The next day, Seamus awoke again before dawn, this time in quiet anticipation. His stomach had been turning somersaults all evening, his mind wondering with dreams of grandeur. Should he get all he wanted for his birthday he presumed, he would be the happiest boy in the world. Even if he didn’t, he realized, there would be very little to compete with the title "Best day of the year," unless you counted Christmas, of course – still, on Christmas you had to go to church and celebrate someone else’s birthday. This would be much better than that.
Lying in the quiet predawn, the boy had little to ponder except how the day would play out. His most looked-forward to gift would be that pack rifle from the general store. Just a little .22, he thought when he saw it in the window. His brothers three, Mack, William and Tristan, all received their first rifles at different times – Mack got his at eight, William at seven and Tristan not until this year, when he turned ten. All wanted something completely different for their first gun, but they all received something of similar import – a pack rifle, small enough to be broken down and carried on the trail, but of enough weight to build muscles in a boy.
Passing by the general store window five months ago, Seamus had seen the weapon and stopped dead in his tracks, lost in the wonderment at the idea that something of such magnitude might one day come to claim him, even as he would claim the firearm for his own.
"Pop," he said as he trudged along after Agnius. "Pop, I like that pack rifle in the window there." Agnius looked down at his youngest son, a gleam in his eye and a careful trod coming into his step.
"Oh, you do now son? What turned your face to that weapon? You were looking at the Springfield, I bet."
"No sir, not the Springfield."
"The Rossi, then?"
"No sir."
"Well, which was it?"
"The Winchester, sir. I was looking at the Winchester." Agnius chuckled to himself and swung his head as he was prone to do, like a horse. They walked on in silence a few more paces, each consumed by his own thoughts until Agnius broached the subject once more.
"You got strong taste, boy."
"Thank you, sir."
"How old are you now?"
"Six and a half, sir."
"Aye, six and a half. The half is for good measure, I reckon. OK, let’s do this. You want that weapon for your own?"
"Yes sir." The boy nodded sheepishly and his mind raced back to that store window with the Winchester hanging behind the pane of glass. He could feel the warm hickory stock in his hands, the weight of it becoming comfortable, the stock coming warm and familiar against his little shoulder, his eyes down the sights, the pull of the trigger … "Yessir. That’s what I want."
"What you want for … ?"
"For my birthday, sir. That’s what I want for my birthday."
"Ha, I see. Already planning ahead. That, I bet, is why that ‘and a half’ was thrown in there. Well, do you know how old Mack was when he got his first weapon?"
"Eight, sir. I remember the story."
"That’s right. He was eight and worth his weight in salt, that one. He knew the value and responsibility of such a weapon. And do you know how old William was?"
"Bill was seven, sir. Same age I’m turning." The two turned the corner and began the trek out of the township and into the country. Seamus was kept on the inside, away from the rutted road while Agnius walked nearest the center of the lane, one hand in his pocket, hand gripped loosely on his ever-present flask, and the other swinging freely.
"Indeed. Seven. And do you know why he got his at seven while my eldest, my pride and joy, got his at eight?"
"No sir. I sure don’t."
"Well, though Mack is the stronger and the faster of the two, William had him beat in the responsibility department by a full year. I never had to tell William when to pull the eggs, only showed him once how to milk the old cow. All of that. William took to manhood quicker than Mack did. And that’s something. You can’t count that sort of thing like you can with speed, or strength or intelligence. That’s right here." Agnius pointed to his heart with middle and index fingers and thumped heartily. "Can’t teach that. I’ll tell you what, dear lad, you prove to me that you’re as heartful and responsible as William when he was seven and I’ll be glad, more than glad, to get you that rifle. But if you don’t end up with it come September, we’ll both know it was no fault of mine. Deal?"
"Deal, sir."
"’Atta boy. Now, that doesn’t mean I can’t teach you a thing or two about shooting, regardless of what kind of man you turn out to be, does it?"
Seamus, a sure smile turning his face, went wide eyed. "No sir. Doesn’t mean nothing like that no how."
"Alright then. We’ll begin the lessons after chores tomorrow and I’ll take you with me, empty handed of course, when we go hunting. You won’t be one of us, you know as you’ll have no rifle, no bullets, no opinions on the going ons of we men, but you’ll be allowed to listen and, when we get home, ask questions."
"OK, sir. Thank you."
"You’re welcome. And son?"
"Yes sir."
"You don’t mention our deal to Tristan, you understand? He didn’t receive his first weapon until this year, just a few short months ago and I don’t … well, just don’t mention it to him. You hear?"
"Yes sir."
"Good."
Seamus lay back in his bed and put his arms behind his head, hoping he was actually coming as close to manhood as he hoped. If he received the Winchester, it would prove something to himself, deep down, that he wasn’t just the runt of the litter, that he was able to stand up in the same realm as his brothers. He understood that his father cast but a small shadow in the world of men, but he hoped to cast any shadow at this point, if only he might be included in their world, in their realm, in their ways. Tristan, turning over in his sleep, mumbled something unexplainable and Seamus looked over at him, happily content that his brother was not truly awake to ruin this little moment he was having with himself. He relived the lessons his father taught him about gun safety, how to hold the gun, where the safety would be, when and why to fire – even when and why not to fire. He thought this lesson one of the most important, Seamus recalled, and pounded it into his head.
"It’s a lot better for you to have a gun and not need it, son. The trigger’s an unsympathetic thing. Once you fire that shot, there’s no going back. You need to use your mind and your heart, knowing when to put a bullet in a thing – whether it be duck, deer or man, you fire no shot aimlessly, you hear?"
Three months into his training, he went on his first hunting trip. The boys tracked incredibly well and ended up with a deer – William had brought it down – but they all took part in the hunt in a manner Seamus had not understood, even as an outsider. They encouraged one another in ways that were foreign to him. Never during chores did Mack put a hand on William’s shoulder. Tristan was not usually treated with such respect for, though he was but ten years old, he was a dead eye with his pack rifle. You weren’t allowed to fire on a deer until you got your first shotgun, but Tristan came home with a couple of quail and an expression of triumph that Seamus knew too well; he saw it every time he was thrown from the bed. There was something in the lad that Seamus mistook for evil – perhaps it was arrogance or pride, but even when the boy should have been the most humble or the most reverent, he found a way to cast a shadow of hubris on the scene. When he got the quail, for instance, he yelped out like a puppy when all the other men, Seamus included, stalked up the kill quietly, joylessly, knowing they had taken a couple of perfectly good lives in the killing. This murdering, it seemed, came more naturally to Tristan than the rest of the O’Leary clan.
Seamus rose from the bed, unable to stay put any longer. He dressed quietly in the morning cold and went out to the hen house, the same route that he had taken the day before. Though today was not his day to pull the eggs, he did it anyway – Elizabeth was supposed to do it, but he thought the pancakes she would be making would be work enough. The pre-morning air was chilly but not uncomfortable. The frost lay helpless on the grass and he kicked at it as he came back toward the house. He wondered if this was still a sign of that lasting childhood, then shook the thought from him. He was seven, after all, and found that seven was a great number to be. He would still be able to play with Tristan, he realized – wouldn’t even begin taking up too many more chores outside of occasionally shoveling up the horse dung, or helping Bill bring hay down from the loft – but he would begin the process of inclusion, that slow and quiet welcome into the world of men.
But what if, he wondered? The thought of failure hadn’t even crossed his mind until this very moment and the boy stopped dead in his tracks, hands white knuckling the basket of eggs until the weave groaned under the pressure. What if he looked forward to such a moment as this only to have it pass him by, forcing him to wait another year? "No," he thought. "I’ve done right. Pa knows it. I’ve done right. I’ll have that rifle."
As he came back into the cabin, he stomped his feet as Mack taught him, getting all the mulch from his boots. The screen door came quietly to its hinges as he kept his fingertips against the frame, cradling it so that it wouldn’t bang as he entered. Elizabeth, sure enough, was already at the stove, mixing up a batter for pancakes.
"What’cha got there, birthday boy?"
"Present for you."
"Well, whose birthday is it again? Thought it was yours." She laughed a little loudly then, stifled it and took the basket from her youngest brother. "Thank you for getting the eggs this morning. You really did volunteer this time ‘round, didn’t you?"
Seamus smiled and looked down, aware that she knew all too well what happened the previous morning. "I volunteered yesterday, too. Just… today was a different kind of volunteering."
"O yeah? How so?"
"Well, today was real volunteering."
She chuckled again and looked at Seamus with semi-serious eyes. "And what was yesterday?"
"Yesterday was practice for today."
"OK, little brother. That’s good enough by me. Have a seat, the pancakes will be up shortly." Seamus drew up the same chair he had taken up the day before, eager to get his fork into the fluffy goodness of Elizabeth’s pancakes. She always made them a little better than anyone else, he realized – partly because she was his sister and she thought the world of him, but mainly because she used a little bit of cinnamon in the batter and tossed on some macerated apples for good measure. They continued talking for about 20 minutes while she worked and the remainder of the household woke up. On a day like this, when one of the clan had a birthday, everyone took half a day off. Chores got done later than normal, people got more rest and, by and large, everyone was a bit happier than they would normally be.
Everyone arose of their own accord and, as they came through the hallway, wished Seamus a happy birthday. Even Tristan, for all his salt, smiled encouragingly. When Agnius came out, he put a heavy hand on the lad’s shoulder, looked him in the eyes and smiled knowingly. Elated, Seamus hoped this was a sure confirmation of what was to come. "Pop is proud of me," he thought. "This has to be a good sign." The day passed like any other, except that the boy had an elated feeling throughout the majority of it. When he looked back on his birthday as an adult, nothing seemed out of the ordinary but for the continuous quick and heavy clip of his seven-year-old heart.
12.19.2008
The Game
In the fields, the boys became friends more than enemies and felt at home among the wheat. They always met at the gap in the fence, typically dirty and typically smiling. Tristan, more than Seamus, had a tendency to pluck an apple from the tree when they were ripe, or swipe some bread off the window sill, stuffed down in his britches, to be eaten in the wide open fields with his brother. Though he had a mean streak and a bit of laziness around the mind, he was still willing to share the spoils of war, as they were called. Seamus could locate the cleanest part in the stream when they were in the woods, always managed to find the juiciest berries to be taken from the mulberry bush. For the latter, he would take up a piece of cheesecloth that he had acquired from Elizabeth and pull it out of his pocket, wrinkled and boy-smelling, to catch the purple sweet berries as he pulled them off their branches, careful not to crush or bruise them. This was a much more delicate job than the ones Tristan was used to getting. When they were very tiny, Tristan tried to help, but ended up crushing the berries and getting purple juice all over his overalls and hands. It was a horrible mess and one that Seamus didn’t want to relive. On this particular morning, however, there were no plans for mulberries or creeks and dying riverbeds. Instead, they only hoped to play some tag in the wheat field, perhaps finally climb the old oak and just avoid the homestead as long as possible.
At the gap in the fence, Tristan sat and whittled a piece of pine his father had abandoned in the barn. Try as he might, the young boy was unable to turn it into the goose he imagined, even with the help of the pocket knife he filched from Bill over a week ago. As Seamus approached his older brother, still a little nervous after Elizabeth’s questioning, Tristan whittled the beak of the bird right off. It landed with a thud against the high grass near the fence post. The next moment, the blade was thrown point first into the dirt 5 feet from Seamus’ walking body.
"Dammit," the elder muttered.
"’Salright. You’ll get it." Seamus picked up the blade and closed it against his hand, the rosewood handle warm where his brother had been gripping it. As he pushed the knife back toward Tristan, he also took out of his pocket a mason’s jar of water, held it up and said, "Got this, too. Had the bottle. Stopped at the pump and got some water."
"That’s good. Really. Let’s go, huh?"
"Yeah."
Tristan hopped off the fence and began trotting into the field, loping until he was about 100 feet ahead. There, he dropped to all fours and disappeared from sight.
"Hey, no fair," Seamus yelled into the blue. "I thought we wouldn’t play until the oak tree." When he got no response, he picked up his pace until he came to where the wheat told him his brother had stopped. Here, he stopped, too. With his hands and his eyes, he read the secrets the field told him - where his brother had dropped to all fours, how fast he was moving, how he tried to flank Seamus without his knowledge. The point of the game was to take your opponent unawares, tackling him from behind and holding him to the ground in any position for three seconds. Granted, they weren’t real seconds, as the boys counted as fast as their mouths and minds would let them - and as loud, too - but the point was never lost. As a result of The Game, as it came to be called, each boy later became an exceptional tracker. Tristan, more than Seamus, went on to become a skilled hunter as well.
Seamus caught his breathing, knowing that it was giving him away. He kept low to the ground - not on all fours like his brother, but stooped over and on the balls of his feet, checking the newly rained soil for footprints that were barely visible. The tall grass grew in every direction, this being more grass and less wheat. Whatever wheat that grew before Mr. Hanover’s own fence was a direct result of shifting winds and crows dropping seeds where they didn’t belong. As a result, the field they young boys walked through and sought one another through, was a kaleidoscope of height and flexibility. Where the wheat would be stiff one moment, the grasses would be flexible and malleable the next, making it difficult to gauge distance or track accordingly. However, Seamus found that Tristan held to a few major plans and acted as though this were currently true.
