtfully at his cigar, blowing the smoke into the night air. He leaned back on the imported granite boulder, its unnaturally flowing curves cradling the curve of his back. He wiggled his toes in the lovingly manicured grass and looked around the lush courtyard of his moderately opulent apartment complex. He took another puff and smiled.
“This is a beautiful night. I have had good food and excellent drink. I am smoking the finest Cuban cigar the son of a customs officer could ask for.”
He puffed again smiling. It had been an evening of opulence, beginning with an aged steak, cooked perfectly, as only the Old Loafer can. The restaurant had been ridiculously sophisticated, the low chatter and soft clinking a crooning song of comfort in that softly lit redwood room. We returned to his apartment to gather cigars and a dusty bottle of bourbon before venturing into the night, our footsteps and banter punctuated by the occasional clink of heavy tumblers.
“A beautiful night.”
I said nothing. I agreed, absolutely. The woody taste of the old bourbon washed over the complex sharpness of the cigars to create a flavor and feel I had never experienced with lesser cigars and more common liquors.
He smiled once more, looked at his cigar, and pressed it into the inside of his wrist. The impressive stack of ash smeared across his pale skin and the sizzle was masked by his sharp intake of breath. He held it there, smoking, his entire body clenched in a silent shaking screams.
“Memories,” he gasped, “are buried, are lost, are forgotten. If we lose our memories, then all we are have our dying day…”
He tossed the shredded stub of tobacco into a stately clump of reeds and held up his wrist. Twisted black and smeared gray and vengeful red spun a jagged circle on his pampered skin.
“…is a broken body. Time will not rob me of this night.”
I wondered for a moment where the years would lead us. This man, my dearest friend, might become a memory, lost to recollection. If I forgot him, he may have never lived at all. The night was certainly worth remembering, but the friendship was a treasure I’d grieve losing.
I looked for a moment at my cigar, the smoke slicking softly skyward, the ember pulsing with the beat of my heart, with the hush of the wind. I nodded across the puddle of light to Steve, who was smiling with tears on his cheeks and a tremor in his shoulders.
I chose the palm of my left hand. It seemed to itch with symbolic perfection, and in a night of esoteric philosophy and drunken ritual, the symbolism was fully appreciated.
I drew one last sample of the smoke, and it tasted sweet on my tongue as the ember flared red, ready, excited to singe its moment into time.
I felt the heat of it on my skin before I ever touched it to me, and for a second, I was jerked away from the moment, fear of regret freezing my hand.
“Be the hero,” came his whisper, “in your story. Don’t let life happen, and don’t let it happen. Make your life. Make your memories, or in the end, it was nothing at all.”
The pain was excruciating. My scream was caught, crushed, rolled into a tight, deep moan. The fingers of my anguished hand locked into a twisted claw as my body fought to escape my resolve. I fell to my knees, my entire world locked into that inch of flesh. A tearing piercing, demon claws that tore into me. I pressed the ember harder, my body a knot, my shoulders tightly clenched across my back.
I couldn’t take any more. My will failed, my body took control and flung the cigar to the ground. Flecks of orange skittered from the still smoldering end. My entire arm trembled, and my lungs filled again, shaking.
I knew I would never forget that night, but I wondered if I would remember how beautiful the grass looked beneath my feet.
You're probably looking for The Other Side
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
It Took Long Enough...
The narrator had a crush on their friend for a very long time, but eventually moved on, and now has a crush on someone else. This has come just as their friend has developed a crush on the narrator, and worse, this friend can't stand the person who the narrator is hot for. Write a scene wherein this entanglement comes to a head; the narrator can go either way, but the friend's dislike and desperation must be apparent.
There was a time in my life when I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
“You are the most incredible woman I have ever met.”
I never spoke those words. I was always a friend to her, and I knew even then that friends are not dating material. That… That was a rough time, but life carried it into memory, as it will move all things, and I finally moved on, finally gave up, finally accepted her for what I had already been doomed as: Dear Friend. What more could I have done? High school is the time for wallowing in gratuitous self-pity and angsty heartache, but college is the place where we learn to be adults, and I grew up and away from her, and found a new girl.
She was my first girlfriend in three years, a freshman named Elissa, and I a sophomore attending the
She loved to talk, and she didn’t seem to mind my quiet nature—she filled the silent moments with comfortable banter and the smallest of talk. She was a friendly, powerfully outgoing person, and I imagined it did me some good to be around her. She introduced me to more people than I could remember, though I failed to make any friends in the exposure. Most were girls of varying attractiveness who liked to chew gum and touch their hair, and guys who shook my hand too hard and seemed to grunt and stare more than talk.
