Kind of an abstract Gusev-like ending that pans away from my main characters
An ember broke free of the fire with a snap and floated into the sky, a firefly against the spread of backdropping stars. The flickering red grain danced in soft, frantic circles, rising upward. It dipped and seemed to be falling back to earth, before shooting up again, brightening as its red surface was drenched with cold night air. And, for just a moment, it seemed to die and disappear among the night. But to someone looking closely, someone dreaming into the deep black above them, the determined spark could be seen, minuscule and irredeemable, drifting up to be lost in the dark colosseum of dying lights.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Ketchup Bottle
I watched a middle-aged woman walk out of the condiment aisle and hoped it hadn't been her, because I had convinced myself that whoever it was would be important to me, and this woman did not call me to me with any electricity at all. The ketchup bottle was still facing forward, anyway, and my moment of worry about the poor uninteresting woman was unfounded. I walked to the center of the aisle and spun the ketchup bottle placed in the front. Better, I thought, with the label now facing away from me and the back of the bottle facing out. I wondered what I would say if she appeared now, as I stood with my hand on the bottle. Would I speak up and say something about my obsession with this bottle and how I had become obsessed with the idea that whoever it was who had also been turning the ketchup bottle around for the last two months would change my life forever? Or, would I pretend to be browsing the nutritional information of the various tomato based sauces, ignore the interested gaze, and move on? At that moment a simultaneous mixture of horror and relief swept over me. What if this had all been going on in my head? What if the bottle remained turned around because of sloppy shelving practices at this particular Safeway, or worse, what if the whole thing could be chalked up to coincidence? I knew that if either of these scenarios were the case, if no one else was turning around the bottle, and there was no obscure but somehow important communication going on with this ketchup bottle, that there was a good chance I was crazy or worse. This idea settled uncomfortably on me like an awareness of having made an inappropriate joke that comes in just after the joke is spoken, and hangs in the air, unacknowledged, like a bathroom smell. However, I reached out and turned the bottle around anyway, and the rear label faced me. I breathed a sigh of strange relief and walked toward the front of the store to checkout. I glanced one last time over my shoulder as I left the aisle behind. A woman stood at the far end, opposite the ketchup, and took in the various mustard options. She didn't look up. I wondered if she could be my ketchup-girl and laughed a little at myself. Pathetic, I thought, buy a dog or something.
I sat there, huddled and frozen at the aisle's end, waiting for him to leave. Just go say something I thought, but I couldn't bring myself to it. I watched as his hand hovered by the ketchup bottle. He looked troubled. Finally, he walked away, and I walked to the bottle to feel the last of the dissipating warmth from his touch.
I sat there, huddled and frozen at the aisle's end, waiting for him to leave. Just go say something I thought, but I couldn't bring myself to it. I watched as his hand hovered by the ketchup bottle. He looked troubled. Finally, he walked away, and I walked to the bottle to feel the last of the dissipating warmth from his touch.
Monday, May 11, 2009
1st Sentences
by Xochitl M. Perales
“The Void! The Void!,” Kevin screamed in a tone of agony.
A severed ring finger lay glinting mildly on top of a mulberry bush, a diamond engagement ring still attached, for some strange reason.
In the beginning, Demons ruled over the planet Nardor.
Analisa sat down ignoring our conversation, immersed in a book written by Sister Souljah, which she claims was assigned reading for one of her classes – yeah, right.
She had never had road rage before, but there’s always a first time for everything.
Would that I could walk on two feet like the rest of Earth’s inhabitants, but, alas, this is no longer a possibility for someone such as me, a former Guatemalan who had the misfortune to cross paths with a leg-eating werewolf.
I never asked to be born with three eyes, but I did at least appreciate having more than perfect vision.
Beware of the reptilian shapeshifters impersonating government officials, my mother always told me.
The sun cast blue-green rays across the valley in undulating waves, a mirage in conjunction with the dust clouds scattering the air in blurry patches.
“Your husband is dead,” said the stranger in the dark green suit.
Love is a song I stopped singing a long time ago, the moment it became apparent to me that the world was headed straight to hell in a pile of dirty diapers.
Across weather-beaten trails her bruised feet proceeded, blue as the peacock’s shimmering feathers rising antenna-like atop its head.
Monsoon season marks the time when Marisa’s husband likes to start fights and pick up loose women at the local bar.
He was the gayest homophobe I had ever met in my life, and I do not claim this lightly.
I cried endlessly as they lowered my lover’s coffin into the ground.
When in doubt, always consult a journeyman carpenter for the best way to seal up a room containing your worst enemy, while still allowing for enough air to breathe and a way to get food and supplies in and out.
My morning began with a cup of coffee, and a bloody corpse lying on my living room floor.
Fuck that!
I was embarrassed to be seen in public with a self-proclaimed alien abductee, especially one making every attempt imaginable to get taken again, regardless of the consequences.
I heard the sound of thunder, like war drums pounding in sturdy patterns down the contours of my spine, a terrifying experience, stark and ominous, and yet filled with a beauty too immense to even be whispered about in the dark.
“I’m going to kill that bastard!”
The little girl could not possibly understand the effect of her brilliant purple smile on the members of the congregation, who had moments earlier been praying for a sign that what they were doing would be sanctioned by God.
As the Cheetah took the Caribou down, it performed a dance so gentle and precise, and my eyes filled with tears to see the Cheetah first embrace its prey in a seemingly loving fashion, then bend over slowly to bite the Caribou’s neck, like a vampire’s kiss, in a beautiful death blow.