He kept low, not moving very much and keeping his breath still. He pictured his older brother circling behind him, probably from his left, and closing in on him like a cat. Seamus took two sideways steps to the right, and paused, listening. Behind him, he heard Tristan slightly change direction. At his right hand, he palmed the broken branch of a mishandled oak and grasped it firmly. With a quick thrust, he threw it farther to his right, low to the ground, so that it crashed among the reeds. Again, he paused and listened. And again, he heard his brother misjudge the sound and move a step or two more to the right, just a touch off course. He backed his right leg up a bit, keeping his left foot planted and acting as a fulcrum. As he backed up the right leg, he turned ninety degrees, now looking to his right at about where his brother should be coming upon him. He waited with bated breath, heart pumping hard and beginning to get a little cold. Five minutes later, his brother came into sight, crawling like a cat a few feet away, intent on a mistaken shape where the branch fell. Seamus desperately waited for his moment and, just when Tristan had passed the point where Seamus might be seen in his peripheral vision, our hero whispered:
"I’m over here, brother."
With a quick turn of the head, Tristan saw what he had previously missed and cursed himself. Seamus leaned forward, smiling, and rushed his elder so that they went tumbling backwards into the grasses. No one could get the upper hand, but they became itchy and nearly cut by the blue grass and the wheat. After a few minutes, both were out of breath and laughing.
"You got me this time," Tristan said. "I was surprised."
"You were scared, I saw it."
"No. Not scared. Surprised is all." But Tristan was very much afraid of his brother’s little whisper, of his gallant resolve, of his superior instincts. Were Tristan the one waiting for the ambush, he would have rushed his younger brother and pinned him there to the ground, yelping as he did so. Looking back, Tristan thought he might have even given himself away if he were in Seamus’ shoes, knowing that the boy three years his younger already had more patience on the trail than himself.
"Just surprised," he said again. Seamus smiled a hearty smile as he stood up, brushing out the grass from his clothing. He began running ahead this time in the direction of the oak tree, knowing the roles were reversing and it was his turn to be the stalker. About 200 feet forward of Tristan, Seamus disappeared.
And so The Game began again.
At the gap in the fence, Tristan sat and whittled a piece of pine his father had abandoned in the barn. Try as he might, the young boy was unable to turn it into the goose he imagined, even with the help of the pocket knife he filched from Bill over a week ago. As Seamus approached his older brother, still a little nervous after Elizabeth’s questioning, Tristan whittled the beak of the bird right off. It landed with a thud against the high grass near the fence post. The next moment, the blade was thrown point first into the dirt 5 feet from Seamus’ walking body.
"Dammit," the elder muttered.
"’Salright. You’ll get it." Seamus picked up the blade and closed it against his hand, the rosewood handle warm where his brother had been gripping it. As he pushed the knife back toward Tristan, he also took out of his pocket a mason’s jar of water, held it up and said, "Got this, too. Had the bottle. Stopped at the pump and got some water."
"That’s good. Really. Let’s go, huh?"
"Yeah."
Tristan hopped off the fence and began trotting into the field, loping until he was about 100 feet ahead. There, he dropped to all fours and disappeared from sight.
"Hey, no fair," Seamus yelled into the blue. "I thought we wouldn’t play until the oak tree." When he got no response, he picked up his pace until he came to where the wheat told him his brother had stopped. Here, he stopped, too. With his hands and his eyes, he read the secrets the field told him - where his brother had dropped to all fours, how fast he was moving, how he tried to flank Seamus without his knowledge. The point of the game was to take your opponent unawares, tackling him from behind and holding him to the ground in any position for three seconds. Granted, they weren’t real seconds, as the boys counted as fast as their mouths and minds would let them - and as loud, too - but the point was never lost. As a result of The Game, as it came to be called, each boy later became an exceptional tracker. Tristan, more than Seamus, went on to become a skilled hunter as well.
Seamus caught his breathing, knowing that it was giving him away. He kept low to the ground - not on all fours like his brother, but stooped over and on the balls of his feet, checking the newly rained soil for footprints that were barely visible. The tall grass grew in every direction, this being more grass and less wheat. Whatever wheat that grew before Mr. Hanover’s own fence was a direct result of shifting winds and crows dropping seeds where they didn’t belong. As a result, the field they young boys walked through and sought one another through, was a kaleidoscope of height and flexibility. Where the wheat would be stiff one moment, the grasses would be flexible and malleable the next, making it difficult to gauge distance or track accordingly. However, Seamus found that Tristan held to a few major plans and acted as though this were currently true.
He kept low, not moving very much and keeping his breath still. He pictured his older brother circling behind him, probably from his left, and closing in on him like a cat. Seamus took two sideways steps to the right, and paused, listening. Behind him, he heard Tristan slightly change direction. At his right hand, he palmed the broken branch of a mishandled oak and grasped it firmly. With a quick thrust, he threw it farther to his right, low to the ground, so that it crashed among the reeds. Again, he paused and listened. And again, he heard his brother misjudge the sound and move a step or two more to the right, just a touch off course. He backed his right leg up a bit, keeping his left foot planted and acting as a fulcrum. As he backed up the right leg, he turned ninety degrees, now looking to his right at about where his brother should be coming upon him. He waited with bated breath, heart pumping hard and beginning to get a little cold. Five minutes later, his brother came into sight, crawling like a cat a few feet away, intent on a mistaken shape where the branch fell. Seamus desperately waited for his moment and, just when Tristan had passed the point where Seamus might be seen in his peripheral vision, our hero whispered:
"I’m over here, brother."
With a quick turn of the head, Tristan saw what he had previously missed and cursed himself. Seamus leaned forward, smiling, and rushed his elder so that they went tumbling backwards into the grasses. No one could get the upper hand, but they became itchy and nearly cut by the blue grass and the wheat. After a few minutes, both were out of breath and laughing.
"You got me this time," Tristan said. "I was surprised."
"You were scared, I saw it."
"No. Not scared. Surprised is all." But Tristan was very much afraid of his brother’s little whisper, of his gallant resolve, of his superior instincts. Were Tristan the one waiting for the ambush, he would have rushed his younger brother and pinned him there to the ground, yelping as he did so. Looking back, Tristan thought he might have even given himself away if he were in Seamus’ shoes, knowing that the boy three years his younger already had more patience on the trail than himself.
"Just surprised," he said again. Seamus smiled a hearty smile as he stood up, brushing out the grass from his clothing. He began running ahead this time in the direction of the oak tree, knowing the roles were reversing and it was his turn to be the stalker. About 200 feet forward of Tristan, Seamus disappeared.
And so The Game began again.
12.12.2008
Conversational Breakfast
He woke to the sound of feet on the hardwood as Elizabeth came in, her eyes shining in the sunlight. Tristan, when he got up, must have pulled the shades. She was a tall and lithe figure, already accustomed to the work of a woman around a farm though she was barely thirteen years old. Her hands had the marks of needles in her thumbs, her hands rough from scrubbing dishes and repairing clothes. She was as much a mother to young Seamus as Rachel – and had a heavier hand when the whoopings came, too. However, she was also quick to point out his grand performances, help him when necessary and, best in the eyes of our young hero, give him little chocolates when no one else was looking. To say that she was Seamus' favorite sibling would not have been an overstatement of terms, though he got along well enough with everyone else outside of Tristan’s orbit.
"Hey you," she said. "Why are you sleeping so late, and why on the floor?"
"Oh, um… I helped get the eggs this morning," Seamus said as he wiped the sleep from his eyes. "No one woke me back up."
"And the floor?"
He looked at her with a sideways glance, quickly thinking of what to say. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Tristan wouldn’t let him sleep in the bed for a week if he let Liz know what happened that morning. So he lied, quickly.
"I like the floor."
"That’s a load of crap and you know it. I can feel the chill now. The floor’s cold, Shame. Too cold to be liked."
"No, really. I like the floor. I get to sleep by myself here." This part was not untrue, as Seamus enjoyed being able to stretch out when he wanted to, without the obstruction of another body in his way, or the thought of being the recipient to an elbow, punch or kick in the middle of the night without the ability to retaliate.
"OK, suit yourself, but it’s time to get up. Like, right now."
"Alright." The boy got up and pulled his jeans to his waist, wiped his hair out from his face and let the thermal top he had been wearing to bed double as his day-shirt. Upon rising, he noticed the smell of eggs and bacon -- the usual welcome party in the morning. "Any pancakes?," he asked.
"Nope. Not this morning. Maybe tomorrow. It is your seventh birthday tomorrow after all, so I might be able to make that happen."
"I hope so." He smiled at her and, when she smiled back, knew that pancakes were inevitable and just 24 short hours away.
At the kitchen table, he shoveled the food down his throat, drinking the orange juice and water Liz provided for him, all the while gearing up for the afternoon hike. Though only six years old, he loved to walk in the wheat fields of Mr. Hanover, the neighbor about a mile away. He and Tristan would play hide and seek, utilizing the deadened and decrepit black oak tree in the center of the field as a reference point and home base. So long as they were in by sundown, no one questioned their whereabouts. The family knew that, should the boys be visible and boisterous, the chances of their scheming were much greater than if they were out and about, playing at manhood and dreaming like thieves.
"Plans today?," Elizabeth asked.
"MM-MM-MM," he grumbled and shrugged his shoulders in an 'I don't know' fashion, a mouth full of bacon and potatoes.
"You lie, little brother. You always have plans." He swallowed the hot food, took a big sip of the orange juice and wiped his mouth.
"I don’t know, really," he said. "The wheat field, I think. I hope it warms up."
"It should, once the sun breaks the clouds. Shouldn’t be too bad. You and Tristan, I guess."
"Yep."
"Be mindful of him, you hear?"
"What do you mean? He's my brother."
"Well, he’s trouble, that boy, and you know it. I’ll tan your hide the color of night if you get in trouble and you know that, too -- but I won’t want to. I know that boy makes you do things -- like the eggs this morning."
"I got no idea what you’re talking about. I gotta get. Thanks for breakfast, Lizzie. See you later." He dropped the napkin onto the table, pulled his jacket on in a flurry and was out the door. The screen banged behind him and Elizabeth was left standing alone in the little kitchen, a look of angry confirmation on her face.
"Hey you," she said. "Why are you sleeping so late, and why on the floor?"
"Oh, um… I helped get the eggs this morning," Seamus said as he wiped the sleep from his eyes. "No one woke me back up."
"And the floor?"
He looked at her with a sideways glance, quickly thinking of what to say. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Tristan wouldn’t let him sleep in the bed for a week if he let Liz know what happened that morning. So he lied, quickly.
"I like the floor."
"That’s a load of crap and you know it. I can feel the chill now. The floor’s cold, Shame. Too cold to be liked."
"No, really. I like the floor. I get to sleep by myself here." This part was not untrue, as Seamus enjoyed being able to stretch out when he wanted to, without the obstruction of another body in his way, or the thought of being the recipient to an elbow, punch or kick in the middle of the night without the ability to retaliate.
"OK, suit yourself, but it’s time to get up. Like, right now."
"Alright." The boy got up and pulled his jeans to his waist, wiped his hair out from his face and let the thermal top he had been wearing to bed double as his day-shirt. Upon rising, he noticed the smell of eggs and bacon -- the usual welcome party in the morning. "Any pancakes?," he asked.
"Nope. Not this morning. Maybe tomorrow. It is your seventh birthday tomorrow after all, so I might be able to make that happen."
"I hope so." He smiled at her and, when she smiled back, knew that pancakes were inevitable and just 24 short hours away.
At the kitchen table, he shoveled the food down his throat, drinking the orange juice and water Liz provided for him, all the while gearing up for the afternoon hike. Though only six years old, he loved to walk in the wheat fields of Mr. Hanover, the neighbor about a mile away. He and Tristan would play hide and seek, utilizing the deadened and decrepit black oak tree in the center of the field as a reference point and home base. So long as they were in by sundown, no one questioned their whereabouts. The family knew that, should the boys be visible and boisterous, the chances of their scheming were much greater than if they were out and about, playing at manhood and dreaming like thieves.
"Plans today?," Elizabeth asked.
"MM-MM-MM," he grumbled and shrugged his shoulders in an 'I don't know' fashion, a mouth full of bacon and potatoes.
"You lie, little brother. You always have plans." He swallowed the hot food, took a big sip of the orange juice and wiped his mouth.
"I don’t know, really," he said. "The wheat field, I think. I hope it warms up."
"It should, once the sun breaks the clouds. Shouldn’t be too bad. You and Tristan, I guess."
"Yep."
"Be mindful of him, you hear?"
"What do you mean? He's my brother."
"Well, he’s trouble, that boy, and you know it. I’ll tan your hide the color of night if you get in trouble and you know that, too -- but I won’t want to. I know that boy makes you do things -- like the eggs this morning."
"I got no idea what you’re talking about. I gotta get. Thanks for breakfast, Lizzie. See you later." He dropped the napkin onto the table, pulled his jacket on in a flurry and was out the door. The screen banged behind him and Elizabeth was left standing alone in the little kitchen, a look of angry confirmation on her face.
12.05.2008
Pink Fingers
When Seamus was a young boy, he thought the world darker and more dangerous than it actually was. This was mostly due to his elder siblings in general -- specifically, Tristan’s continuous and steadfast hazing made life bearable only in that Seamus, after turning seven years old, found that he would be able to wipe the wagon-rutted roads with Tristan’s face after enlisting the help of a neighborhood branch, stone or even a handful of dirt. Tristan, he realized, was a bit of a coward when weapons were involved. Before that point, however, our boy Seamus had an uncanny ability for drawing the short straw.
"Seamus," Tristan said one morning near the crack of dawn, as they both lay down in the same bed. Seamus’ back was to his brother and he felt the bed creak under Tristan’s weight as he propped himself up on one elbow. He initially made no reply, hoping to feign sleep until the boy got bored and pulled out of bed. "Seamus," he hissed. "Seamus, wake up." The elder shook the younger by the shoulder and there was nothing Seamus could do but to respond.