Lord, she was beautiful…
“She is a complete fucking bimbo.”
“I think I love her,” I said into the book I’d been reading, my eyes refusing to rise.
“That’s because you’re a God damned idiot.”
I looked up, slightly hurt, and dizzyingly surprised. Her eyes shined, and I wondered if it was the lighting. Something about her words carried a note I'd not heard from her before, and I was confused trying to place it.
“She’s an idiot too, but not the same way. I’m surprised she doesn’t drool when she makes those word-sounds she calls conversations.”
I felt my face grow hot. I was lucky to have Elissa. Damned lucky, and now this spiteful woman who had never given me a chance was belittling my relationship. She had no right, and no reason beyond ingrained possessiveness. I told her so, and she flinched as though the words had slapped her.
“That fucking whore doesn’t deserve you,” she whispered, the anger in her voice failing to mask the depth of the emotion. The shine in her eyes quivered like her voice, and began to spill down her long eyelashes. She looked exquisite then, beautiful in a way she had never been before. She looked soft, vulnerable, touchable like she had never been when she was my unattainable obsession. She looked at me, her large brown eyes trying desperately to lock with mine.
“I know she’s not the smartest person on the planet,” and at that she made a snorting noise, “but she’s good to me.”
“She cheats on you. You must have guessed already. "
I'd only suspected, and done my best to dismiss it. Behind me, a book slammed closed and an exasperated sigh was lauched toward me. I didn't care.
"You’re not blind. I know you’re not an idiot."
Maybe I had been blind? Suddenly I could not fit enough air in my lungs.
"You say she treats you well, but I don’t think you know what that means. She treats you like shit. I…”
Sobs overpowered the words, wrestling them into submission for a moment as her shoulders seized and she hugged her waist. Another tear tumbled down her freckled cheek and splashed on her homework. Tara was beautiful too, more graceful and elegant than breathtaking, and her swelling eyes and running mascara did not, could not detract from that.
“I would treat you well. I would take care of you. She doesn’t deserve you. I do. I love you, damn it. I was just too stupid to know.”
My nose was stuffed, and I didn’t know why. My eyes were warm, and I was afraid to blink. I didn’t need splotches on my homework.
“That,” I said as the tears escaped my eyelids and slid down my cheeks, “is the cheesiest fucking thing I have every heard you say.”
Ireached across the table to grab her hand, and smiled.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Prince Yi
Its incredible to me still, how poorly this came out. I’m fully ashamed.
He had been absolutely unbearable from the first day. Every word that he mumbled grated my nerves and clenched my fists in agony. I dreaded returning home, and found myself walking quickly through the spacious living room, ignoring the gorgeous shoreline view through the window that dominated one wall of that comfy room. It was such a beautiful condo, the walls painted in warm earth tones, the carpet soft and loving on the feet. Track lighting had been set into the ceiling and arranged in such a way that the whole place glowed with a gentle softness that invited, begged for the overstuffed leather sofa or the extravagant Lazy Boy to be sprawled upon, lounged in.
The whole room was so perfect, it could only make me hate him more—he was always in there, you see, slouched in the lazy boy, the television blaring some obnoxious Asian soap opera, a steaming bowl of something funny smelling steaming on the glass topped table that rests in the center of the room. He ate with his mouth open, smacking , showing, sometimes spraying whatever it was he was eating. I could never be sure what he had cooking on the stove, but there were usually eyeballs or stomachs or other strange organ meat floating in his mysterious stews.
He smelled funny, emanating scents deep and strong. It might have been his diet, or some aspect of his hygiene. Its hard to say. All I really knew for sure was that he liked to stand close when he spoke. I’m talking about inches. I could count his pores when he trapped me in conversation.
I know I seem like an unfriendly person, but try to imagine standing that close to this guy. He doesn’t actually talk; his words were like shouts, or barks, sharp and nasal, piercing the quiet with dispassionate volume. He expects to be heard, expects to be listened to, and from what I have been able to gather in our broken exchanges, his father is a wealthy businessman in china, sending him to school here in the states. This condominium had been purchased in full, and the rent I paid went into his pocket. Yi was his name—Prince Yi, I called him, because he was the embodiment of what one of my friends has called “entitled”.