Where is that nasty bitch who ruined my life!?
The baby roach meandered its way uncertainly across the bathroom floor, a speck of brown-colored candy corn in motion.
“The Void! The Void!,” Kevin screamed in a tone of agony.
A severed ring finger lay glinting mildly on top of a mulberry bush, a diamond engagement ring still attached, for some strange reason.
In the beginning, Demons ruled over the planet Nardor.
Analisa sat down ignoring our conversation, immersed in a book written by Sister Souljah, which she claims was assigned reading for one of her classes – yeah, right.
She had never had road rage before, but there’s always a first time for everything.
Would that I could walk on two feet like the rest of Earth’s inhabitants, but, alas, this is no longer a possibility for someone such as me, a former Guatemalan who had the misfortune to cross paths with a leg-eating werewolf.
I never asked to be born with three eyes, but I did at least appreciate having more than perfect vision.
Beware of the reptilian shapeshifters impersonating government officials, my mother always told me.
The sun cast blue-green rays across the valley in undulating waves, a mirage in conjunction with the dust clouds scattering the air in blurry patches.
“Your husband is dead,” said the stranger in the dark green suit.
Love is a song I stopped singing a long time ago, the moment it became apparent to me that the world was headed straight to hell in a pile of dirty diapers.
Across weather-beaten trails her bruised feet proceeded, blue as the peacock’s shimmering feathers rising antenna-like atop its head.
Monsoon season marks the time when Marisa’s husband likes to start fights and pick up loose women at the local bar.
He was the gayest homophobe I had ever met in my life, and I do not claim this lightly.
I cried endlessly as they lowered my lover’s coffin into the ground.
When in doubt, always consult a journeyman carpenter for the best way to seal up a room containing your worst enemy, while still allowing for enough air to breathe and a way to get food and supplies in and out.
My morning began with a cup of coffee, and a bloody corpse lying on my living room floor.
Fuck that!
I was embarrassed to be seen in public with a self-proclaimed alien abductee, especially one making every attempt imaginable to get taken again, regardless of the consequences.
I heard the sound of thunder, like war drums pounding in sturdy patterns down the contours of my spine, a terrifying experience, stark and ominous, and yet filled with a beauty too immense to even be whispered about in the dark.
“I’m going to kill that bastard!”
The little girl could not possibly understand the effect of her brilliant purple smile on the members of the congregation, who had moments earlier been praying for a sign that what they were doing would be sanctioned by God.
As the Cheetah took the Caribou down, it performed a dance so gentle and precise, and my eyes filled with tears to see the Cheetah first embrace its prey in a seemingly loving fashion, then bend over slowly to bite the Caribou’s neck, like a vampire’s kiss, in a beautiful death blow.
Where is that nasty bitch who ruined my life!?
The baby roach meandered its way uncertainly across the bathroom floor, a speck of brown-colored candy corn in motion.
The Doorbell (Exercise 16)
The Doorbell (Exercise 16)
During the first three years Bea and Tom rented the house on Cedar Street once every few months the doorbell would ring without it having been rung. It never happened more than three times a year, so they didn't think very much of it. They made occasional jokes about a ghost, but no serious concerns or explanations arose.
But then the doorbell started ringing more frequently. At 3am. Or 5am. Once a week. Then three times a week.
“Should I see if I can unhook the doorbell,” Tom asked Bea.
“But what if we actually need it? How will I be able to hear UPS?”
“I don't like being woken up by it. I feel tired all day at work,” Tom said scratching just above his right sideburn, a frequent habit of his during a state of irritation or trying to solve a problem.
Bea decided she would sleep on the couch in the living room so she would be near the door to open it and determine what was causing the ringing the next time it happened. She had Tom's old baseball bat with her just in case. But that night the doorbell didn't ring. Nor did it ring the next night. On the third night she went back to sleeping in their bedroom. She had trouble falling asleep. Tom was snoring loudly and she kept anticipating hearing the ring of the doorbell. She counted even numbers backwards from one thousand. She felt she had just gone to sleep when it rang. She flung the covers off, picked up the bat and ran to the door, tossing it open. No one was there. She stepped out onto the porch and looked up and down the silent, dark street. Nothing.
The doorbell began ringing during the day, while Tom was at work. It happened five times in one day. Bea's nerves were frazzled. Tom said she looked pale.
“Maybe we should move?” he thought aloud.
Bea pressed her fingers to her temples. “No,” she said softly. And then, “Tom, what if it's something otherworldly?”
“What do you mean?” he asked not liking where this was going.
“Like a spirit or...a ghost.”
“That's ridiculous. I'm sure it's either a) malfunctioning or b) some joker playing tricks on us.”
The next day, after Tom had left for work, Bea picked up the hefty, worn yellow pages and thumbed through them until she found a listing for a psychic that sounded promising. She began to dial the number.
To Be Continued...
During the first three years Bea and Tom rented the house on Cedar Street once every few months the doorbell would ring without it having been rung. It never happened more than three times a year, so they didn't think very much of it. They made occasional jokes about a ghost, but no serious concerns or explanations arose.
But then the doorbell started ringing more frequently. At 3am. Or 5am. Once a week. Then three times a week.
“Should I see if I can unhook the doorbell,” Tom asked Bea.
“But what if we actually need it? How will I be able to hear UPS?”