"Yep."
"Pull the eggs this morning." Seamus could feel his brother’s hot breath on the back of his neck and he clenched his six year old hands into fists beneath the covers, tensing at the request.
"No, Tristan. Pa set that job for you to do."
"Just as I am setting it for you. Go pull the eggs, Seamus." Tristan’s voice lowered and became gritty with a demand. "I’m not asking you, should you’ve forgotten."
"I said ‘No,’ Tris. I’m tired. S’your turn." Just then a fist found the back of Seamus’ head and he tumbled forward in the bed, nearing the edge. He was thumped again and stifled a shudder as the blows began to rain down on him, heartily and yet quietly.
"You will do it, and you’ll tell Pa I’m not feeling well and you are volunteering for the job.” Being only nine years old, Tristan picked up the word “volunteer” from his father just the week before, when the patriarch asked his elder sons – Mack and William – for volunteers to help repair the fencing around their little farm. Tristan was both proud of his ability to coax his brother into the work reserved for himself and at his own intelligence.
"No," Seamus managed to squeak out before being kicked from the bed and landing on the hardwood. Just then, Mack came into the room, flashlight in hand, a look of angry bewilderment on his red-cheeked face.
"Be quiet, Runt. What’s the noise for?"
"Nothing. Tristan kicked me out of bed."
"I didn’t kick him," Tristan protested. "Seamus volunteered to take the eggs this morning. I’m not feeling well." Here, the culprit coughed weezingly, pulling the covers up to his nose so as to hide the smile forming below it.
"Well, that’s nice of you, Seamus," Mack allowed. "Better get dressed. I just come in to get my scarf. It’s cold as a witch’s teet out there."
"Thanks again, Seamus," Tristan said. "I’m glad I don’t have to go out into that freeze. These covers are so warm." The two younger boys exchanged a look of complete hatred and Seamus knew that, if he allowed this to continue, things would only become worse. Even as a six year old, he knew that this was not the way the world was supposed to operate. Given enough time, he thought, he would make Tris pay for all of the hard knocks he suffered.
He crept out of the house after having dressed, feeling the wind bite into his cheeks and poke its way in between the slits in his eyes, drying out the tear ducts and causing him to place his hands up against his face, already covered in a scarf and wrapped tight and layered with the upturned collar of his jacket. When he got to the farmhouse, he saw that the doors were already open, Mack shoveling hay into the horse stall. After every third or fourth rake, the tall blonde would lean the instrument against the wall and pump his arms against his body, trying to keep the heat down in his fingers.
"I can’t feel my hands at all," he said. "Too damn cold."
"Yep," came the little reply. Seamus went through the barn and into the henhouse on the opposite side. There, he opened the pens and picked up all the new eggs -- 42 in all, placing each one neatly into a woven basket his mother had made. When he was first shown how to pick the eggs, William told him not to wear gloves, as he needed to be able to feel the egg, lest he break them and get a hide tanning he would not soon forget. By the time he got back to the cabin, his fingers were numb and a pink the color of a blanket he used as a babe -- his mother said it used to belong to his sister, Elizabeth, though the rest of the children said she had been hoping for a girl.
He got back into the dark bedroom as the sun was beginning to light against the windows, shades drawn tight for just such an event. When his father had built the place, he made it a point to keep the windows of the bedroom facing East so that his children would be able to get up with the sunlight and get to bed in utter darkness. All appendages on his little body were frigidly cold, his breath coming in bursts from his tiny mouth. He undressed quickly and hopped back into bed, much to Tristan’s alarm.
"What are you doing, Shame? You’re too cold to be in bed. Lay on the floor."
"No," came the quick and quiet reply. "I’m tired and cold."
"Don’t care."
"Me neither." They exchanged the hateful look again and Seamus put his cold, little feet against the legs of his elder brother. The kicking ensued and Tristan shuddered at the temperature change, forcefully removing Seamus from the bed again. He also kicked down a blanket on top of him for good measure.
"Sleep there, little brother. You don’t have much time before Lizzy comes and wakes us anyway." Seamus, feeling utterly defeated, curled into a fetal position and sobbed, warming himself with each sad exhalation until he fell asleep.
"Seamus," Tristan said one morning near the crack of dawn, as they both lay down in the same bed. Seamus’ back was to his brother and he felt the bed creak under Tristan’s weight as he propped himself up on one elbow. He initially made no reply, hoping to feign sleep until the boy got bored and pulled out of bed. "Seamus," he hissed. "Seamus, wake up." The elder shook the younger by the shoulder and there was nothing Seamus could do but to respond.
"Yep."
"Pull the eggs this morning." Seamus could feel his brother’s hot breath on the back of his neck and he clenched his six year old hands into fists beneath the covers, tensing at the request.
"No, Tristan. Pa set that job for you to do."
"Just as I am setting it for you. Go pull the eggs, Seamus." Tristan’s voice lowered and became gritty with a demand. "I’m not asking you, should you’ve forgotten."
"I said ‘No,’ Tris. I’m tired. S’your turn." Just then a fist found the back of Seamus’ head and he tumbled forward in the bed, nearing the edge. He was thumped again and stifled a shudder as the blows began to rain down on him, heartily and yet quietly.
"You will do it, and you’ll tell Pa I’m not feeling well and you are volunteering for the job.” Being only nine years old, Tristan picked up the word “volunteer” from his father just the week before, when the patriarch asked his elder sons – Mack and William – for volunteers to help repair the fencing around their little farm. Tristan was both proud of his ability to coax his brother into the work reserved for himself and at his own intelligence.
"No," Seamus managed to squeak out before being kicked from the bed and landing on the hardwood. Just then, Mack came into the room, flashlight in hand, a look of angry bewilderment on his red-cheeked face.
"Be quiet, Runt. What’s the noise for?"
"Nothing. Tristan kicked me out of bed."
"I didn’t kick him," Tristan protested. "Seamus volunteered to take the eggs this morning. I’m not feeling well." Here, the culprit coughed weezingly, pulling the covers up to his nose so as to hide the smile forming below it.
"Well, that’s nice of you, Seamus," Mack allowed. "Better get dressed. I just come in to get my scarf. It’s cold as a witch’s teet out there."
"Thanks again, Seamus," Tristan said. "I’m glad I don’t have to go out into that freeze. These covers are so warm." The two younger boys exchanged a look of complete hatred and Seamus knew that, if he allowed this to continue, things would only become worse. Even as a six year old, he knew that this was not the way the world was supposed to operate. Given enough time, he thought, he would make Tris pay for all of the hard knocks he suffered.
He crept out of the house after having dressed, feeling the wind bite into his cheeks and poke its way in between the slits in his eyes, drying out the tear ducts and causing him to place his hands up against his face, already covered in a scarf and wrapped tight and layered with the upturned collar of his jacket. When he got to the farmhouse, he saw that the doors were already open, Mack shoveling hay into the horse stall. After every third or fourth rake, the tall blonde would lean the instrument against the wall and pump his arms against his body, trying to keep the heat down in his fingers.
"I can’t feel my hands at all," he said. "Too damn cold."
"Yep," came the little reply. Seamus went through the barn and into the henhouse on the opposite side. There, he opened the pens and picked up all the new eggs -- 42 in all, placing each one neatly into a woven basket his mother had made. When he was first shown how to pick the eggs, William told him not to wear gloves, as he needed to be able to feel the egg, lest he break them and get a hide tanning he would not soon forget. By the time he got back to the cabin, his fingers were numb and a pink the color of a blanket he used as a babe -- his mother said it used to belong to his sister, Elizabeth, though the rest of the children said she had been hoping for a girl.
He got back into the dark bedroom as the sun was beginning to light against the windows, shades drawn tight for just such an event. When his father had built the place, he made it a point to keep the windows of the bedroom facing East so that his children would be able to get up with the sunlight and get to bed in utter darkness. All appendages on his little body were frigidly cold, his breath coming in bursts from his tiny mouth. He undressed quickly and hopped back into bed, much to Tristan’s alarm.
"What are you doing, Shame? You’re too cold to be in bed. Lay on the floor."
"No," came the quick and quiet reply. "I’m tired and cold."
"Don’t care."
"Me neither." They exchanged the hateful look again and Seamus put his cold, little feet against the legs of his elder brother. The kicking ensued and Tristan shuddered at the temperature change, forcefully removing Seamus from the bed again. He also kicked down a blanket on top of him for good measure.
"Sleep there, little brother. You don’t have much time before Lizzy comes and wakes us anyway." Seamus, feeling utterly defeated, curled into a fetal position and sobbed, warming himself with each sad exhalation until he fell asleep.
12.04.2008
Monster
As the little ship, captained by the lone McTavish, was being dragged into the current of the edge of the world, ready to be hurled over the ridge and cast into nothingness, the monster came upon its flank. McTavish was sitting cross-legged in the Nest, looking over the void and watching the water spill into the abyss below. He could see a terribly long way down, but the water never ceased falling. He thought of the man that went over Niagara in a barrel and shivered. His ship, as perfect for him as she was, would not offer such protection. Gripping the rigging, he stood up and resigned himself to ruin.
The she-monster, at that very moment, had taken an interest in the man. Her shadow came out of the water and rested on the deck, her bluish-green hide towering into the air, salt water dripping from it. McTavish shot a look her way and could almost believe what he saw -- after all, he was about to drop off the edge of the flat map. She pulled a tentacle up and wrapped it around the main sail, just high enough that McTavish could walk its length. He understood that is what she wanted, and he complied. With a flip of the appendage, she shot the captain to her shoulder and they watched as the ship went over the edge, lost for all eternity.
The she-monster, at that very moment, had taken an interest in the man. Her shadow came out of the water and rested on the deck, her bluish-green hide towering into the air, salt water dripping from it. McTavish shot a look her way and could almost believe what he saw -- after all, he was about to drop off the edge of the flat map. She pulled a tentacle up and wrapped it around the main sail, just high enough that McTavish could walk its length. He understood that is what she wanted, and he complied. With a flip of the appendage, she shot the captain to her shoulder and they watched as the ship went over the edge, lost for all eternity.
12.01.2008
The Birth of Seamus
Seamus was born on the side of a dusty road in the back of a rickety coach during the worst drought in 100 years. His father, Agnius McGillicus O’Leary, was out of work and out of sorts. He was a small man with not much to show for all his bloodshed and cursing, typically making his living as a ranch-hand for the wealthiest man in the county. With a small log cabin built by his own earth-stained hands, Agnius depended on the goodwill of others to keep his family well-fed, well-cared for and well educated. The latter, as came to light, was really of little consequence so long as Aggy was lubricated with the brown bourbon his own father taught him to make. Seamus’ mother, Lord bless her, was a gentle woman of a half-tonned girth, happily sweating the day away as she birthed babies and raised folks to be proud, Western Americans. She loved to cook, sew and, above all, eat. Though her name is of very little consequence and she will make no more appearances in this work after the birth of our protagonist, it was Rachel Loveless O’Leary.
“Aggy,” she said as the wagon-wheels found every hole in the road, every bump, every loose rock. “Aggy,” she wheezed, sweat coming down her brow though it was shaded against the 2 in the afternoon summer-sun, “I think it’s time.”
“Oh, you poor goat,” said Aggy, “you wouldn’t know another birth of a babe from a casual growling of the stomach. We both know they feel the same to ya. Not to worry, lass, we’ll make it to market and back before the wee one’s out.”
“No, no, I don’t think so, Aggy. I don’t think so at all. Matter of fact, my god this hurts like the devil and if I were to lay blame, I’d lay it on you and the Lord himself for the terrible pain, matter of fact, I think the wee one’s coming on a might strong and will be here on this good earth momentarily.”
“It’s just heartburn, Love.”
“Heartburn, nothing Agnius. I say I’m having a baby and by God, I am. Pull this buggy over and let the thing happen, will ya!” Agnius pulled the horses to a trot, coming along the gulley and stopping under some dogwood trees. The girl’s water broke and she stifled a gasp. The three children already in the back of the flat got out, dusted themselves off properly and walked over to the dying stream to wash their faces and rinse the backs of their necks. The grit came on something fierce when the wind kicked up the golden-brown dirt along the roadside. Only little Tristan stayed behind as he was the youngest and knew no better. He was all wide-eyed with his bangs in his face, wiping them away with a flick of his tiny wrist every now and again, brushing them out of his eyes with a quick burst of his breath between pursed lips. He grabbed a hold of Rachel’s skirt tail and held on for dear life.
“Everything’s ok, mama?,” he asked. “Mama, what’s happening?”
“Looks like your little brother is making a scene and coming along a little early.”
“Well, I don’t want him anyway. If you want, we can drown him in the gulley.”
He said this without thinking and with little relish for the act. However, being the youngest, he was prone to getting his way and thought this the grandest idea as it would keep the universe in working order. Rachel had little thought for it and let the back of her hand tell him so. She swiped him, knuckles first, across his face with such force that he fell from the wagon into the mashed and withered grass beneath the tree.
The horses whinnied in the shade as she pronounced, “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that Tristan Michael O’Leary. Now go wash your face and dust off your backside.” The boy walked away ashamed and a little frightened of his gigantic maternal figure. More than his father, Tristan feared the wrath of his mother. After all, she was always home, always watching him like a hawk, while his father, though he meant well, was but a shadow in the mind of the young boy.