“Maybe its just cultural differences,” she said to me once, as I was complaining about him.
That might be so, but it doesn’t make his strut okay.
In the end, I could cope with his snottiness. It wasn’t a big deal, and my rent was so incredibly low, I would be a fool to leave. The problem, the real problem was the fact that he was a born again Christian, with bible always at hand and holy self-righteousness at his command. I try my very best to avoid these people, because to them, my life is worthless, unless I follow them to this Jesus guy. I don’t need to be told how to live my life, especially not by a book and its cow-eyed readers.
I tried every now and again to sit in that living room. The evenings were so lovely, the setting sun tinting the sky pink, the soft glow of the lighting relaxing me, and every once in a while, it would be empty, inviting me. Every time I gave in, Yi would walk out, his steps loud and uncaring, dragging and sliding across the carpet. He would sit himself next to me and set that well turned book on the glass top table, lace his fingers together, and look at me. He would take a breath, preparing himself for his own mind blowing profundity, and attempt to save my soul. What could I do, but bear it, and pretend at least to follow along? As much as I dislike him, I am not rude, and I am not bold.
Needless to say, such sessions were torture, punishment enough that I would hurry through the living room to my own more sparsely decorated room, close the door, and leave again only to eat, work, and head to school.
As much as I hated him, I was not the one that left. One might believe that I would have lost my mind, packed up, and moved out. It really wasn’t that bad, though. Almost nothing for rent! No, he kicked me out. I came home one night, drunk, stumbling, laughing loudly, with a girl around my neck. It was two in the morning. I hushed her at the door, and quietly tried and failed to slide my key into the door. I grew frustrated, and turned the handle. It had been unlocked. When I entered, the lights were on. It was a lovely room. Except Yi was sitting, facing the door, glasses perched on his nose, bible in his lap. He assumed a self-righteous disapproval, and pointed at the girl. I knew what was coming, but could hardly believe he would do it.
“You’ve got to be fucking joking,” I said. I could hear that I was slurring my words.
“You’re drunk! You brought that girl home to sin in my house! I hope you like hell. She’s not coming in.”
I think I told him to fuck himself, or to shove something up his ass. I’m not really sure. I tugged the girl along behind me and slammed my door shut behind me. We were loud that night, me and whats-her-name. Mostly out of spite, because I really was too drunk to enjoy it.
The next morning, there was a strange woman in my bed, not embarrassingly unattractive, but nothing to brag about either. There was also a notice of lease cancellation posted on my door.
The Other Side is probably where you're wanting to be.
He had been absolutely unbearable from the first day. Every word that he mumbled grated my nerves and clenched my fists in agony. I dreaded returning home, and found myself walking quickly through the spacious living room, ignoring the gorgeous shoreline view through the window that dominated one wall of that comfy room. It was such a beautiful condo, the walls painted in warm earth tones, the carpet soft and loving on the feet. Track lighting had been set into the ceiling and arranged in such a way that the whole place glowed with a gentle softness that invited, begged for the overstuffed leather sofa or the extravagant Lazy Boy to be sprawled upon, lounged in.
The whole room was so perfect, it could only make me hate him more—he was always in there, you see, slouched in the lazy boy, the television blaring some obnoxious Asian soap opera, a steaming bowl of something funny smelling steaming on the glass topped table that rests in the center of the room. He ate with his mouth open, smacking , showing, sometimes spraying whatever it was he was eating. I could never be sure what he had cooking on the stove, but there were usually eyeballs or stomachs or other strange organ meat floating in his mysterious stews.
He smelled funny, emanating scents deep and strong. It might have been his diet, or some aspect of his hygiene. Its hard to say. All I really knew for sure was that he liked to stand close when he spoke. I’m talking about inches. I could count his pores when he trapped me in conversation.
I know I seem like an unfriendly person, but try to imagine standing that close to this guy. He doesn’t actually talk; his words were like shouts, or barks, sharp and nasal, piercing the quiet with dispassionate volume. He expects to be heard, expects to be listened to, and from what I have been able to gather in our broken exchanges, his father is a wealthy businessman in china, sending him to school here in the states. This condominium had been purchased in full, and the rent I paid went into his pocket. Yi was his name—Prince Yi, I called him, because he was the embodiment of what one of my friends has called “entitled”.
“Maybe its just cultural differences,” she said to me once, as I was complaining about him.
That might be so, but it doesn’t make his strut okay.