“I don't like being woken up by it. I feel tired all day at work,” Tom said scratching just above his right sideburn, a frequent habit of his during a state of irritation or trying to solve a problem.
Bea decided she would sleep on the couch in the living room so she would be near the door to open it and determine what was causing the ringing the next time it happened. She had Tom's old baseball bat with her just in case. But that night the doorbell didn't ring. Nor did it ring the next night. On the third night she went back to sleeping in their bedroom. She had trouble falling asleep. Tom was snoring loudly and she kept anticipating hearing the ring of the doorbell. She counted even numbers backwards from one thousand. She felt she had just gone to sleep when it rang. She flung the covers off, picked up the bat and ran to the door, tossing it open. No one was there. She stepped out onto the porch and looked up and down the silent, dark street. Nothing.
The doorbell began ringing during the day, while Tom was at work. It happened five times in one day. Bea's nerves were frazzled. Tom said she looked pale.
“Maybe we should move?” he thought aloud.
Bea pressed her fingers to her temples. “No,” she said softly. And then, “Tom, what if it's something otherworldly?”
“What do you mean?” he asked not liking where this was going.
“Like a spirit or...a ghost.”
“That's ridiculous. I'm sure it's either a) malfunctioning or b) some joker playing tricks on us.”
The next day, after Tom had left for work, Bea picked up the hefty, worn yellow pages and thumbed through them until she found a listing for a psychic that sounded promising. She began to dial the number.
To Be Continued...
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Pomp
Don’t ask me how it works, I’m just a photographer. I only found out about this gig on Monster. You plug in a resume listing a double major in Photography and American History and you’re not going to get too many worthwhile hits. Just unrelated insurance garbage mostly. So when a high-paying salaried position with Kronos Industries comes up, yeah, you bite.
So no, I don’t know the secrets of time travel. I don’t know how they get the pod from point B to point A. How I don’t end up in the vacuum of space due to the constantly changing position of the Earth as it revolves around the sun at thirty kilometers a second. I don’t know anything about how the Earth I come back to isn’t exactly the same as the Earth I’ve left. I don’t know how they power it, how much the operating costs, where Kronos gets all its funding. I’m just a photographer. All I know is point and click.
Okay, so maybe I’ve been briefed on a little bit. I know a little about the safety procedures should the pod get stuck somehow in the past. I know about how far back the pods are capably of going, somewhere in the neighborhood of nine-hundred years though they keep revising that figure upward. I certainly know all the protocols and procedures for minimizing the impact of the present on the past. They run you through that shit for six months before you set foot in a pod. It’s practically a boot camp. And then every six months after that they require a quiz on specifics to make sure you’ve retained all that knowledge. That’s not to mention the periodic rules revision sessions they schedule whenever somebody up high decides to clamp down on some detail or another. Most of this is public knowledge, right? It’s all discussed in those teledocs, or written about in Ira Tang’s supposed tell-all indictment of Kronos and its nefarious meddling with history.
This isn’t one of those, of course. Absurd really, given the thoroughness that these minimization protocols are drilled into our heads. For the most part Kronos has treated me very, very well. A cushy salary far above anything I might have expected when I graduated from college. Nice benefits. Unbeatable hours. Here’s a company that actually requires three week breaks between jobs, only requiring that you work through a small stack of books in your down time. So you end up spending somewhere between a couple of hours and two days back in the past, and you get the next three weeks to relax and bone up on the current historical consensus about your next assignment. Not too bad.
And the work itself? Please, you hardly need a photography major for it. You’re creating a historical photographic record of pre-daguerreotype civilization. None of your shots are ever going to be put in a gallery or a show. Remember, you’re not even using your fancy SLR here, just a standard issue digital point and click with a mediocre zoom. No tripods, no zoom lenses, nothing that could possibly be construed as a weapon by a culture not yet exposed to such technologies. You do the best you can, but nobody is expecting Ansel Adams here.
So no, I don’t know the secrets of time travel. I don’t know how they get the pod from point B to point A. How I don’t end up in the vacuum of space due to the constantly changing position of the Earth as it revolves around the sun at thirty kilometers a second. I don’t know anything about how the Earth I come back to isn’t exactly the same as the Earth I’ve left. I don’t know how they power it, how much the operating costs, where Kronos gets all its funding. I’m just a photographer. All I know is point and click.
Okay, so maybe I’ve been briefed on a little bit. I know a little about the safety procedures should the pod get stuck somehow in the past. I know about how far back the pods are capably of going, somewhere in the neighborhood of nine-hundred years though they keep revising that figure upward. I certainly know all the protocols and procedures for minimizing the impact of the present on the past. They run you through that shit for six months before you set foot in a pod. It’s practically a boot camp. And then every six months after that they require a quiz on specifics to make sure you’ve retained all that knowledge. That’s not to mention the periodic rules revision sessions they schedule whenever somebody up high decides to clamp down on some detail or another. Most of this is public knowledge, right? It’s all discussed in those teledocs, or written about in Ira Tang’s supposed tell-all indictment of Kronos and its nefarious meddling with history.
This isn’t one of those, of course. Absurd really, given the thoroughness that these minimization protocols are drilled into our heads. For the most part Kronos has treated me very, very well. A cushy salary far above anything I might have expected when I graduated from college. Nice benefits. Unbeatable hours. Here’s a company that actually requires three week breaks between jobs, only requiring that you work through a small stack of books in your down time. So you end up spending somewhere between a couple of hours and two days back in the past, and you get the next three weeks to relax and bone up on the current historical consensus about your next assignment. Not too bad.