The children continued in their parts as silent playmates while Rachel heaved to and fro, causing the buggy to shake and creak under her enormous weight. Agnius unhitched the horses and pegged them to the dry soil, wiping his brow in the heat. They grazed on the scraps about here and there, gritting and grinding their teeth through the soil, getting to the little nourishment left in the earth. The crows settled on the branches of the dogwood again, only rustling at the sounds of her discomfort.
"Dammit boy, come on now. We’re nearly there, aren’t we? Aren’t we, dear lad?" Her eyes glistened even in the shade and her dress was soaked through. “Come on, Aggy, come on now, mate.” Agnius walked to her angry heels and peered under her skirt, tentative and quiet. The blood and water mixed into a stomach-churning visage and the man wretched there in the grass, unhappily sulking. Pulling himself together, he pulled out a kerchief from his back pocket and massaged the sick out of the corners of his mouth.
“Sorry there, love. It’s a usual occurrence. I’m ready for him, now. Happens every time, I swear to the Lord Almighty.”
“They’ll be none of that, now. Not in this heat, this drought. You know He’ll punish us. You know it.”
“Alright then. Forget I mentioned the Lord Almighty, dear love. Just push when you’re ready.” She grit her teeth, closed her eyes and pushed, screaming like a banshee abandoned. The small boy came out quickly enough, crying readily and healthy. With a swipe of the pocket knife, the cord was cut and his body was wiped clean with the same cloth from Agnius’ back pocket.
“Welcome home, Seamus Christopher O’Leary. Welcome home, dear boy.”
In the background, Tristan wept while his siblings played tag around the dogwood trees.
“Aggy,” she said as the wagon-wheels found every hole in the road, every bump, every loose rock. “Aggy,” she wheezed, sweat coming down her brow though it was shaded against the 2 in the afternoon summer-sun, “I think it’s time.”
“Oh, you poor goat,” said Aggy, “you wouldn’t know another birth of a babe from a casual growling of the stomach. We both know they feel the same to ya. Not to worry, lass, we’ll make it to market and back before the wee one’s out.”
“No, no, I don’t think so, Aggy. I don’t think so at all. Matter of fact, my god this hurts like the devil and if I were to lay blame, I’d lay it on you and the Lord himself for the terrible pain, matter of fact, I think the wee one’s coming on a might strong and will be here on this good earth momentarily.”
“It’s just heartburn, Love.”
“Heartburn, nothing Agnius. I say I’m having a baby and by God, I am. Pull this buggy over and let the thing happen, will ya!” Agnius pulled the horses to a trot, coming along the gulley and stopping under some dogwood trees. The girl’s water broke and she stifled a gasp. The three children already in the back of the flat got out, dusted themselves off properly and walked over to the dying stream to wash their faces and rinse the backs of their necks. The grit came on something fierce when the wind kicked up the golden-brown dirt along the roadside. Only little Tristan stayed behind as he was the youngest and knew no better. He was all wide-eyed with his bangs in his face, wiping them away with a flick of his tiny wrist every now and again, brushing them out of his eyes with a quick burst of his breath between pursed lips. He grabbed a hold of Rachel’s skirt tail and held on for dear life.
“Everything’s ok, mama?,” he asked. “Mama, what’s happening?”
“Looks like your little brother is making a scene and coming along a little early.”
“Well, I don’t want him anyway. If you want, we can drown him in the gulley.”
He said this without thinking and with little relish for the act. However, being the youngest, he was prone to getting his way and thought this the grandest idea as it would keep the universe in working order. Rachel had little thought for it and let the back of her hand tell him so. She swiped him, knuckles first, across his face with such force that he fell from the wagon into the mashed and withered grass beneath the tree.
The horses whinnied in the shade as she pronounced, “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that Tristan Michael O’Leary. Now go wash your face and dust off your backside.” The boy walked away ashamed and a little frightened of his gigantic maternal figure. More than his father, Tristan feared the wrath of his mother. After all, she was always home, always watching him like a hawk, while his father, though he meant well, was but a shadow in the mind of the young boy.
The children continued in their parts as silent playmates while Rachel heaved to and fro, causing the buggy to shake and creak under her enormous weight. Agnius unhitched the horses and pegged them to the dry soil, wiping his brow in the heat. They grazed on the scraps about here and there, gritting and grinding their teeth through the soil, getting to the little nourishment left in the earth. The crows settled on the branches of the dogwood again, only rustling at the sounds of her discomfort.
"Dammit boy, come on now. We’re nearly there, aren’t we? Aren’t we, dear lad?" Her eyes glistened even in the shade and her dress was soaked through. “Come on, Aggy, come on now, mate.” Agnius walked to her angry heels and peered under her skirt, tentative and quiet. The blood and water mixed into a stomach-churning visage and the man wretched there in the grass, unhappily sulking. Pulling himself together, he pulled out a kerchief from his back pocket and massaged the sick out of the corners of his mouth.
“Sorry there, love. It’s a usual occurrence. I’m ready for him, now. Happens every time, I swear to the Lord Almighty.”
“They’ll be none of that, now. Not in this heat, this drought. You know He’ll punish us. You know it.”
“Alright then. Forget I mentioned the Lord Almighty, dear love. Just push when you’re ready.” She grit her teeth, closed her eyes and pushed, screaming like a banshee abandoned. The small boy came out quickly enough, crying readily and healthy. With a swipe of the pocket knife, the cord was cut and his body was wiped clean with the same cloth from Agnius’ back pocket.
“Welcome home, Seamus Christopher O’Leary. Welcome home, dear boy.”
In the background, Tristan wept while his siblings played tag around the dogwood trees.
10.30.2008
Dororthy, Lloyd and the Perfect Home
Dorothy and Lloyd met at an open house. They both fell in love with the same shuttered windows, the veranda, the spacious yard. He admired the strong mantle while she melted over the hardwood floors and butcher's block in the kitchen. It pulled to them both and neither could afford it on their own. They exchanged smiles at the doorway when he held it for her exit. Eventually, they met for drinks and decided the place was too good to pass up. It was the perfect house, in the perfect neighborhood, on the perfect street.
The owners, however, would not sell to a single resident -- their lone condition was that a family buy the dream home. So Dorothy and Lloyd got married within a month and closed on the residence within the next 4. The original owners went so far as to bring a contract with them -- should Dorothy and Lloyd ever separate, the home would be forfeit.
They put on the guise of love to their families -- after all, Lloyd was no Brad Pitt and Dorothy was a decade older than the typical blushing bride. But at home, in the most comfortable of spaces, he never touched her. She was abused as a child and he was deathly afraid of women. They slept in separate beds, had entirely different friends, each bought groceries for their own specific needs.
Each was ecstatic about the home, its beauty, its location, but at the end of the day, dreaded walking through its arched doorway. He smelled bad and she watched reality television. The were both tired of the silence, the ashamed looks, the tossing and turning at night when it felt like the home kept them awake, forcing them to look at one another. Marriage was never so uncomfortable.
The owners, however, would not sell to a single resident -- their lone condition was that a family buy the dream home. So Dorothy and Lloyd got married within a month and closed on the residence within the next 4. The original owners went so far as to bring a contract with them -- should Dorothy and Lloyd ever separate, the home would be forfeit.
They put on the guise of love to their families -- after all, Lloyd was no Brad Pitt and Dorothy was a decade older than the typical blushing bride. But at home, in the most comfortable of spaces, he never touched her. She was abused as a child and he was deathly afraid of women. They slept in separate beds, had entirely different friends, each bought groceries for their own specific needs.
Each was ecstatic about the home, its beauty, its location, but at the end of the day, dreaded walking through its arched doorway. He smelled bad and she watched reality television. The were both tired of the silence, the ashamed looks, the tossing and turning at night when it felt like the home kept them awake, forcing them to look at one another. Marriage was never so uncomfortable.
Lloyd
He juggles the words in his mouth like marbles, keeping his breathing fair, focusing on one point of the hardwood like he used to as a boy when he was caught for getting into mischief. Keys jingle in the lock and the front door comes open. She walks through the front room without turning on the light, steps into the kitchen and puts the groceries on the counter. She notices him, flips the light switch and stands to look at him. His mind goes quiet when she speaks his name.
"Lloyd?"
He looks up, takes two quick paces to her and cups her face in his hands. She is taken aback -- he has never touched her before, not ever lain a finger on her. Her breath catches and the words come to her mind before they are out of his mouth -- words like thunder to an infant left out in the storm, words she has dreaded but has known would pour over his lips -- his eyes have been giving him away.
"Dorothy, this isn't working out. I'm leaving you. I won't apologize because this isn't my fault. Good-bye."
"Lloyd?"
He looks up, takes two quick paces to her and cups her face in his hands. She is taken aback -- he has never touched her before, not ever lain a finger on her. Her breath catches and the words come to her mind before they are out of his mouth -- words like thunder to an infant left out in the storm, words she has dreaded but has known would pour over his lips -- his eyes have been giving him away.
"Dorothy, this isn't working out. I'm leaving you. I won't apologize because this isn't my fault. Good-bye."
The Meadow
We walked hand-in-hand through the autumn meadow and you felt horrible that the fire-stained leaves had nothing to hold on to -- our fingers slipped from the precipice of our palms and we walked in the cold, blustery afternoon in joint solitude, your hair making waves and currents in the wind.
I punched my hands into my jacket pockets and fisted them closed for warmth. At the old dogwood, I slowed down a step while you whistled a tune I couldn't quite make out. Maybe it was something we used to listen to as children, but the wind took the melody like a thief while the shade lengthened like old fingers. You turned back to me and smiled that closed-eyed, pink'd cheeked smiled; I cried a little knowing you'd be gone in two days.
The scent of smoke was in the air and I knew we were coming close to home. The maple tree from our youth was burning to cinders in the fireplace and the scent carried to us like a sail.
I punched my hands into my jacket pockets and fisted them closed for warmth. At the old dogwood, I slowed down a step while you whistled a tune I couldn't quite make out. Maybe it was something we used to listen to as children, but the wind took the melody like a thief while the shade lengthened like old fingers. You turned back to me and smiled that closed-eyed, pink'd cheeked smiled; I cried a little knowing you'd be gone in two days.
The scent of smoke was in the air and I knew we were coming close to home. The maple tree from our youth was burning to cinders in the fireplace and the scent carried to us like a sail.
10.21.2008
The Way He Loved Her
He brought her to the log cabin. It was autumn and the rusty leaves off the oak welcomed them with fresh arms. He made love to her by the light of the kerosene lamp, their shadows dancing against the wall. In later years, whenever she smelled the strong and vaporous stuff, she thought of him. She caught his affection in the labor of his hands -- the chopped wood, the caught food. Through the strength of his arms, she found the steel of her heart. His body told of his love, the scars bearing witness.
10.20.2008
At the Edge of the World
At the edge of the world, the water seems thinner before it falls into nothingness. That is what McTavish thought as the old ship spun about helplessly on the whirlpool, nearing a teeter on the edge of creation. The water was deadly deep, but the captain could see to the bottom, where countless animals and things he had never heard of frolicked in the undersea wind.
There's no way this can end well, he realized, as his crew died one by one on the journey. He was the only man left. His first mate, Flannery, had warned him against the edge of the world, of what old hands called "the drop of the flat map." But he didn't believe them in the pub. He believed now, though. Now that he was seeing it.
There's no way this can end well, he realized, as his crew died one by one on the journey. He was the only man left. His first mate, Flannery, had warned him against the edge of the world, of what old hands called "the drop of the flat map." But he didn't believe them in the pub. He believed now, though. Now that he was seeing it.
The End of Trigger
This is the end to a long project started in college about a guy who kills his wife and writes his memoirs from behind bars. He goes crazy. It's dark and very unlike my usual writings. If you have a problem with dark literature, please don't read this. If you have a problem with the fact that I wrote it, please get over it.
She whispers again in my ear. Whispers in that cold air sound like a gale through my hollow bones. "Kill me." She says it repeatedly, over and over until I am saying it, too. "Kill me. Kill me. Kill me." I hold my breath and wait, counting to 5 in my head. "Kill me." She just won't be quiet, not for a moment, not at all. I release the breath and call for the guard, palming the home-made shiv against my person. I'm sorry, I think to him before he even gets to me. I'm sorry because you are my escape route.
"Kill me." He comes to the bars, trusting me, knowing my reputation as a "good soldier." Kill me. I mouth the words and his eyes go wide as I grab his hand, driving the shiv into his forearm, then pulling it out fiercely. He screams. Kill me. The guards come, but not before I give it to Frank 3 more times in the stomach for good measure. As insurance. Kill me. The reinforcements show up and grant my wish. They kill me. BANG.
She whispers again in my ear. Whispers in that cold air sound like a gale through my hollow bones. "Kill me." She says it repeatedly, over and over until I am saying it, too. "Kill me. Kill me. Kill me." I hold my breath and wait, counting to 5 in my head. "Kill me." She just won't be quiet, not for a moment, not at all. I release the breath and call for the guard, palming the home-made shiv against my person. I'm sorry, I think to him before he even gets to me. I'm sorry because you are my escape route.
"Kill me." He comes to the bars, trusting me, knowing my reputation as a "good soldier." Kill me. I mouth the words and his eyes go wide as I grab his hand, driving the shiv into his forearm, then pulling it out fiercely. He screams. Kill me. The guards come, but not before I give it to Frank 3 more times in the stomach for good measure. As insurance. Kill me. The reinforcements show up and grant my wish. They kill me. BANG.
Roy
The old Kenworth pulled into the truck-stop and coughed itself to a clumsy stop, the engine convulsing when Roy jerked the key from the ignition. With a creak and a whirl, the door came open and Roy leaped down the two steps, boots scraping the gravel, door slamming shut behind him. There was no need to lock it.