In the end, I could cope with his snottiness. It wasn’t a big deal, and my rent was so incredibly low, I would be a fool to leave. The problem, the real problem was the fact that he was a born again Christian, with bible always at hand and holy self-righteousness at his command. I try my very best to avoid these people, because to them, my life is worthless, unless I follow them to this Jesus guy. I don’t need to be told how to live my life, especially not by a book and its cow-eyed readers.
I tried every now and again to sit in that living room. The evenings were so lovely, the setting sun tinting the sky pink, the soft glow of the lighting relaxing me, and every once in a while, it would be empty, inviting me. Every time I gave in, Yi would walk out, his steps loud and uncaring, dragging and sliding across the carpet. He would sit himself next to me and set that well turned book on the glass top table, lace his fingers together, and look at me. He would take a breath, preparing himself for his own mind blowing profundity, and attempt to save my soul. What could I do, but bear it, and pretend at least to follow along? As much as I dislike him, I am not rude, and I am not bold.
Needless to say, such sessions were torture, punishment enough that I would hurry through the living room to my own more sparsely decorated room, close the door, and leave again only to eat, work, and head to school.
As much as I hated him, I was not the one that left. One might believe that I would have lost my mind, packed up, and moved out. It really wasn’t that bad, though. Almost nothing for rent! No, he kicked me out. I came home one night, drunk, stumbling, laughing loudly, with a girl around my neck. It was two in the morning. I hushed her at the door, and quietly tried and failed to slide my key into the door. I grew frustrated, and turned the handle. It had been unlocked. When I entered, the lights were on. It was a lovely room. Except Yi was sitting, facing the door, glasses perched on his nose, bible in his lap. He assumed a self-righteous disapproval, and pointed at the girl. I knew what was coming, but could hardly believe he would do it.
“You’ve got to be fucking joking,” I said. I could hear that I was slurring my words.
“You’re drunk! You brought that girl home to sin in my house! I hope you like hell. She’s not coming in.”
I think I told him to fuck himself, or to shove something up his ass. I’m not really sure. I tugged the girl along behind me and slammed my door shut behind me. We were loud that night, me and whats-her-name. Mostly out of spite, because I really was too drunk to enjoy it.
The next morning, there was a strange woman in my bed, not embarrassingly unattractive, but nothing to brag about either. There was also a notice of lease cancellation posted on my door.
The Other Side is probably where you're wanting to be.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
That Glow
A couple is arguing about marriage. It's come out that one of them has wanted to get married, but they've been hiding that desire for a long time. How will the other react, if at all? Thirty minutes.
Garry was slouched in the rough wooden chair, arms hanging loosely at his side. His eyes were closed, and he drew a deep sigh, his whole body rising and falling with the doleful breath. He poured a small glass of Southern Comfort and passed it across the table to a woman who leaned forward from her equally weary posture to take up the drink. He filled his own tumbler to near the top, and raised it in small ceremony. No cheers were exchanged in that old little kitchen. No toasts were made under that single light bulb, set in a tacky orange shade that made the whole kitchen look as though it was built in the early 80s, and had seen no renovation in its time. What it had seen was mildew and termites, and many a night much like this one, with few words, and plenty of cheap liquor.
He pulled out his pack of cigarettes and deftly grabbed one with his lips. He offered a pack across the table, paused a moment, and frowned. Looking inside, he sighed again, crumpled the empty container and tossed it into the trashcan nestled in the corner. It landed with a satisfying metallic clunk.
“Sorry,” he mumbled past the cigarette. “I have another pack in my room.”
“You know I don’t smoke Luckies anyway,” she said, pulling a Slim from behind her ear.
He flicked his lighter and reached it across the table, the flame cast flickering orange across her face, and for a moment, he could see her as the woman he’d met six years prior. She was still beautiful, her delicate features slim and soft and distinguished. There was something gone, though. There were wrinkles where there should not have been, tiny creases at the corners of her mouth, and bags under her light green eyes, and there was something gone—that glow of youth, that buzzing energy that screams of life and health.
“Garry,” she said, her voice cracking, dry and smoky. She coughed and cleared her throat and tried again.
“Garry.”
That was the way she sounded back in college. That was the voice of the woman he loved. He drank deeply, hating the taste, waiting for the muscles in his neck to release. He hung his head backward and stared at the bubbles in the paint of the ceiling, dragging at his cigarette and billowing smoke to the top of the room.
“Yes love,” he answered, still staring up toward heaven.