And the work itself? Please, you hardly need a photography major for it. You’re creating a historical photographic record of pre-daguerreotype civilization. None of your shots are ever going to be put in a gallery or a show. Remember, you’re not even using your fancy SLR here, just a standard issue digital point and click with a mediocre zoom. No tripods, no zoom lenses, nothing that could possibly be construed as a weapon by a culture not yet exposed to such technologies. You do the best you can, but nobody is expecting Ansel Adams here.
Poolside (counterpoint characters morphed into the characters talking back exercise)
Poolside
Two men sat by the motel pool from precisely noon to 2 p.m. each day, sunning their doughy-white, sunscreen slathered bodies and drinking iced tea. Despite the mirror image they projected, they did not know each other and rarely spoke to one another. They had an unvoiced agreement that one reigned over half of the pool and the furniture lined up against one side of the water, and the other ruled over the other half. They both wore sunglasses, the better to ignore each other with, or secretly eye each other, comparing guts and muscle definition. This went on for three days, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, until the weekend crowd interrupted the usual abandoned feel of the hotel, and families with swarming kids took over the pool area. On Friday, the only place the two men could find to relax were two lounge chairs, side by side.
Bill Harrington arrived first, carrying his own striped beach towel and The New Yorker. He lowered himself into the chair, flinching at the shouts of two boys trying to hit each other with pool “noodles,” those obnoxious strands of colored foam that floated. He commenced slathering sunscreen, and just as he finished, Roy Jacobs sauntered in the gate, wearing a white polo shirt and swim trunks, carrying a canvas tote bag. His face fell, seeing the glut of people everywhere, and the only available spot next to Bill. He trudged to the chair, yanked his shirt off and plopped down.
“All good things come to an end, huh?” Roy leaned toward Bill, who was rubbing at his hands furiously with a handkerchief.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Having the pool to ourselves. It couldn’t have lasted forever.”
“No. Yes. You’re right.
“It was nice while it lasted.” Roy rummaged in the bag and pulled out a huge, grease-streaked bottle of sun screen so old the lettering was starting to wear off.
Bill decided it would be better to shake hands now. He hated the slime feeling of sunscreen on his hands. Elsewhere, it was fine, but if it touched his fingers, he felt as if he’d been doused in a vat of liquefied fat. “I don’t think we’ve properly met. I’m Bill Harrington.”
“Hi-ya, Bill. I’m Roy. Jacobs.” He thrust forward a thick-fingered hand and vigorously shook.
“So what do you do, Roy,” Bill asked, aware of the fact required chit-chat had commenced. If he had just nodded at the first comment, and remained silent, they would both be sunning themselves by now, avoiding eye contact, acting as if they were alone at the pool. The introduction had sent them plunging into inevitable conversation, like dropping down the first roller coaster dive. Might as well submit to gravity at this point, he thought.
“I drive a bus. In San Jose. We’re over here, my wife and I, to get away from the rat race, you know? Take in the desert air, get a little sun. What do you do?”
“I’m an airline pilot.” Bill slipped on his sunglasses.
“Oh that’s nice.” Roy knew Bill was used to hearing exclamations at this fact, forced amazement. “We’re both in the business of carting people around.”
Bill forced a chuckle. “I suppose you could say that.”
“You suppose?”
“Well, I don’t mean to imply that driving a bus isn’t important,” Bill said, groping about his mind for a quip, a rescue. “It’s just that flying a plane isn’t like walking and chewing gum.”
“Oh, and driving a bus is. A monkey could do it.” Roy gave a wide grin. His teeth were so white and straight people often asked him if they were fake. Bill cringed. Roy watched a bead of sweat trail down Bill’s forehead, then leaned toward him and intoned, “Try driving a vehicle almost twice as wide as most cars, in rush hour, trying to keep a schedule, while listening to people shout at each other so bad you think a riot’s going to break out. Or a stabbing. I’ve had stabbings on the bus before. Now handling all that takes talent. You’re locked in some little compartment giving orders to a co-pilot I assume.”
“It’s not a good thing to assume,” Bill stammered.
“Oh, just you get to do that. Because you’re an airline pilot.”
“No, I didn’t mean to assume what you did— I was just saying… I was just saying flying an airplane is technical. It’s not a people mover. It’s a delicate, immense, deadly, involved piece of machinery that must be handled with… with skill.”
“Right. You’re a character, Bill.”
“Well, that’s right. I am a character and so are you! It’s not my fault someone’s putting words in my mouth. I find that I rarely agree with them.”
“Well I agree with mine.” Roy furrowed his brow, staring hard at Bill.
Bill wiped the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. The temperature had become unbearable all of the sudden. “Does that make you more real then? Where did you get the capacity to agree?”
“Well where did you get the capacity to disagree? You just said something the writer of this story obviously didn’t plan on. But you just blurted it out, all on your own, like you… we are the ones in charge. Maybe we’re really writing this story.”
“No,” Bill argued, raising his voice to Roy’s aggressive volume. “Because I would have gotten rid of all these annoying people by now and we’d be sitting back, relaxing, enjoying ourselves. I don’t have an ulterior motive. The writer does. And I’m beginning to think you’re in cahoots with her.”
A chubby girl stuffed into a pink bikini ran screaming off the diving board into a cannon bomb, splashing the legs of both men. Bill gave Roy an accusatory look. Roy ignored the look and pressed, “How do you know it’s a her?” It was the first genuine question he’d asked all day.