He pulled his hat down low over his eyes, head down, picking out individual rocks of the loosely strewn parking lot. It was windy and he kept his hands apockets, his collar turned up, his shoulders hunched over.
"Hey Mae," he said as he opened the glass door to Joey's Truck Stop. "Long time."
"Not long enough," the waitress/cashier said. Her eyes turned to slits at the sight of him, her gum popping in her mouth. The streetlight came through the dirty blinds and shone through her dishwater hair, piled high on her head and teased with a can of Aqua Net Gold. She looked down at the old man at the booth and smiled, soothingly. "Not to worry, Mr. Higgins. I'm sure this ragamuffin will be leaving shortly. Won't you Roy?" She didn't look up to catch his reaction.
"Look, I just want a cup of coffee. Black."
"Didn't ask what you wanted, Roy."
"You sayin' I can't get a cup of Joe at Joey's?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying."
"That ain't right. That ain't right at all. Get Joe. He knows me. He'll tell ya."
"Oh, I know you, Roy. Don't you worry about that. And as for Joey, he's dead. I run this place. You want him, you can go to hell and fetch him." Roy looked slack-jawed and wide-eyed, rocking back on his heels. After a moment, he closed his mouth and wiped it with the back of his jacket, turned back to the door and put his hand on the cold handle.
"Well, you have my condolences." The bell jingled and he was back in the darkness, the wind taking his tears.
He pulled his hat down low over his eyes, head down, picking out individual rocks of the loosely strewn parking lot. It was windy and he kept his hands apockets, his collar turned up, his shoulders hunched over.
"Hey Mae," he said as he opened the glass door to Joey's Truck Stop. "Long time."
"Not long enough," the waitress/cashier said. Her eyes turned to slits at the sight of him, her gum popping in her mouth. The streetlight came through the dirty blinds and shone through her dishwater hair, piled high on her head and teased with a can of Aqua Net Gold. She looked down at the old man at the booth and smiled, soothingly. "Not to worry, Mr. Higgins. I'm sure this ragamuffin will be leaving shortly. Won't you Roy?" She didn't look up to catch his reaction.
"Look, I just want a cup of coffee. Black."
"Didn't ask what you wanted, Roy."
"You sayin' I can't get a cup of Joe at Joey's?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying."
"That ain't right. That ain't right at all. Get Joe. He knows me. He'll tell ya."
"Oh, I know you, Roy. Don't you worry about that. And as for Joey, he's dead. I run this place. You want him, you can go to hell and fetch him." Roy looked slack-jawed and wide-eyed, rocking back on his heels. After a moment, he closed his mouth and wiped it with the back of his jacket, turned back to the door and put his hand on the cold handle.
"Well, you have my condolences." The bell jingled and he was back in the darkness, the wind taking his tears.
9.29.2008
That Old Mountain Road
Dedalus hated driving in the dark, especially down the mountain. In his shit-heap that passed for a vehicle, the darkness seemed to close in around him, suffocating as he barreled round the turns, 20 miles per hour faster than the posted speed limit. His yellowed and savage headlights barely pierced the thick of it, he reading the road by the white stripes that passed nearly beneath the hunk of metal and oil.
Let's go, old girl. Let's go.
He measured his distance by the turnouts and the signs of elevation. At one time, he could do it by the number of times his ears would pop as he descended the hill, but now that he was near-deaf in the left ear (too many concerts) and had a severe infection (too much time in the lake) in the right, that ear-popping was less and less frequent. He kept the windows down and the radio up, both hands on the wheel and a constant barrage of reassurance to the decrepit Oldsmobile.
Let's go, old girl. Let's go.
It was early spring and the wind whipped up in the cabin, stinging and fresh. Dedalus pulled his hood closer around his ears, adjusted his hat and hit the pedal harder. His fear transferred itself into a jittery, loose-lipped shot from the hip. If anyone else were in the car, they would have clutched the oh-shit bar and kept their heels dug deep into the floorboards.
The tires screeched around every corner, in time with the music, in time with his cadence.
At 2,000 feet now. Come on, old girl. Let's go. Nearly there, now.
Yellow lights reflected back at him as a truck passed in the opposite direction. He put up his forearm to shade his eyes and came off the accelerator. The truck passed as quickly as it approached; he saw the red lights receding in his rear-view mirror. His heart quickened; his foot dropped back down.
Taking a turn too close in the darkness, the black came to claim him. His tires hit loose gravel and his rear-end came spinning out behind him. He overturned, both hands white-knuckle white on the steering wheel, gritting his teeth and leaning forward, breathing out his mouth. Slowly, the fishtailing came under control and he merged back into his lane.
Let's go, old girl. That was close. Let's go.
He patted the dash and smiled for the first time, his cheeks red from the wind, his eyes blood-shot from holding them so largely open.
Ten minutes later, they rounded the last turn of the darkness and came to a long, wide-laned straightaway. The night receded as the city lights enveloped them and Dedalus rolled up the windows, lowered his hood and shivered.
God, I hate that mountain. We're home, old girl. We're home.
Let's go, old girl. Let's go.
He measured his distance by the turnouts and the signs of elevation. At one time, he could do it by the number of times his ears would pop as he descended the hill, but now that he was near-deaf in the left ear (too many concerts) and had a severe infection (too much time in the lake) in the right, that ear-popping was less and less frequent. He kept the windows down and the radio up, both hands on the wheel and a constant barrage of reassurance to the decrepit Oldsmobile.
Let's go, old girl. Let's go.
It was early spring and the wind whipped up in the cabin, stinging and fresh. Dedalus pulled his hood closer around his ears, adjusted his hat and hit the pedal harder. His fear transferred itself into a jittery, loose-lipped shot from the hip. If anyone else were in the car, they would have clutched the oh-shit bar and kept their heels dug deep into the floorboards.
The tires screeched around every corner, in time with the music, in time with his cadence.
At 2,000 feet now. Come on, old girl. Let's go. Nearly there, now.
Yellow lights reflected back at him as a truck passed in the opposite direction. He put up his forearm to shade his eyes and came off the accelerator. The truck passed as quickly as it approached; he saw the red lights receding in his rear-view mirror. His heart quickened; his foot dropped back down.
Taking a turn too close in the darkness, the black came to claim him. His tires hit loose gravel and his rear-end came spinning out behind him. He overturned, both hands white-knuckle white on the steering wheel, gritting his teeth and leaning forward, breathing out his mouth. Slowly, the fishtailing came under control and he merged back into his lane.
Let's go, old girl. That was close. Let's go.
He patted the dash and smiled for the first time, his cheeks red from the wind, his eyes blood-shot from holding them so largely open.
Ten minutes later, they rounded the last turn of the darkness and came to a long, wide-laned straightaway. The night receded as the city lights enveloped them and Dedalus rolled up the windows, lowered his hood and shivered.
God, I hate that mountain. We're home, old girl. We're home.
9.22.2008
Listening to the Radio and Talking About Girls
We listened to the radio and talked about girls. Really, my dad didn't talk about girls so much as he listened. I rambled. He would ask a few questions, nod his head and pay close attention to me -- but this time was mainly about me and bonding and CCR. We would go out, my dad and I, every Friday after school and just drive. Inevitably, we would end up at Foster's Freeze for dipped cones and he would get the guy at the counter to double dip for me. We would sit on top of the bench-tables -- butts on the table-tops and feet on the benches -- while the ice cream melted under the chocolate and ran down our hands.
"It's going to rain tomorrow," he would sometimes say.
"How do you know that, Dad?" I would look up at him then, eyes innocent with the cone shoved half-way in my mouth.
"Well, you can smell it, for one. It smells like rain. And there's the fact that the sky is gray this evening. Do you see that?"
"Yep."
"If the sky is red tomorrow morning, it will rain for certain. Based on tonight, it might not rain -- but it probably will." He would smile that thin-lipped smile we loved so much and go back to eating his ice cream, one hand on my frail and miniature shoulder.
We would continue this way until the ice cream was gone, then wipe our hands, wash our faces with the hose on the side of the building, and hop back into the old Nova. Dad would turn on the radio and we would cruise home, quietly, listening to his old CCR tapes. At the driveway, he would turn off the lights, kill the engine and ask with profundity, "So, what's new, Champ?"
This is when the rambling and the nodding would come into play. He would honestly pay attention; I knew this because of the questions. He asked the most sincere questions, though they seem so ordinary now: What did this girl look like? How was she around her friends? How did I feel around her? I thought my heart would explode every Friday talking to him; he knew just how to get the emotion in a clear, rainy kind of way. He put words in my chest where there weren't any before.
Later, we would get back into the house and let the screen door bang behind us. Every time I came back in, I felt a little more grown up -- like my dad was letting me in on some secret of men. I would be all smiles and my mom, coming out of the kitchen or the living room, would ask:
"What are you so happy about?"
"Nothing, ma. Nothing."
"It's going to rain tomorrow," he would sometimes say.
"How do you know that, Dad?" I would look up at him then, eyes innocent with the cone shoved half-way in my mouth.
"Well, you can smell it, for one. It smells like rain. And there's the fact that the sky is gray this evening. Do you see that?"
"Yep."
"If the sky is red tomorrow morning, it will rain for certain. Based on tonight, it might not rain -- but it probably will." He would smile that thin-lipped smile we loved so much and go back to eating his ice cream, one hand on my frail and miniature shoulder.
We would continue this way until the ice cream was gone, then wipe our hands, wash our faces with the hose on the side of the building, and hop back into the old Nova. Dad would turn on the radio and we would cruise home, quietly, listening to his old CCR tapes. At the driveway, he would turn off the lights, kill the engine and ask with profundity, "So, what's new, Champ?"
This is when the rambling and the nodding would come into play. He would honestly pay attention; I knew this because of the questions. He asked the most sincere questions, though they seem so ordinary now: What did this girl look like? How was she around her friends? How did I feel around her? I thought my heart would explode every Friday talking to him; he knew just how to get the emotion in a clear, rainy kind of way. He put words in my chest where there weren't any before.
Later, we would get back into the house and let the screen door bang behind us. Every time I came back in, I felt a little more grown up -- like my dad was letting me in on some secret of men. I would be all smiles and my mom, coming out of the kitchen or the living room, would ask:
"What are you so happy about?"
"Nothing, ma. Nothing."
9.16.2008
The Professor
The professor leaned against the desk at the front of class, feet crossed and hands-a-pockets. 31 students sat opposite him, quietly musing the latest problem he put to their minds. Many of them looked to be faking thought.
"I took this job to challenge the generations," he thought, "not to babysit." He walked over to the white-board, pulling a marker from his blazer pocket as he did so. "Any theories?," he said out loud.
"Well," pondered Julian Kyle,"this seems just another example of American Imperialism."
"You think everything written in America is an example of Imperialism."
"Am I wrong?"
"Probably not." The kid used these blanket statements, but many of them were hard to argue with. Sometimes, Darius McDonnelly wondered if the world and its literature was even worth caring about.
He continued scribbling keywords on the board, circling some, crossing out others, gainsaying the class until they either agreed with his notions or got pissed off enough to speak up otherwise. It holistically felt as though only he and Julian were in the room together. This went on for the duration of class.
As the students gathered their belongings, Julian Kyle walked up to the teacher. "Professor?"
"Yes, Julian. Something I can help you with?"
"Um ... yes. What are your thoughts on the necessity of revolution?"
"Completely necessary. Thomas Paine, Thomas Jefferson, the rest of the Founding Fathers -- they obviously believed in it as well, otherwise we wouldn't be standing here, would we?"
"Right. I meant, what do you think of the necessity of revolution TODAY. Like ... you know, now?"
"I am all for overthrowing our government, boy, insofar as they have trampled the rights of the citizens and taken to ruling from a point of wealth. Or have you forgotten I believe we no longer live in a democracy? Is this the question you were asking?"
"Yes. And I didn't forget. In any case, will you please attend a meeting going on later this evening?"
Caught off-guard, McDonnelly didn't know what to say. "Excuse me? A meeting? Of what sort?"
"Of the revolutionary sort, Dr. You will get more information if you attend. I would ... rather, we would appreciate it."
"Well, since it is just a matter of discussion and not a matter of action, yes. Where is this meeting taking place?"
"A car will be by to pick you up outside of the main building at 7 p.m. sharp. Thank you, Dr." They locked eyes for a moment, the student dipped his head forward just the slightest bit, then turned on his heels and walked out of the room, leaving the professor to ponder this little turn of events.
"Finally," he thought, "someone is challenging me."
"I took this job to challenge the generations," he thought, "not to babysit." He walked over to the white-board, pulling a marker from his blazer pocket as he did so. "Any theories?," he said out loud.
"Well," pondered Julian Kyle,"this seems just another example of American Imperialism."
"You think everything written in America is an example of Imperialism."
"Am I wrong?"
"Probably not." The kid used these blanket statements, but many of them were hard to argue with. Sometimes, Darius McDonnelly wondered if the world and its literature was even worth caring about.
He continued scribbling keywords on the board, circling some, crossing out others, gainsaying the class until they either agreed with his notions or got pissed off enough to speak up otherwise. It holistically felt as though only he and Julian were in the room together. This went on for the duration of class.
As the students gathered their belongings, Julian Kyle walked up to the teacher. "Professor?"
"Yes, Julian. Something I can help you with?"
"Um ... yes. What are your thoughts on the necessity of revolution?"
"Completely necessary. Thomas Paine, Thomas Jefferson, the rest of the Founding Fathers -- they obviously believed in it as well, otherwise we wouldn't be standing here, would we?"