She was quiet for another moment, the whole house quiet, with only the sound of the cheap plastic clock ticking away on the wall, and cars speeding in the distance.
“Lets get married.”
He didn’t look up. He didn’t move for five thundering ticks of the clock. He drew again heavily at his cigarette. A small shrug shot across his shoulders, as if to say “Why not?” She didn’t see this.
“Loren,” he said, almost a groan and he pulled his head up to look at her. He leaned forward and rested his arms on the table, which shifted and leaned with a loose creak as it accepted his weight. He took another breath, composing himself like a man deciding to leap from a precipice.
“Lets do it.”
Friday, November 10, 2006
Rescue
Write about getting saved by a superhero--a precreated hero, or one of your own imagination. Thirty minute time limit.
I woke up in the dark, the rough sound of an old engine and of tires on pavement buzzing through the course fabric of the floor. A trunk. I was in a trunk of all places, and with no idea how I had come to be there. It didn’t occur to me to panic at that point, or to feel even a little fear. I was busy contemplating myself as luggage, wondering how I’d come to share company with a spare tire and jumper cables and wondering why my toes were tingling. Rope, probably, or maybe tape. The car hit a dip in the road, though not a deep one; we must have been going quite fast, though, because that little dip sent me slamming into the roof of my very small home. A groan escaped my lips, and muffled voices filtered through the back seat of the mysterious car.
“Slow down asshole. If he dies on the way there, we don’t get paid... and if we get pulled over, we’re fucked proper.”
The driver’s response was too faint for me to decipher over the sudden revving of the car’s modestly sized (and obviously unmaintained) engine, though I imagine it was something along the lines of “Fuck you.”
The lack of stops meant we were already outside of the city. I had little hope of attracting attention, even if I were to make a fuss. I began shifting around, trying to free my arms from their bindings when a voice spoke into the trunk. One of the men must have turned around and put his mouth to up to the seat back.
“Hold still and keep quiet, or I’ll put a bullet in you.”
This one voice had a British accent—the well educated kind, not the My Fair Lady kind. Three men? They must have gone through a good deal of trouble to get me.
I began to wonder at that point how they got me. Needless to say, the curiousity had been nagging at me, but I hadn’t been capable of considering it until that point—the same feeling one might feel about complex thought after smoking a large quantity of marijuana. The haze was clearing. I had been at a fancy dinner of some kind—a fundraiser for my reelection. Damn. That means I’m wrinkling my good suit. I’d just finished addressing the gaggle of wealthy attendees, kissing asses and bending over backward until I thoroughly hated myself. I was on my way to the restroom to wash my face, to wash my hands. I felt dirty. I wasn’t, I’m not a natural politician, and I only play politics when elections roll around and I take on the role of incumbent.
There were people in the restroom. Three of them, actually. One in the handicap stall—you know, the big one that looks like its made for group sex—one at the sink, washing, and one standing at a mirror examining himself. I acknowledged this one as he looked at me, and made my way to the empty stall. I didn’t need to use it, but I needed to be alone, and thought the threat of a hefty shit might persuade the other men to leave me in peace. The water turned off. The door to the sex stall opened and closed, and the bathroom door hissed open, and closed again. I grinned. Nobody wants to stick around when Mayor West decides to take a shit.
When I stepped out, still grinning, I was greeted by three grim faces, two of which I recognized as the men from earlier. I frowned. The third man stepped forward, pulling a handkerchief, or maybe it was a napkin… it didn’t look like a rag… anyway, he roughly grabbed my head and forced it into the wetness. I’m glad the rag is clean, I remember thinking as I breathed in the burning vapors, because he didn’t wash his hands.
I began wondering how they made their escape, imagining all sorts of escapades (of course, right? Escapades, get it?) like getting stuffed in a large duffel bag of some kind, or pushed under one of those cloth covered food carts and calmly removed from the building. Or maybe they painted eyes on my eyelids and carried me out like a giant puppet. I hope they didn’t have me speak to the press. I hire my own puppeteers for that. They’re quite good.
It was then that I realized that I might die, that I was in very real, very serious trouble. Too bad I’m not the mayor of Gotham. I thought, and then immediately thought better of it. Gotham smells terrible—The whole city smells like stale piss and fish. No, that trunk was much nicer.