“Well I know that much,” said Bill.
“Right, I’m asking you how you know. Because I don’t. All I know is the writer is manipulating us to fight in an attempt to show something. I’m supposed to show how you assume things about me when you don’t know me at all. For instance, did you know I’m a trust fund baby? I chose bus driver as a career because I like driving around all day and people watching.”
“You are?”
“See! You assumed I was some poor Joe nobody who was forced into the job. You resented my comparison that what we do is the same thing, because you think you’re job is more skilled and don’t want to be compared to someone of a lower class. A lowly bus driver.”
“I’m not of a higher class,” Bill contested, holding up his hands in defense.
“You’re not?” Roy paused, running his eyes over Bill’s The New Yorker, his meticulously trimmed mustache, his personal beach towel instead of a hotel towel, his fancy watch. “Then what’s with all the ‘I beg your pardons’ and ‘I supposes?’ You sound downright stuffy.”
“My good sir—
“See! That! No one actually talks like that. Are you British?”
“Look, I’m simply conveying my character through dialogue, as you’ve been constructed to do. So lay off.”
“Ha! Lay off! That’s something I would say, not you.”
“Quite right. Let me see… So bugger off!”
“That’s more like it.”
“May we get back to the point at hand, please, Roy?”
“Sure thing. Go ahead. I don’t mean to be so distracting. Although I really do, if you know what I mean,” Roy scrunched his face to give Bill a wink, wink. He wasn’t a good winker. It looked more like a grimace after eating something much too sour.
“The point at hand is that like you, my background isn’t what you would assume. I grew up in a rough and tumble area of Pittsburg with six brothers and sisters. I started working full-time at age 14 to pay for college because I knew I wanted to get out. Now I have a master’s in engineering and I’m an airline pilot and my wife’s a gorgeous lawyer and I’m damn proud of myself so if you don’t mind, I’d like you not to belittle what I do.”
“Okay, okay. I see where this is going. We were supposed to somehow come about these discoveries and both feel guilty for assuming things about the other person and learn our lesson so hopefully the reader learns their lesson too. Heavy handed, if you ask me.” Roy shrugged his shoulders and noticed the pool had suddenly emptied. The water was smooth as a sheet of paper, no movement whatsoever.
“It wouldn’t have to be heavy handed,” Bill argued. “What we just did was heavy handed. A skilled writer could pull it off with finesse, with delicate artistry. With…”
“Without cliché’s? Like ‘rough and tumble’?”
“Rough and tumble? Oh, I did just say that, didn’t I?”
“Yeah. Totally cliché.”
“Well it’s not my job to avoid such pitfalls. It’s hers. In no way am I to blame.”
“True. You’ve got her there. This whole thing is her job. Pity she’s not as good at her job as we are at ours.”
“Well, it’s obvious she’s taken the easy way out.”
“It’s a downright shame.”
“However, she is revealing something about her character this way.”
“But she’s not a character. She’s real. Something I’m kind of glad I’m not.”
“Maybe she is a character. I’ve got a feeling I’m writing this story more than her.”
“Me too.”
Two men sat by the motel pool from precisely noon to 2 p.m. each day, sunning their doughy-white, sunscreen slathered bodies and drinking iced tea. Despite the mirror image they projected, they did not know each other and rarely spoke to one another. They had an unvoiced agreement that one reigned over half of the pool and the furniture lined up against one side of the water, and the other ruled over the other half. They both wore sunglasses, the better to ignore each other with, or secretly eye each other, comparing guts and muscle definition. This went on for three days, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, until the weekend crowd interrupted the usual abandoned feel of the hotel, and families with swarming kids took over the pool area. On Friday, the only place the two men could find to relax were two lounge chairs, side by side.
Bill Harrington arrived first, carrying his own striped beach towel and The New Yorker. He lowered himself into the chair, flinching at the shouts of two boys trying to hit each other with pool “noodles,” those obnoxious strands of colored foam that floated. He commenced slathering sunscreen, and just as he finished, Roy Jacobs sauntered in the gate, wearing a white polo shirt and swim trunks, carrying a canvas tote bag. His face fell, seeing the glut of people everywhere, and the only available spot next to Bill. He trudged to the chair, yanked his shirt off and plopped down.
“All good things come to an end, huh?” Roy leaned toward Bill, who was rubbing at his hands furiously with a handkerchief.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Having the pool to ourselves. It couldn’t have lasted forever.”
“No. Yes. You’re right.
“It was nice while it lasted.” Roy rummaged in the bag and pulled out a huge, grease-streaked bottle of sun screen so old the lettering was starting to wear off.
Bill decided it would be better to shake hands now. He hated the slime feeling of sunscreen on his hands. Elsewhere, it was fine, but if it touched his fingers, he felt as if he’d been doused in a vat of liquefied fat. “I don’t think we’ve properly met. I’m Bill Harrington.”
“Hi-ya, Bill. I’m Roy. Jacobs.” He thrust forward a thick-fingered hand and vigorously shook.
“So what do you do, Roy,” Bill asked, aware of the fact required chit-chat had commenced. If he had just nodded at the first comment, and remained silent, they would both be sunning themselves by now, avoiding eye contact, acting as if they were alone at the pool. The introduction had sent them plunging into inevitable conversation, like dropping down the first roller coaster dive. Might as well submit to gravity at this point, he thought.