"Right. I meant, what do you think of the necessity of revolution TODAY. Like ... you know, now?"
"I am all for overthrowing our government, boy, insofar as they have trampled the rights of the citizens and taken to ruling from a point of wealth. Or have you forgotten I believe we no longer live in a democracy? Is this the question you were asking?"
"Yes. And I didn't forget. In any case, will you please attend a meeting going on later this evening?"
Caught off-guard, McDonnelly didn't know what to say. "Excuse me? A meeting? Of what sort?"
"Of the revolutionary sort, Dr. You will get more information if you attend. I would ... rather, we would appreciate it."
"Well, since it is just a matter of discussion and not a matter of action, yes. Where is this meeting taking place?"
"A car will be by to pick you up outside of the main building at 7 p.m. sharp. Thank you, Dr." They locked eyes for a moment, the student dipped his head forward just the slightest bit, then turned on his heels and walked out of the room, leaving the professor to ponder this little turn of events.
"Finally," he thought, "someone is challenging me."
9.05.2008
My Fathers Who Art in Memory
Everything on this blog, from now on, will be fictional. Unless it's poetry. But it will be literature and, while it may take root in reality, these stories do not abide there.
I have, inside my mind, a million or more memories that have never come to pass. An attic of undusted reality. Something like that. Like my father. My dad. The best at everything and the worst son of a bitch that ever was. It's been so long that I don't remember which memories belong to him or to some other male figure in my life. Better yet, I can't recall the differences between my life or the ones I have read so often about. Inside my conscience, there resembles a kaleidoscope of father figures.
The first thing I see when I think about my father, though, are his hands. He had hands like a bear. They fit his body. He could tie a knot on a leader so quickly, beautifully, gracefully... effortlessly. He'd row the boat hard with his scarred-like-Christ and sun-spotted hands, beach it with two oars and smile a thin-lipped toothy grin as the sweat dripped from his brow and he wiped it away with the back of his arm. Strength in those hands, but love, too. Discipline, hugs and tickles for us mixed with the hard caresses for my mother -- all in those flesh-covered weapons we called hands. He taught us manhood, respect, fear, all through those potent limbs, those frightening forces of nature.
It's easy to see the hands, but takes work to picture the gray-blue Irish eyes, the high cheekbones, strong arms, wild hair. The Roman nose, sun-freckled skin and reddened shoulders -- the hands are always the easy part.
It didn't take long to realize he wanted to live through me. Learning how the quail flies, when to shoot, how to fish, how to fight and so on. Being taught so he could live, even after he's dead and buried. Selfish, really, but I didn't mind. the expectations never changed; he would always teach and I would always learn. And he was so good at it. Teaching. Doing. Everything. Gave me my first rifle at 12. It was an old Rossi pack rifle where the stock and split when you pull and twist a knob. A rifle for backpacking trips and camping with his fellowship of men. A beautiful gun, really. I still have it.
He taught me in such a way that you knew he was imparting wisdom -- hard truths about society to be figured out later, on your own. The lesson was never over. I learned to track and shoot at the same time, so that it made me feel hollow and happy inside. For my birthday in August, I received a copy of the SAS Guide to Tracking. I read it furiously. Never tracked a thing for three weeks, though. We lived in the city and are lucky to see pigeons.
We went to Lake Mojave, sitting on the cusp between Arizona and Nevada. Walking the mesas near Hoover Dam as a boy, I learned the necessity of water. My father taught me those other two things.
"Do you see those, kiddo?" He pointed with his index finger, sitting on his haunches and squinting at the ground ahead.
"What?," I asked.
"The torn brush, the over-turned rocks, the coyote tracks?"
"No." I was scared I was going blind. He came adjacent to me and painted a picture with hand signs and low murmured words. Showing me where the coyote went and how to follow him. Painting with those big hands. And smiling with his eyes. Teaching me how to discern the unclear.
"Do you understand now?," he pressed.
"Yes."
"OK. Good. Good." We walked on then, nearer to camp and around the sage-brush and over the red-clay road that had just been put in the year before.
"Where are we going, Dad?"
"To a canyon."
"Are we shooting?" I could feel my heart begin to beat heavily in my chest, anxiety and enchantment building in me.
"Yep." His eyes sparkled as he said it to me, happy that I was happy.
"I get dibs on the shotgun!"
"You get dibs on the surprise waiting for you. You're 12. The shotgun is meant for when your shoulders get stronger and your eyes more crisp. Radio your uncle and tell him we're scouting a canyon. Tell him to bring the cases. We'll meet him at Big Horn Crest where the bay is glassy and the sand turns black if he wants to swim before-hand. Can you remember all that?"
"Uh-huh. No problem."
"Good."
And that's how it was.
I have, inside my mind, a million or more memories that have never come to pass. An attic of undusted reality. Something like that. Like my father. My dad. The best at everything and the worst son of a bitch that ever was. It's been so long that I don't remember which memories belong to him or to some other male figure in my life. Better yet, I can't recall the differences between my life or the ones I have read so often about. Inside my conscience, there resembles a kaleidoscope of father figures.
The first thing I see when I think about my father, though, are his hands. He had hands like a bear. They fit his body. He could tie a knot on a leader so quickly, beautifully, gracefully... effortlessly. He'd row the boat hard with his scarred-like-Christ and sun-spotted hands, beach it with two oars and smile a thin-lipped toothy grin as the sweat dripped from his brow and he wiped it away with the back of his arm. Strength in those hands, but love, too. Discipline, hugs and tickles for us mixed with the hard caresses for my mother -- all in those flesh-covered weapons we called hands. He taught us manhood, respect, fear, all through those potent limbs, those frightening forces of nature.
It's easy to see the hands, but takes work to picture the gray-blue Irish eyes, the high cheekbones, strong arms, wild hair. The Roman nose, sun-freckled skin and reddened shoulders -- the hands are always the easy part.
It didn't take long to realize he wanted to live through me. Learning how the quail flies, when to shoot, how to fish, how to fight and so on. Being taught so he could live, even after he's dead and buried. Selfish, really, but I didn't mind. the expectations never changed; he would always teach and I would always learn. And he was so good at it. Teaching. Doing. Everything. Gave me my first rifle at 12. It was an old Rossi pack rifle where the stock and split when you pull and twist a knob. A rifle for backpacking trips and camping with his fellowship of men. A beautiful gun, really. I still have it.
He taught me in such a way that you knew he was imparting wisdom -- hard truths about society to be figured out later, on your own. The lesson was never over. I learned to track and shoot at the same time, so that it made me feel hollow and happy inside. For my birthday in August, I received a copy of the SAS Guide to Tracking. I read it furiously. Never tracked a thing for three weeks, though. We lived in the city and are lucky to see pigeons.
We went to Lake Mojave, sitting on the cusp between Arizona and Nevada. Walking the mesas near Hoover Dam as a boy, I learned the necessity of water. My father taught me those other two things.
"Do you see those, kiddo?" He pointed with his index finger, sitting on his haunches and squinting at the ground ahead.
"What?," I asked.
"The torn brush, the over-turned rocks, the coyote tracks?"
"No." I was scared I was going blind. He came adjacent to me and painted a picture with hand signs and low murmured words. Showing me where the coyote went and how to follow him. Painting with those big hands. And smiling with his eyes. Teaching me how to discern the unclear.
"Do you understand now?," he pressed.
"Yes."
"OK. Good. Good." We walked on then, nearer to camp and around the sage-brush and over the red-clay road that had just been put in the year before.
"Where are we going, Dad?"
"To a canyon."
"Are we shooting?" I could feel my heart begin to beat heavily in my chest, anxiety and enchantment building in me.
"Yep." His eyes sparkled as he said it to me, happy that I was happy.
"I get dibs on the shotgun!"
"You get dibs on the surprise waiting for you. You're 12. The shotgun is meant for when your shoulders get stronger and your eyes more crisp. Radio your uncle and tell him we're scouting a canyon. Tell him to bring the cases. We'll meet him at Big Horn Crest where the bay is glassy and the sand turns black if he wants to swim before-hand. Can you remember all that?"
"Uh-huh. No problem."
"Good."
And that's how it was.
7.07.2008
The Storm
The wind picked up and the waves began white-capping, turning turbulent where once there was calm. The sky stripped his robe of blue and put on a a gray mantle so that the clouds turned dark and mischievous. The rain began to drop in sheets, pounding the little ship with force beyond reckoning. Flannery called all hands to the deck, yelling through a fierce snarl. The crew lashed everything down and prepared for a long day. With a grim smile creasing his face, he braced himself as water came over the tall bow. Things were getting ugly.
The onslaught continued for 3 hours while Ho'okele pushed through the storm, taking on water and creaking in the wind. Three good men were lost over the side and one, Crow's Nest Johnny, lost a hand when the rigging went super tight. He fell 12 feet and managed to land on all 3s, keeping his newly formed stump, still bleeding, over his head. The rest of the crew worked hard in slickers, all drenched from head to foot with rain and salt-water.
As they made their way out of the storm, cheering went up from the men, happy that they made it though the worst of it. McTavish mopped his face with a semi-dry towel and looked into the sunlight, happy.
The onslaught continued for 3 hours while Ho'okele pushed through the storm, taking on water and creaking in the wind. Three good men were lost over the side and one, Crow's Nest Johnny, lost a hand when the rigging went super tight. He fell 12 feet and managed to land on all 3s, keeping his newly formed stump, still bleeding, over his head. The rest of the crew worked hard in slickers, all drenched from head to foot with rain and salt-water.
As they made their way out of the storm, cheering went up from the men, happy that they made it though the worst of it. McTavish mopped his face with a semi-dry towel and looked into the sunlight, happy.
7.03.2008
Ho'okele
This might be an extended series. I want to write in something specific, but I need to lay some framework, I think. At any rate, the title and name of the ship means "Navigator."
They toiled against the ropes, lashing the sail and making fast for a quick run along the islands. Ho'okele, as the ship was called, could maneuver well enough to hold her own, had 12 cannons and a captain that took little from anyone, but demanded all his men had. He stood at the wheel of the ship, looking over his most prized possession -- and the substance of his dreams. Pipe in hand, he nodded to the wheelman and stepped onto the deck.
Captain Jay McTavish was not the ordinary seaman. He was squinty in one eye, this is true, but that is where the similarities between himself and the stereotypes ended. With hair in his face and pockmarked hands, he looked more the impoverished boy of old London than a sailor of fortune. The sun caught him in the face and he pulled his right forearm up as a shield, yelling out for more speed and less jabberjaw from his crew.
His first-mate, Kevin Flannery, was 20 years the captain's elder. He deferred with the knowledge that McTavish was a better captain, let alone a better man. With gray eyes and chin stubble, Flannery stood out among the young men he was mate over. He chewed heaps of tobacco and was prone to spitting over the side, causing streams of black to run along the outer hull of the ship -- eventually forcing crewmen to hang over the end suspended, old toothbrushes in hand to keep the old girl clean.
They moved along at a good clip, slicing through the water and heading West. Flannery had joked earlier that they would all fall off the edge of the map and into the Great Abyss. "As long as I go down at sea," McTavish replied, "I'd be happy indeed." But now, hours past the islands with no sign of slowing, Flannery began to question the realism of his jest. No one had been this far out -- and he didn't want to be the first one to make the trip.
"Captain," he said, standing at McTavish's side.
"Aye."
"Can I speak plainly, sir?"
"Sure. Speak your mind, Kevin. Speak your mind."
"Well sir. Here's the thing. No one's been out this far West before."
"And..."
Flannery looked down at this point, rubbing the stubble along his jawline. "And I don't know what's going to happen, Sir. I mean, where are we going?"
"No one knows what's going to happen, Kevin. And frankly, that's why we're going. We could go to Singapore, if you'd like, or Alaska, but where's the fun in that? We head West till we make land, or die trying."
"..."
"You're a might scared, aren't ya?"
"Aye, Captain. A might."
"Well, don't go telling the crew then. Don't want morale to drop because my first-mate got a case of the frights. You understand me?"
"Aye aye, Cap'n."
"Flannery?"
"Yes?"
"Think of the adventure." McTavish's eyes sparked with the light of youth, standing at the bow of the ship, ready for whatever the sea had to throw at him.
And then the weather changed.
They toiled against the ropes, lashing the sail and making fast for a quick run along the islands. Ho'okele, as the ship was called, could maneuver well enough to hold her own, had 12 cannons and a captain that took little from anyone, but demanded all his men had. He stood at the wheel of the ship, looking over his most prized possession -- and the substance of his dreams. Pipe in hand, he nodded to the wheelman and stepped onto the deck.
Captain Jay McTavish was not the ordinary seaman. He was squinty in one eye, this is true, but that is where the similarities between himself and the stereotypes ended. With hair in his face and pockmarked hands, he looked more the impoverished boy of old London than a sailor of fortune. The sun caught him in the face and he pulled his right forearm up as a shield, yelling out for more speed and less jabberjaw from his crew.
His first-mate, Kevin Flannery, was 20 years the captain's elder. He deferred with the knowledge that McTavish was a better captain, let alone a better man. With gray eyes and chin stubble, Flannery stood out among the young men he was mate over. He chewed heaps of tobacco and was prone to spitting over the side, causing streams of black to run along the outer hull of the ship -- eventually forcing crewmen to hang over the end suspended, old toothbrushes in hand to keep the old girl clean.