Suddenly, there was a huge crash, a crunching of metal and shattering of glass and shouts of confusion. I was slammed into the front of my little cave hard enough to break my ulna. Or is it my radius? One of them snapped, though, I’m sure. Glad my head wasn’t faced that way. Lucky thing. I might have crushed my axis. Or my atlas, or any number of thoracic or cervical vertebrae, and then I’d be dead, or confined to a wheelchair like Christopher Reeve.
There were gunshots, and many umphs and kapows, and even a biff or two outside, and much scuffling.
And suddenly the trunk door was torn off and thrown clear, and well muscled and well spandexed arms lifted my free of the wreckage.
“Are you okay, Mayor West?”
The Other Side
I woke up in the dark, the rough sound of an old engine and of tires on pavement buzzing through the course fabric of the floor. A trunk. I was in a trunk of all places, and with no idea how I had come to be there. It didn’t occur to me to panic at that point, or to feel even a little fear. I was busy contemplating myself as luggage, wondering how I’d come to share company with a spare tire and jumper cables and wondering why my toes were tingling. Rope, probably, or maybe tape. The car hit a dip in the road, though not a deep one; we must have been going quite fast, though, because that little dip sent me slamming into the roof of my very small home. A groan escaped my lips, and muffled voices filtered through the back seat of the mysterious car.
“Slow down asshole. If he dies on the way there, we don’t get paid... and if we get pulled over, we’re fucked proper.”
The driver’s response was too faint for me to decipher over the sudden revving of the car’s modestly sized (and obviously unmaintained) engine, though I imagine it was something along the lines of “Fuck you.”
The lack of stops meant we were already outside of the city. I had little hope of attracting attention, even if I were to make a fuss. I began shifting around, trying to free my arms from their bindings when a voice spoke into the trunk. One of the men must have turned around and put his mouth to up to the seat back.
“Hold still and keep quiet, or I’ll put a bullet in you.”
This one voice had a British accent—the well educated kind, not the My Fair Lady kind. Three men? They must have gone through a good deal of trouble to get me.
I began to wonder at that point how they got me. Needless to say, the curiousity had been nagging at me, but I hadn’t been capable of considering it until that point—the same feeling one might feel about complex thought after smoking a large quantity of marijuana. The haze was clearing. I had been at a fancy dinner of some kind—a fundraiser for my reelection. Damn. That means I’m wrinkling my good suit. I’d just finished addressing the gaggle of wealthy attendees, kissing asses and bending over backward until I thoroughly hated myself. I was on my way to the restroom to wash my face, to wash my hands. I felt dirty. I wasn’t, I’m not a natural politician, and I only play politics when elections roll around and I take on the role of incumbent.
There were people in the restroom. Three of them, actually. One in the handicap stall—you know, the big one that looks like its made for group sex—one at the sink, washing, and one standing at a mirror examining himself. I acknowledged this one as he looked at me, and made my way to the empty stall. I didn’t need to use it, but I needed to be alone, and thought the threat of a hefty shit might persuade the other men to leave me in peace. The water turned off. The door to the sex stall opened and closed, and the bathroom door hissed open, and closed again. I grinned. Nobody wants to stick around when Mayor West decides to take a shit.
When I stepped out, still grinning, I was greeted by three grim faces, two of which I recognized as the men from earlier. I frowned. The third man stepped forward, pulling a handkerchief, or maybe it was a napkin… it didn’t look like a rag… anyway, he roughly grabbed my head and forced it into the wetness. I’m glad the rag is clean, I remember thinking as I breathed in the burning vapors, because he didn’t wash his hands.
I began wondering how they made their escape, imagining all sorts of escapades (of course, right? Escapades, get it?) like getting stuffed in a large duffel bag of some kind, or pushed under one of those cloth covered food carts and calmly removed from the building. Or maybe they painted eyes on my eyelids and carried me out like a giant puppet. I hope they didn’t have me speak to the press. I hire my own puppeteers for that. They’re quite good.
It was then that I realized that I might die, that I was in very real, very serious trouble. Too bad I’m not the mayor of Gotham. I thought, and then immediately thought better of it. Gotham smells terrible—The whole city smells like stale piss and fish. No, that trunk was much nicer.
Suddenly, there was a huge crash, a crunching of metal and shattering of glass and shouts of confusion. I was slammed into the front of my little cave hard enough to break my ulna. Or is it my radius? One of them snapped, though, I’m sure. Glad my head wasn’t faced that way. Lucky thing. I might have crushed my axis. Or my atlas, or any number of thoracic or cervical vertebrae, and then I’d be dead, or confined to a wheelchair like Christopher Reeve.