“I drive a bus. In San Jose. We’re over here, my wife and I, to get away from the rat race, you know? Take in the desert air, get a little sun. What do you do?”
“I’m an airline pilot.” Bill slipped on his sunglasses.
“Oh that’s nice.” Roy knew Bill was used to hearing exclamations at this fact, forced amazement. “We’re both in the business of carting people around.”
Bill forced a chuckle. “I suppose you could say that.”
“You suppose?”
“Well, I don’t mean to imply that driving a bus isn’t important,” Bill said, groping about his mind for a quip, a rescue. “It’s just that flying a plane isn’t like walking and chewing gum.”
“Oh, and driving a bus is. A monkey could do it.” Roy gave a wide grin. His teeth were so white and straight people often asked him if they were fake. Bill cringed. Roy watched a bead of sweat trail down Bill’s forehead, then leaned toward him and intoned, “Try driving a vehicle almost twice as wide as most cars, in rush hour, trying to keep a schedule, while listening to people shout at each other so bad you think a riot’s going to break out. Or a stabbing. I’ve had stabbings on the bus before. Now handling all that takes talent. You’re locked in some little compartment giving orders to a co-pilot I assume.”
“It’s not a good thing to assume,” Bill stammered.
“Oh, just you get to do that. Because you’re an airline pilot.”
“No, I didn’t mean to assume what you did— I was just saying… I was just saying flying an airplane is technical. It’s not a people mover. It’s a delicate, immense, deadly, involved piece of machinery that must be handled with… with skill.”
“Right. You’re a character, Bill.”
“Well, that’s right. I am a character and so are you! It’s not my fault someone’s putting words in my mouth. I find that I rarely agree with them.”
“Well I agree with mine.” Roy furrowed his brow, staring hard at Bill.
Bill wiped the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. The temperature had become unbearable all of the sudden. “Does that make you more real then? Where did you get the capacity to agree?”
“Well where did you get the capacity to disagree? You just said something the writer of this story obviously didn’t plan on. But you just blurted it out, all on your own, like you… we are the ones in charge. Maybe we’re really writing this story.”
“No,” Bill argued, raising his voice to Roy’s aggressive volume. “Because I would have gotten rid of all these annoying people by now and we’d be sitting back, relaxing, enjoying ourselves. I don’t have an ulterior motive. The writer does. And I’m beginning to think you’re in cahoots with her.”
A chubby girl stuffed into a pink bikini ran screaming off the diving board into a cannon bomb, splashing the legs of both men. Bill gave Roy an accusatory look. Roy ignored the look and pressed, “How do you know it’s a her?” It was the first genuine question he’d asked all day.
“Well I know that much,” said Bill.
“Right, I’m asking you how you know. Because I don’t. All I know is the writer is manipulating us to fight in an attempt to show something. I’m supposed to show how you assume things about me when you don’t know me at all. For instance, did you know I’m a trust fund baby? I chose bus driver as a career because I like driving around all day and people watching.”
“You are?”
“See! You assumed I was some poor Joe nobody who was forced into the job. You resented my comparison that what we do is the same thing, because you think you’re job is more skilled and don’t want to be compared to someone of a lower class. A lowly bus driver.”
“I’m not of a higher class,” Bill contested, holding up his hands in defense.
“You’re not?” Roy paused, running his eyes over Bill’s The New Yorker, his meticulously trimmed mustache, his personal beach towel instead of a hotel towel, his fancy watch. “Then what’s with all the ‘I beg your pardons’ and ‘I supposes?’ You sound downright stuffy.”
“My good sir—
“See! That! No one actually talks like that. Are you British?”
“Look, I’m simply conveying my character through dialogue, as you’ve been constructed to do. So lay off.”
“Ha! Lay off! That’s something I would say, not you.”
“Quite right. Let me see… So bugger off!”
“That’s more like it.”
“May we get back to the point at hand, please, Roy?”
“Sure thing. Go ahead. I don’t mean to be so distracting. Although I really do, if you know what I mean,” Roy scrunched his face to give Bill a wink, wink. He wasn’t a good winker. It looked more like a grimace after eating something much too sour.
“The point at hand is that like you, my background isn’t what you would assume. I grew up in a rough and tumble area of Pittsburg with six brothers and sisters. I started working full-time at age 14 to pay for college because I knew I wanted to get out. Now I have a master’s in engineering and I’m an airline pilot and my wife’s a gorgeous lawyer and I’m damn proud of myself so if you don’t mind, I’d like you not to belittle what I do.”
“Okay, okay. I see where this is going. We were supposed to somehow come about these discoveries and both feel guilty for assuming things about the other person and learn our lesson so hopefully the reader learns their lesson too. Heavy handed, if you ask me.” Roy shrugged his shoulders and noticed the pool had suddenly emptied. The water was smooth as a sheet of paper, no movement whatsoever.
“It wouldn’t have to be heavy handed,” Bill argued. “What we just did was heavy handed. A skilled writer could pull it off with finesse, with delicate artistry. With…”
“Without cliché’s? Like ‘rough and tumble’?”
“Rough and tumble? Oh, I did just say that, didn’t I?”
“Yeah. Totally cliché.”
“Well it’s not my job to avoid such pitfalls. It’s hers. In no way am I to blame.”
“True. You’ve got her there. This whole thing is her job. Pity she’s not as good at her job as we are at ours.”
“Well, it’s obvious she’s taken the easy way out.”