They moved along at a good clip, slicing through the water and heading West. Flannery had joked earlier that they would all fall off the edge of the map and into the Great Abyss. "As long as I go down at sea," McTavish replied, "I'd be happy indeed." But now, hours past the islands with no sign of slowing, Flannery began to question the realism of his jest. No one had been this far out -- and he didn't want to be the first one to make the trip.
"Captain," he said, standing at McTavish's side.
"Aye."
"Can I speak plainly, sir?"
"Sure. Speak your mind, Kevin. Speak your mind."
"Well sir. Here's the thing. No one's been out this far West before."
"And..."
Flannery looked down at this point, rubbing the stubble along his jawline. "And I don't know what's going to happen, Sir. I mean, where are we going?"
"No one knows what's going to happen, Kevin. And frankly, that's why we're going. We could go to Singapore, if you'd like, or Alaska, but where's the fun in that? We head West till we make land, or die trying."
"..."
"You're a might scared, aren't ya?"
"Aye, Captain. A might."
"Well, don't go telling the crew then. Don't want morale to drop because my first-mate got a case of the frights. You understand me?"
"Aye aye, Cap'n."
"Flannery?"
"Yes?"
"Think of the adventure." McTavish's eyes sparked with the light of youth, standing at the bow of the ship, ready for whatever the sea had to throw at him.
And then the weather changed.
Downpour
This could be a continuation of a story I read on "The Fabian Society" called "Anhedonia."
And then came first rain. The pitter-patter against the elms kept her ears strained in the otherwise quiet of the night. The scent of it rose from the sidewalks, forcing her to throw back the covers and shut the window lest she begin to unravel in happiness. She had been stoic for so long, she could not imagine what this feeling was building within her.
At breakfast, it was still raining. Her cool doll's voice cracked in conversation over the table and the typical "O yes" she would resound was inadequate and somehow lacking. She scraped her plate into the trashcan at the thought and calmly, blankly, walked outside.
She smiled at the downpour as it caressed her head and wet her shoulders, her feet, her nose. The heavens welcomed her back into humanity while she walked on, drenched but unashamed.
And then came first rain. The pitter-patter against the elms kept her ears strained in the otherwise quiet of the night. The scent of it rose from the sidewalks, forcing her to throw back the covers and shut the window lest she begin to unravel in happiness. She had been stoic for so long, she could not imagine what this feeling was building within her.
At breakfast, it was still raining. Her cool doll's voice cracked in conversation over the table and the typical "O yes" she would resound was inadequate and somehow lacking. She scraped her plate into the trashcan at the thought and calmly, blankly, walked outside.
She smiled at the downpour as it caressed her head and wet her shoulders, her feet, her nose. The heavens welcomed her back into humanity while she walked on, drenched but unashamed.
7.02.2008
Dawn Patrol
They sat on the water in full wetsuits, only six feet apart, quiet in the calm of near-morning. The sky was the deep concrete gray before dawn and the lights from the oil rig could still be seen from shore. Alain had gotten up at 4:30 this morning, tossed his board in the pickup and drove the hour down to San Onofre. Jeter was already there to meet him, double-fisting cocoa and leaning against his beat-up corolla. His wetsuit was already half-way on and he wore a tattered sweatshirt over his chest. The cocoa was handed off and both men set to work dressing, pulling out boards, getting leashes ready, applying the last bits of wax.
They stood down near the high tide mark and Alain glanced over his shoulder, his hair whipping toward the sea. The windsock was pointing in a southerly direction.
"Decent off-shore wind today," he said.
"I know, right? The faces should hold up pretty well."
They continued to stand on the brink of eternity, watching the waves, gleaning their pattern and deciphering their code. When the set finished, they put arms in their suits, zipped the backs and plunged in, sliding the boards along the surface of the water. Jeter jumped on top of his board first and started paddling hard with both arms.
"Freaking cold."
"Haha."
Both boys now sat on their boards with hair matted against their scalps, waiting for the next set. It was these times, as much as the actual surfing, that brought them together. Alain put his hands in his armpits and pulled his elbows close to him. Jeter brought his legs up on the board knees nearly to his chest and huddled in anticipation. Both could see their breath.
They didn't need to wait long. As the sky turned purple, the new set arrived. "Incoming," Jeter muttered. He slid to the tail of his board, egg-beatering in the water spinning the behemoth 180 degrees. Alain followed suit in a similar action. They went flat out, beginning the slow paddle that picked up momentum as the wave approached. Adrenaline coursed through them as they were pulled up and away from land. With 2 more heavy strokes, Alain was the first to pop up and stand. "One," he called out.
Jeter cut next to him, smiling hard. It's going to be a great morning, he thought.
They stood down near the high tide mark and Alain glanced over his shoulder, his hair whipping toward the sea. The windsock was pointing in a southerly direction.
"Decent off-shore wind today," he said.
"I know, right? The faces should hold up pretty well."
They continued to stand on the brink of eternity, watching the waves, gleaning their pattern and deciphering their code. When the set finished, they put arms in their suits, zipped the backs and plunged in, sliding the boards along the surface of the water. Jeter jumped on top of his board first and started paddling hard with both arms.
"Freaking cold."
"Haha."
Both boys now sat on their boards with hair matted against their scalps, waiting for the next set. It was these times, as much as the actual surfing, that brought them together. Alain put his hands in his armpits and pulled his elbows close to him. Jeter brought his legs up on the board knees nearly to his chest and huddled in anticipation. Both could see their breath.
They didn't need to wait long. As the sky turned purple, the new set arrived. "Incoming," Jeter muttered. He slid to the tail of his board, egg-beatering in the water spinning the behemoth 180 degrees. Alain followed suit in a similar action. They went flat out, beginning the slow paddle that picked up momentum as the wave approached. Adrenaline coursed through them as they were pulled up and away from land. With 2 more heavy strokes, Alain was the first to pop up and stand. "One," he called out.
Jeter cut next to him, smiling hard. It's going to be a great morning, he thought.
6.27.2008
The Radio Shack Guy
Daniel loved himself very much. Probably too much. Growing up, he had a tendency to get the girl -- until they realized how obsessed he was with running his own hands through his hair. Now, five years after graduation, he worked at the neighborhood Radio Shack as the guy who specialized in making his clients feel weak and uneducated. Every morning before leaving for work, he would stand in front of the mirror and say, "You are somebody. You are a Greek god. You are the stuff legends are made of." He got the idea from a self-help book he had read when he was in high school, but tweaked it just enough to make him believe the words.
To his friends and casual acquaintances, Daniel liked to call the store he worked at "the office." As in: "I had to run down to the office last night. Forgot something important." or "So this guy comes into the office today: total and complete idiot. I had no idea people could be that dumb." He would also call the people that came into the store "large clients," or "small-timers" depending on whether or not they were obese or merely window-shopping. This made the people sound wealthy or inept, thereby forcing Daniel into a role of superiority.
When friends became intrigued at his stories, he would say he was in the "Networking and Technology segment, working for a national corporation." Should any other questions arise as to his profession, he employed smoke and mirror tactics, became unbearable and made the other person feel as though they had betrayed his honor by asking.
In his spare time, Daniel played the latest MMORPG. The down-side was that he wasn't very good, and felt the need to lie about his ranking. As a result, he also spent a lot of time researching everything related to the game so he could sound like he knew what he was talking about. Living on the couch of his mother's one bedroom apartment, he told those he met that he was subletting his home and staying in the guest house as a way to supplement his income.
Daniel was eventually fired from the Shack for, as his boss put it, "being a prick." When he got to the guest house, he picked up his phone to dial a friend and vent a little. He scrolled through his phone book, reading each name, noticing that none of these people had ever called him. He couldn't remember the last time Allison, Andrew or Barack rung him up to let off some steam. He never went to the movies with Casey, Eileen or Fisher. He couldn't even recall who Fisher was. It was then he realized he was friendless, a liar and a git.
For the next 2 years, Daniel cried himself to sleep.
To his friends and casual acquaintances, Daniel liked to call the store he worked at "the office." As in: "I had to run down to the office last night. Forgot something important." or "So this guy comes into the office today: total and complete idiot. I had no idea people could be that dumb." He would also call the people that came into the store "large clients," or "small-timers" depending on whether or not they were obese or merely window-shopping. This made the people sound wealthy or inept, thereby forcing Daniel into a role of superiority.
When friends became intrigued at his stories, he would say he was in the "Networking and Technology segment, working for a national corporation." Should any other questions arise as to his profession, he employed smoke and mirror tactics, became unbearable and made the other person feel as though they had betrayed his honor by asking.
In his spare time, Daniel played the latest MMORPG. The down-side was that he wasn't very good, and felt the need to lie about his ranking. As a result, he also spent a lot of time researching everything related to the game so he could sound like he knew what he was talking about. Living on the couch of his mother's one bedroom apartment, he told those he met that he was subletting his home and staying in the guest house as a way to supplement his income.
Daniel was eventually fired from the Shack for, as his boss put it, "being a prick." When he got to the guest house, he picked up his phone to dial a friend and vent a little. He scrolled through his phone book, reading each name, noticing that none of these people had ever called him. He couldn't remember the last time Allison, Andrew or Barack rung him up to let off some steam. He never went to the movies with Casey, Eileen or Fisher. He couldn't even recall who Fisher was. It was then he realized he was friendless, a liar and a git.
For the next 2 years, Daniel cried himself to sleep.
6.26.2008
The Interview
Now was the time he wished he had a new car. The old Beetle had creaky seat-belts, no air conditioning and a radio that consisted of AJ's whistling over the hum of the motor. But the car had been given to him, free of charge. It was a love/hate relationship.
"Jesus," he thought. "I'm sweating though my shirt. And I never sweat." He had a job interview today -- the first of it's kind. It was the sort of position his folks would be proud of.
Perspiration beaded his brow and the nice-and-neat spikes he took so long on this morning were now anything but "nice-and-neat." He began whistling Darth Vader's entrance music in "A New Hope," his foot heavy on the accelerator. He found his exit and came through the green light at 35 miles an hour.
Then he was broadsided by a truck full of oranges.
"Jesus," he thought. "I'm sweating though my shirt. And I never sweat." He had a job interview today -- the first of it's kind. It was the sort of position his folks would be proud of.
Perspiration beaded his brow and the nice-and-neat spikes he took so long on this morning were now anything but "nice-and-neat." He began whistling Darth Vader's entrance music in "A New Hope," his foot heavy on the accelerator. He found his exit and came through the green light at 35 miles an hour.
Then he was broadsided by a truck full of oranges.
6.25.2008
Rect
Meta series, Part III
He awoke in a limo and dressed in a gray suit. She was humming something old and slow to herself. It became clear that he had been in this sort of stupor before, waking from a similar dilemma just a few hours previous. Upon coming to clarity, he tried the door and found it locked. Resigning himself finally to his fate, he rested against the leather seats and asked no questions. He supposed this wasn't technically Rect's first impression of Mason, though the memory of that whole meeting was more than a little foggy.
They walked into the large, stone tower. Silently, the two ascended 3 flights of stairs landed in a room of glass. No one paid them any mind.
That was nearly an hour ago.
The man in front of him sat tall and proud in his leather-bound, antique chair. He was corpulent, with a black-rimmed monocle, a white-on-white suit and had the hook of a cane hung over the mahogany desk. He drummed his fingers on the surface of the desk continuously.
"I see you made it here safely, Mason."
"And you must be Rect."
"Indeed. Do you know why you're here? Or do you need a bit of a refresher?" Rect laughed heartily then, unexpectantly, and the fat around his eyes bounced grotesquely.
"Um ... yes. Yes. I do need, what did you call it, 'a refresher.'"
The man got up from his desk, hobbled slowly over to within only a foot or two of Mason, and extended his left palm. "I trust your insignia has healed." Mason could see the same logo reflected on Rect's hand as was on his own. The larger man squinted his eyes for just a second and the brand began to glow. Without warning, Rect let out a gasp and his clothes fell to the floor. With a pop, a tiger stood where the man had been moments before.
"No," Mason said. "That can't be real."
The cat prowled around momentarily, yellow eyes fierce in the afternoon sunlight as it shone through the window. Again, it closed its eyes and Rect stood in its place after a moment.
"I am finding it more difficult to shift these days, so you will have to excuse the time it takes. But as you can see, based on that insignia in your hand, you are one of us." Fury gave a quick and dirty smile while Rect stood behind a semi-permanent wall to cover his nakedness.
"One of who? You mean I can shift? Is that what it's called?"
"To answer your latter question, yes. You can shift. It will take time to learn, though. Your genealogy makes it pretty plain, though the first time we found you in form you were very confused and had to be tranquilized to keep calm. Fury has been nursing you."
"And the first question?"
"O yes. Right. We are the Meta."
He awoke in a limo and dressed in a gray suit. She was humming something old and slow to herself. It became clear that he had been in this sort of stupor before, waking from a similar dilemma just a few hours previous. Upon coming to clarity, he tried the door and found it locked. Resigning himself finally to his fate, he rested against the leather seats and asked no questions. He supposed this wasn't technically Rect's first impression of Mason, though the memory of that whole meeting was more than a little foggy.
They walked into the large, stone tower. Silently, the two ascended 3 flights of stairs landed in a room of glass. No one paid them any mind.
That was nearly an hour ago.
The man in front of him sat tall and proud in his leather-bound, antique chair. He was corpulent, with a black-rimmed monocle, a white-on-white suit and had the hook of a cane hung over the mahogany desk. He drummed his fingers on the surface of the desk continuously.
"I see you made it here safely, Mason."
"And you must be Rect."
"Indeed. Do you know why you're here? Or do you need a bit of a refresher?" Rect laughed heartily then, unexpectantly, and the fat around his eyes bounced grotesquely.