There were gunshots, and many umphs and kapows, and even a biff or two outside, and much scuffling.
And suddenly the trunk door was torn off and thrown clear, and well muscled and well spandexed arms lifted my free of the wreckage.
“Are you okay, Mayor West?”
The Other Side
A Case of the Nerves
Write about a first date in which the narrator gets a little too drunk. Thirty minute time limit.
“This,” I remember saying over the ringing in my ears, “is some damn fine pasta.”
Her smile was ironic, though at that point my eyes had drifted too low below the face that should have set off all sorts of social red-alerts. Needless to say I was little troubled by it.
“Damn fine. This marinara is fucking perfect. Is it really loud in here?”
It was really loud in there. I put a finger in my ear and wiggled it back and forth. It felt like my ear holes had shrunk, and all I could hear was the restaurant and that damn ringing.
I remember noticing the frown, and for a flickering instant wondering if maybe I had committed some faux pas. I sipped again at my wine and forgot.
It was a merlot, rich and strong, smacking of chocolate and some earthy spice that I couldn’t name. I frowned myself, mirroring her expression fairly closely. I had discovered the problem. Merlot with pasta?
“We should have ordered a white wine,” I said, though it felt as though I yelled it. I wondered if she could hear me over the buzz of the room.
She mumbled something then. I hadn’t imagined she’d be the mumbling type when I saw her, when I decided she was certainly worth summoning the courage to ask her out. But she was mumbling, and I had to piss. I said so, and I noticed a blush to her cheeks. Well, she wasn’t asian, but she was glowing. Maybe the wine was getting to her a little bit. She was acting very strangely.
I stood and began making my way to where the restroom aught to have been, kicking the table leg with force enough to tip over the small crystal vase. The single lush-lipped rose fell between the two empty bottles of wine. My hip rubbed the side of the smallish table, drawing the tablecloth into a crooked mess of wrinkles. I think water spilled.
I was impressed with myself. This was a damn nice place to bring a girl. Damn nice. The ambiance was subtly luxurious and soft with warm colors and dark wood. I think I might have said something along those lines. Diners, I thought to myself, deserve to understand what a treat they’re having tonight.
“Everything here is fucking gorgeous.”
The words came out as I reached the corner of the room, where instead of bathrooms I found more diners. Damn. I proceeded to follow the wall around the restaurant until it led me to the bathroom.
I remember realizing that I was shitfaced as I stood in front of the mirror, my collar crooked, a burgundy stain dribbling down my front. I didn’t have to stumble out of that appreciably clean and pleasant smelling bathroom to know that she had already left.
The Other Side
“This,” I remember saying over the ringing in my ears, “is some damn fine pasta.”
Her smile was ironic, though at that point my eyes had drifted too low below the face that should have set off all sorts of social red-alerts. Needless to say I was little troubled by it.
“Damn fine. This marinara is fucking perfect. Is it really loud in here?”
It was really loud in there. I put a finger in my ear and wiggled it back and forth. It felt like my ear holes had shrunk, and all I could hear was the restaurant and that damn ringing.
I remember noticing the frown, and for a flickering instant wondering if maybe I had committed some faux pas. I sipped again at my wine and forgot.
It was a merlot, rich and strong, smacking of chocolate and some earthy spice that I couldn’t name. I frowned myself, mirroring her expression fairly closely. I had discovered the problem. Merlot with pasta?
“We should have ordered a white wine,” I said, though it felt as though I yelled it. I wondered if she could hear me over the buzz of the room.
She mumbled something then. I hadn’t imagined she’d be the mumbling type when I saw her, when I decided she was certainly worth summoning the courage to ask her out. But she was mumbling, and I had to piss. I said so, and I noticed a blush to her cheeks. Well, she wasn’t asian, but she was glowing. Maybe the wine was getting to her a little bit. She was acting very strangely.
I stood and began making my way to where the restroom aught to have been, kicking the table leg with force enough to tip over the small crystal vase. The single lush-lipped rose fell between the two empty bottles of wine. My hip rubbed the side of the smallish table, drawing the tablecloth into a crooked mess of wrinkles. I think water spilled.
I was impressed with myself. This was a damn nice place to bring a girl. Damn nice. The ambiance was subtly luxurious and soft with warm colors and dark wood. I think I might have said something along those lines. Diners, I thought to myself, deserve to understand what a treat they’re having tonight.