“It’s a downright shame.”
“However, she is revealing something about her character this way.”
“But she’s not a character. She’s real. Something I’m kind of glad I’m not.”
“Maybe she is a character. I’ve got a feeling I’m writing this story more than her.”
“Me too.”
NARDOR (HELL YEAH)
Isaac Smith
Craft Fiction
Ex #4
NARDOR!
In the beginning, demons ruled the planet Nardor.
But there never was a beginning. Someone had to be commissioned to find a beginning. The old one had been shown to be weak and in doubt.
Beginnings are hard. Such as an over cooked egg or a petrified fetus. They are hard to find and they are hard to keep. It’s easy for a beginning to morph into illusions and betray its own simple truth. Something had to be done to keep Nardor viable in the community of life.
On Nardor word circulated. Something had to be made to work as the commission. Dust Bunnies crafted with glue and glitter which is to say Dust Bunnies made things with glue and glitter. Mostly useless things like eye patches, toaster covers, mittens for amputees, saddles and awkward earrings until they united to create a great wall that stretched nearly the entire length of the planet Nardor which is to say exactly 875 inches and three quarters and a hay penny. This was an impressive wall even to a listless Dust Bunny who had vague ideas of suicide such as Bread Dough, who kept saying, “Wow!” over and over. Even the blind Dust Bunnies ran their stubby paws back and forth across the great mass until a law had to be written forbidding blind Dust Bunnies from touching the wall unless they had proof they only had three days to live and then and only then could they touch the wall.
The lowest Dust Bunny named Dirty Poo woke early and had a vision- a vision of his grandmother’s floating Dust Bunny head and it said, “Dirty Poo, you’ve been a disappointment all these years but now is your time, your time to shine and bring good fortune to the family name.”
“But Grandma how many years have I spent trying the learn the art of colored macaroni and the way of the hot glue gun. How can I ever find the beginning to Nardor?” Asked Dirty Poo.
“Your journey will be long and full of doubt and tragedy but this is your destiny Dirty Poo. Do not forsake your destiny.”
“But where do I begin Grandma? I’m scared.”
“Start with the wall. It’s like an ancient language. This is all I can tell you. I am being called back to the other side. Be brave Dirty Poo!” And with that his grandmother’s head disappeared.
Dirty Poo didn’t feel confident. He did not feel like the chosen one. He doubted he’d even had a vision. For two full days Dirty Poo cowered under his blankets. “If I wait long enough surely someone else will find the beginning and win the wall and we’ll have a parade with lots of colored construction paper, glue and glitter. Someone like Big Pud will save the day,” said Dirty Poo to himself.
“Hey Dirty Poo! Where are you?” asked Bread Dough.
“I’m under my covers.”
“Did you hear the news?”
“What news?” Dirty Poo pulled his head from the covers and stared at his cousin Bread Dough who had black glitter glued under his eyes which was suppose to make Bread Dough look dead but just made him look like he had the advanced stages of leprosy. “Did someone find the true beginning to Nardor?”
“Big Pud...”
“I knew it would be Big Pud. Thank all the holy craft supplies of Nardor on Big Pud. What a relief. I thought I might...”
“Hey! Shut up for a second Dirty Poo! You didn’t let me finish. Big Pud and his best bud Chest Thump went looking in the forbidden Hallway of Doom and something attacked them and...”
“And...Well? What happened to them?”
“Only Chest Thump made it back and he’s missing the top half of his head so the doctors don’t things he’s gonna survive through the night.”
“You’re telling me Big Pud is dead? I can’t believe it. I went to school with him. He was voted best smelling Dust Bunny and the most likely to invent something really important. What attacked them?”
“Chest Thump said it came out of nowhere. It’s was huge and loud like a skyscraper screaming at the top of its lungs.”
“A skyscraper?”
“You know from the picture books in grade school. Tall things with windows,” said Bread Dough.
“I guess I remember. I just can’t believe it. I can’t. If Big Pud and Chest Thump can’t do it then who can? Why’s it so important for us to know the beginning anyway? Does it really matter how it all began. I mean don’t we know? Everyday in school we would recite-- ‘In the beginning, demons ruled the planet Nardor. But the Dust Bunnies vanquished the Demons. In a great battle that lasted one hundred days. It did not come without great cost. For in the end only two Dust Bunnies stood, still alive after the great battle with all the demons dead around them. These two Dust Bunnies are our saviors- Golden Rod and Glitter Lash. This is our beginning.’ Sounds good to me.
“That’s not what they teach the little Dust Bunnies anymore Dirty Poo. I swear you never pay any attention to the world around you. You just cower under your blankets all day. Things have changed. There’s evidence that demons still exist. That all the demons were not killed in the great battle.”
“What evidence?”
“Most recently there was a photo, it’s a bit blurry but its clearly the silhouette of a demon. Right here on Nardor. Close to the Hallway of Doom. That’s why everyone’s all worked up. They even cancelled the Great Colored Macaroni Celebration. Not that you would care Dirty Poo, you never go.”
“Look Bread Dough I need your help. I haven’t told anyone this but I had a vision. It was my Grandma’s head- floating and um...she said I was the one who would find the true beginning to Nardor. Will you help me?”
“You! Find the true beginning! You’re messing with me! And you want me to help you! You know I’m listless and vaguely suicidal.”
“Look I can’t do this by myself. I’m serious. Maybe together we can do this.”
“Well let me think about it...okay, I’m in. I mean the worst that could happen is I could die and that would vaguely fit into my future goals. So where do we start?”
“The wall Bread Dough, the wall.”
To Be Continued..
Craft Fiction
Ex #4
NARDOR!
In the beginning, demons ruled the planet Nardor.
But there never was a beginning. Someone had to be commissioned to find a beginning. The old one had been shown to be weak and in doubt.
Beginnings are hard. Such as an over cooked egg or a petrified fetus. They are hard to find and they are hard to keep. It’s easy for a beginning to morph into illusions and betray its own simple truth. Something had to be done to keep Nardor viable in the community of life.
On Nardor word circulated. Something had to be made to work as the commission. Dust Bunnies crafted with glue and glitter which is to say Dust Bunnies made things with glue and glitter. Mostly useless things like eye patches, toaster covers, mittens for amputees, saddles and awkward earrings until they united to create a great wall that stretched nearly the entire length of the planet Nardor which is to say exactly 875 inches and three quarters and a hay penny. This was an impressive wall even to a listless Dust Bunny who had vague ideas of suicide such as Bread Dough, who kept saying, “Wow!” over and over. Even the blind Dust Bunnies ran their stubby paws back and forth across the great mass until a law had to be written forbidding blind Dust Bunnies from touching the wall unless they had proof they only had three days to live and then and only then could they touch the wall.
The lowest Dust Bunny named Dirty Poo woke early and had a vision- a vision of his grandmother’s floating Dust Bunny head and it said, “Dirty Poo, you’ve been a disappointment all these years but now is your time, your time to shine and bring good fortune to the family name.”
“But Grandma how many years have I spent trying the learn the art of colored macaroni and the way of the hot glue gun. How can I ever find the beginning to Nardor?” Asked Dirty Poo.
“Your journey will be long and full of doubt and tragedy but this is your destiny Dirty Poo. Do not forsake your destiny.”
“But where do I begin Grandma? I’m scared.”
“Start with the wall. It’s like an ancient language. This is all I can tell you. I am being called back to the other side. Be brave Dirty Poo!” And with that his grandmother’s head disappeared.
Dirty Poo didn’t feel confident. He did not feel like the chosen one. He doubted he’d even had a vision. For two full days Dirty Poo cowered under his blankets. “If I wait long enough surely someone else will find the beginning and win the wall and we’ll have a parade with lots of colored construction paper, glue and glitter. Someone like Big Pud will save the day,” said Dirty Poo to himself.
“Hey Dirty Poo! Where are you?” asked Bread Dough.
“I’m under my covers.”
“Did you hear the news?”
“What news?” Dirty Poo pulled his head from the covers and stared at his cousin Bread Dough who had black glitter glued under his eyes which was suppose to make Bread Dough look dead but just made him look like he had the advanced stages of leprosy. “Did someone find the true beginning to Nardor?”
“Big Pud...”
“I knew it would be Big Pud. Thank all the holy craft supplies of Nardor on Big Pud. What a relief. I thought I might...”
“Hey! Shut up for a second Dirty Poo! You didn’t let me finish. Big Pud and his best bud Chest Thump went looking in the forbidden Hallway of Doom and something attacked them and...”
“And...Well? What happened to them?”
“Only Chest Thump made it back and he’s missing the top half of his head so the doctors don’t things he’s gonna survive through the night.”
“You’re telling me Big Pud is dead? I can’t believe it. I went to school with him. He was voted best smelling Dust Bunny and the most likely to invent something really important. What attacked them?”
“Chest Thump said it came out of nowhere. It’s was huge and loud like a skyscraper screaming at the top of its lungs.”
“A skyscraper?”
“You know from the picture books in grade school. Tall things with windows,” said Bread Dough.
“I guess I remember. I just can’t believe it. I can’t. If Big Pud and Chest Thump can’t do it then who can? Why’s it so important for us to know the beginning anyway? Does it really matter how it all began. I mean don’t we know? Everyday in school we would recite-- ‘In the beginning, demons ruled the planet Nardor. But the Dust Bunnies vanquished the Demons. In a great battle that lasted one hundred days. It did not come without great cost. For in the end only two Dust Bunnies stood, still alive after the great battle with all the demons dead around them. These two Dust Bunnies are our saviors- Golden Rod and Glitter Lash. This is our beginning.’ Sounds good to me.
“That’s not what they teach the little Dust Bunnies anymore Dirty Poo. I swear you never pay any attention to the world around you. You just cower under your blankets all day. Things have changed. There’s evidence that demons still exist. That all the demons were not killed in the great battle.”
“What evidence?”
“Most recently there was a photo, it’s a bit blurry but its clearly the silhouette of a demon. Right here on Nardor. Close to the Hallway of Doom. That’s why everyone’s all worked up. They even cancelled the Great Colored Macaroni Celebration. Not that you would care Dirty Poo, you never go.”
“Look Bread Dough I need your help. I haven’t told anyone this but I had a vision. It was my Grandma’s head- floating and um...she said I was the one who would find the true beginning to Nardor. Will you help me?”
“You! Find the true beginning! You’re messing with me! And you want me to help you! You know I’m listless and vaguely suicidal.”
“Look I can’t do this by myself. I’m serious. Maybe together we can do this.”
“Well let me think about it...okay, I’m in. I mean the worst that could happen is I could die and that would vaguely fit into my future goals. So where do we start?”
“The wall Bread Dough, the wall.”
To Be Continued..
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