“Everything here is fucking gorgeous.”
The words came out as I reached the corner of the room, where instead of bathrooms I found more diners. Damn. I proceeded to follow the wall around the restaurant until it led me to the bathroom.
I remember realizing that I was shitfaced as I stood in front of the mirror, my collar crooked, a burgundy stain dribbling down my front. I didn’t have to stumble out of that appreciably clean and pleasant smelling bathroom to know that she had already left.
The Other Side
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Meg's Preface to the Edition
Many thanks to Richard Corum for this advice. It's to help refine basic steps to "A Well-Written Short Story," or rather a scratching post before tampering with genre fiction or more uniquely personal technique. The advice is to work all of these things in, inclusively and appropriately.
1. Point of View
> be consistent, no inadvertantly switching perspective
> avoid repeating characters' names unnecessarily
> don't use "they"
> stay with the main character's perspective
2. Strong, Interesting Main Character
> acts as narrator and participator - action is better than narration
> physical appearance is unimportant
> must know: age, history, desires, values - subtly essential to creating conflict
> for character uniqueness, give parts of yourself, parts of others you know
> know motivation
3. Location
> be absolutely specific to times and places
> keep it alive and well-maintained, use description constantly
> character's reaction to it, not your own
4. Strong, Interesting Second Main Character
> appearance is crucial
> must know: age, history, desires, values
> cannot know: thoughts, feelings (except via dialogue)
> must not be a villain - is a valid human being
5. Conflict/Action
> fundamental desires at odds
> keep it external, unexistential, nonviolent
> stay in the moment
6. Dialogue
> main characters more interesting than minor characters
> show most things, don't tell them
7. Flashback
> describes motivation if at the end
> describes background, history if at the beginning
> various rules:
* return to the point that the flashback began, time mustn't elapse
* flashback must have space and time within narrative, so not in the middle of dialogue
* if you're writing in present tense, use past tense for the flashback
* if you're writing in past tense, use past perfect tense for flashback
8. Minor Characters
> help in background, help in location
> good for talking and avoiding monologue
> avoid getting too "zany next neighborish"
9. Scenic construction
> do a scene, break, do another scene
> don't fill the in-between scenes, unless in flashback
10. Language
> focus strongly on diverse vocabulary and sentence structure
> give concrete details and emotions (not abstract metaphors)
* be proficient with metaphors, verbs are easier
* circle your own and distinguish between good and bad ones
* extended ones are better
* use different transitions, like "it reminded me of ..." instead of "like"
> the rhythm and speech patterns in dialogue should be different from the prose around it
1. Point of View
> be consistent, no inadvertantly switching perspective
> avoid repeating characters' names unnecessarily
> don't use "they"
> stay with the main character's perspective
2. Strong, Interesting Main Character
> acts as narrator and participator - action is better than narration
> physical appearance is unimportant
> must know: age, history, desires, values - subtly essential to creating conflict
> for character uniqueness, give parts of yourself, parts of others you know
> know motivation
3. Location
> be absolutely specific to times and places
> keep it alive and well-maintained, use description constantly
> character's reaction to it, not your own
4. Strong, Interesting Second Main Character
> appearance is crucial
> must know: age, history, desires, values
> cannot know: thoughts, feelings (except via dialogue)
> must not be a villain - is a valid human being
5. Conflict/Action
> fundamental desires at odds
> keep it external, unexistential, nonviolent
> stay in the moment
6. Dialogue
> main characters more interesting than minor characters
> show most things, don't tell them
7. Flashback
> describes motivation if at the end
> describes background, history if at the beginning
> various rules:
* return to the point that the flashback began, time mustn't elapse
* flashback must have space and time within narrative, so not in the middle of dialogue
* if you're writing in present tense, use past tense for the flashback
* if you're writing in past tense, use past perfect tense for flashback
8. Minor Characters
> help in background, help in location
> good for talking and avoiding monologue
> avoid getting too "zany next neighborish"
9. Scenic construction
> do a scene, break, do another scene
> don't fill the in-between scenes, unless in flashback
10. Language
> focus strongly on diverse vocabulary and sentence structure
> give concrete details and emotions (not abstract metaphors)
* be proficient with metaphors, verbs are easier
* circle your own and distinguish between good and bad ones
* extended ones are better
* use different transitions, like "it reminded me of ..." instead of "like"
> the rhythm and speech patterns in dialogue should be different from the prose around it
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