"Um ... yes. Yes. I do need, what did you call it, 'a refresher.'"
The man got up from his desk, hobbled slowly over to within only a foot or two of Mason, and extended his left palm. "I trust your insignia has healed." Mason could see the same logo reflected on Rect's hand as was on his own. The larger man squinted his eyes for just a second and the brand began to glow. Without warning, Rect let out a gasp and his clothes fell to the floor. With a pop, a tiger stood where the man had been moments before.
"No," Mason said. "That can't be real."
The cat prowled around momentarily, yellow eyes fierce in the afternoon sunlight as it shone through the window. Again, it closed its eyes and Rect stood in its place after a moment.
"I am finding it more difficult to shift these days, so you will have to excuse the time it takes. But as you can see, based on that insignia in your hand, you are one of us." Fury gave a quick and dirty smile while Rect stood behind a semi-permanent wall to cover his nakedness.
"One of who? You mean I can shift? Is that what it's called?"
"To answer your latter question, yes. You can shift. It will take time to learn, though. Your genealogy makes it pretty plain, though the first time we found you in form you were very confused and had to be tranquilized to keep calm. Fury has been nursing you."
"And the first question?"
"O yes. Right. We are the Meta."
Fury
Meta Series, Part II
When he comprehended her nudity, he turned away, sheepishly eyeing a swatch of discoloration in the shower tile. Then he realized she could see his buttocks through the glass slider and he became fidgety, asking questions and shifting his weight back and forth over his feet.
But she wouldn't tell him much more than he could have figured out on his own. When he asked a question she didn't want to -- or couldn't -- answer, she only remained silent. At last, she said, "We changed your name. We branded you. We welcomed you to 'the team.'"
"What if I don't want to be on 'the team?'"
"Oh, you do. We're sure of that. Positive, in fact." He turned his face to her and she looked strongly into his coal-black eyes, smiling jaggedly. She lifted her left palm to reveal a nearly-exact replica of the brand he carried. His stomach lurched and he shivered under the hot water, looking away.
She stepped into the shower, still smiling when they locked eyes for just a second. He promptly got out and grabbed himself a towel. "So let me get this right," he said through the terry cloth as he ran it quickly through his hair, dripping wet onto the linoleum. "My name is now Mason." The towel found itself wrapped tightly around his waist. He didn't know where to turn, so he walked into the living room, soiling the carpet and yelled from just beyond the doorway.
"Uh-huh"
"What?" He craned his neck toward the opening of the frame, but kept his eyes averted.
"Yes. Come back in here. You can't hear me."
"No," he said. "I'll be fine." Of all the things Mason now was, "fine" was not one of them. He began pacing back and forth over a 5 foot area, tramping down the thick flooring. He bit his nails until they bled. "Your name is ..."
"Fury."
He stopped in his tracks, unbelieving. "Seriously? Fury?"
"Yes. You've hit the nail on the head."
"What was your name before ... this?" He spread his arms wide for emphasis, even if she couldn't see it. His towel slipped just a little and he readjusted quickly.
"What was yours?," she asked.
"Wait, what?"
"Your name. What was it? Before ... this, as you just said." He could hear her smiling through her words. It didn't calm him.
"It was ..." His mind raced for some thought that would bring a name to his lips, but none came. "Dammit, I don't remember!" The panic began to rise in his throat, like sunlight. "Is this some kind of cruel joke? I'm in my apartment, for Chrissakes! How can I not know my own name? Are you a ... a ... mind-wiper?"
"No. Nothing like that." She chuckled and water filled her mouth. She swallowed. "Once you make the Crossing, unnecessary information like the name you carried in your past life vanish. You only keep what you need. Since you have a new name, there is no need for the old one. But I am getting ahead of myself."
"Wait. What do you mean by 'the Crossing?' Why would I want to cross anything? What the hell is going on?" He heard the water turn off and the slider open until it hit the opposite wall with a thud.
"Where are the towels?"
"Uhh... under the sink. Tell me about this 'Crossing.'"
"Not to worry, partner." She rummaged under the sink until she got what she was looking for. He quickly tossed on some pants and shirt, opting for some running shoes behind the door. "Today is the first day of the rest of your life." She came out of the bathroom, hair boltered to her head and her body covered. Mason backed away from her, keeping his distance.
"We have a busy day ahead of us."
"Why do you say that?"
"We're going to see Rect."
"I'm not going anywhere with you." He backed up to a corner, hands raised. She quietly went to her bag and pulled out a small, black gun. "What in the name of hell is that?" His voice cracked over the last syllable.
"Just something to quiet your nerves." She shot him with the tranquilizer gun and all went black.
When he comprehended her nudity, he turned away, sheepishly eyeing a swatch of discoloration in the shower tile. Then he realized she could see his buttocks through the glass slider and he became fidgety, asking questions and shifting his weight back and forth over his feet.
But she wouldn't tell him much more than he could have figured out on his own. When he asked a question she didn't want to -- or couldn't -- answer, she only remained silent. At last, she said, "We changed your name. We branded you. We welcomed you to 'the team.'"
"What if I don't want to be on 'the team?'"
"Oh, you do. We're sure of that. Positive, in fact." He turned his face to her and she looked strongly into his coal-black eyes, smiling jaggedly. She lifted her left palm to reveal a nearly-exact replica of the brand he carried. His stomach lurched and he shivered under the hot water, looking away.
She stepped into the shower, still smiling when they locked eyes for just a second. He promptly got out and grabbed himself a towel. "So let me get this right," he said through the terry cloth as he ran it quickly through his hair, dripping wet onto the linoleum. "My name is now Mason." The towel found itself wrapped tightly around his waist. He didn't know where to turn, so he walked into the living room, soiling the carpet and yelled from just beyond the doorway.
"Uh-huh"
"What?" He craned his neck toward the opening of the frame, but kept his eyes averted.
"Yes. Come back in here. You can't hear me."
"No," he said. "I'll be fine." Of all the things Mason now was, "fine" was not one of them. He began pacing back and forth over a 5 foot area, tramping down the thick flooring. He bit his nails until they bled. "Your name is ..."
"Fury."
He stopped in his tracks, unbelieving. "Seriously? Fury?"
"Yes. You've hit the nail on the head."
"What was your name before ... this?" He spread his arms wide for emphasis, even if she couldn't see it. His towel slipped just a little and he readjusted quickly.
"What was yours?," she asked.
"Wait, what?"
"Your name. What was it? Before ... this, as you just said." He could hear her smiling through her words. It didn't calm him.
"It was ..." His mind raced for some thought that would bring a name to his lips, but none came. "Dammit, I don't remember!" The panic began to rise in his throat, like sunlight. "Is this some kind of cruel joke? I'm in my apartment, for Chrissakes! How can I not know my own name? Are you a ... a ... mind-wiper?"
"No. Nothing like that." She chuckled and water filled her mouth. She swallowed. "Once you make the Crossing, unnecessary information like the name you carried in your past life vanish. You only keep what you need. Since you have a new name, there is no need for the old one. But I am getting ahead of myself."
"Wait. What do you mean by 'the Crossing?' Why would I want to cross anything? What the hell is going on?" He heard the water turn off and the slider open until it hit the opposite wall with a thud.
"Where are the towels?"
"Uhh... under the sink. Tell me about this 'Crossing.'"
"Not to worry, partner." She rummaged under the sink until she got what she was looking for. He quickly tossed on some pants and shirt, opting for some running shoes behind the door. "Today is the first day of the rest of your life." She came out of the bathroom, hair boltered to her head and her body covered. Mason backed away from her, keeping his distance.
"We have a busy day ahead of us."
"Why do you say that?"
"We're going to see Rect."
"I'm not going anywhere with you." He backed up to a corner, hands raised. She quietly went to her bag and pulled out a small, black gun. "What in the name of hell is that?" His voice cracked over the last syllable.
"Just something to quiet your nerves." She shot him with the tranquilizer gun and all went black.
The Scar
Meta Series, Part I
He rolled out of bed a little forlorn and feeling as though he had been run over with a truck. Twice. He stumbled into the bathroom, hand pressed hard against his temple. A clean linen bandage was tied around his left palm. He felt of the long bruise that extended down the right-side of his ribcage and his eyeballs throbbed in agony.
Ugh, he thought. What the hell did I get myself into now?
He took a furtive glance over his shoulder and saw an unfamiliar blond, fast asleep and breathing heavily. Her form made quiet waves under the white bedsheets. There's no way she would be waking any time soon.
He blinked away the sleep in his eyes, entered the bathroom and turned on the shower. Steam began to rise toward the ceiling. Unwrapping his hand, he stared, startled at the revelation: this was no ordinary cut of the palm. This was a brand of some sort -- some burn that had all but healed, leaving scar tissue in the shape of a perfect circle encased inside a diamond. Inside the circle was the letter "M."
This isn't normal, he thought. Confusion began to set in as he washed up, letting the hot water peel away the layers of dead skin and dirt. He couldn't recall the last week. This was his apartment, his shower, his person. But the woman in his bed. The scar. The headache and ringing that began to build in his ears. All foreign.
"Mason," she said as she stepped into the doorway. He didn't notice her disrobing as he jumped at her voice. "You forgot to wake me."
"That isn't my name," he said.
"It is now."
He rolled out of bed a little forlorn and feeling as though he had been run over with a truck. Twice. He stumbled into the bathroom, hand pressed hard against his temple. A clean linen bandage was tied around his left palm. He felt of the long bruise that extended down the right-side of his ribcage and his eyeballs throbbed in agony.
Ugh, he thought. What the hell did I get myself into now?
He took a furtive glance over his shoulder and saw an unfamiliar blond, fast asleep and breathing heavily. Her form made quiet waves under the white bedsheets. There's no way she would be waking any time soon.
He blinked away the sleep in his eyes, entered the bathroom and turned on the shower. Steam began to rise toward the ceiling. Unwrapping his hand, he stared, startled at the revelation: this was no ordinary cut of the palm. This was a brand of some sort -- some burn that had all but healed, leaving scar tissue in the shape of a perfect circle encased inside a diamond. Inside the circle was the letter "M."
This isn't normal, he thought. Confusion began to set in as he washed up, letting the hot water peel away the layers of dead skin and dirt. He couldn't recall the last week. This was his apartment, his shower, his person. But the woman in his bed. The scar. The headache and ringing that began to build in his ears. All foreign.
"Mason," she said as she stepped into the doorway. He didn't notice her disrobing as he jumped at her voice. "You forgot to wake me."
"That isn't my name," he said.
"It is now."
Hurt
Sometimes I forget how good songs are until they are spun again. Here is Johnny Cash's last video, "Hurt" -- a Nine Inch Nails cover.
6.24.2008
Yay speeding! Boo tickets!
So, I got 2 speeding tickets in one week. In one road-trip, actually. I can't say I blame the cops for pulling me over. I mean, I WAS indeed speeding. However, one of the cops was a REALLY nice guy -- he even asked me to think about becoming a member of the CHP -- while the other was just, well, a jerk. Really, I just found it ironic that I can speed in the city where there are tons of cars, but not in the country, where it is really safer to travel at such speed -- nothing to wreck except you, your car and maybe a picket fence. O well. Guess I've learned my lesson.
6.09.2008
Pop-Culture Christianity
Ugh. Where to start? I hate the fact that the Gospel is being repackaged to "fit" a generation of teens and 20-somethings. Christianity isn't something designed to be "cool" and it shouldn't have to fit into the pop-culture box in order to be accepted. Either one of two things should happen: God impresses Himself on the heart of an unbeliever so that the man submits his life to that of Christ and His kingdom; or He does not do so and the man is abandoned to the judgment that is destined him. Harsh, I know, but that is reality.
I do not think that there is something we can do to make Christianity look better. Eating grapes in a New-Age fashion instead of drinking juice at Communion, using modern metaphors BECAUSE we think the metaphors of the Bible are "out-of-date" (someone really said that), or using our HUGE trucks plastered with NOTW as a religious advertisement are all examples of "cooling up" our religion.
The God of the Gospel is the same yesterday, today and forever and no amount of effort on our part will change the way God operates with His people.
Hear me out: I am not saying we should give up electricity, let the sinners die where they fall, or become Bible-thumping corner hooligans. Not at all. I AM saying that we should focus on our own spirituality, not on the outward extravagances that make up the person we would like the world to think we are; we should clean up the reputation of our churches, our pastors, our ministers -- not by making them more "acceptable" to the outside world, but by keeping them accountable for their own holiness.
What I have noticed happening at times is that the message is being tweaked so more butts are in pews. "God is Love," while true, is not wholly-correct if not taught that He is also a jealous, righteous and angry God. We ignore the parts we don't like -- and even tweak the parts we do -- in order to make Truth look more appealing.
We are to be ministers, missionaries, pastors, etc. -- not truth-benders. I will not sacrifice the kernel of veritas that has been given me so that I can make God look cooler.
I do not think that there is something we can do to make Christianity look better. Eating grapes in a New-Age fashion instead of drinking juice at Communion, using modern metaphors BECAUSE we think the metaphors of the Bible are "out-of-date" (someone really said that), or using our HUGE trucks plastered with NOTW as a religious advertisement are all examples of "cooling up" our religion.
The God of the Gospel is the same yesterday, today and forever and no amount of effort on our part will change the way God operates with His people.
Hear me out: I am not saying we should give up electricity, let the sinners die where they fall, or become Bible-thumping corner hooligans. Not at all. I AM saying that we should focus on our own spirituality, not on the outward extravagances that make up the person we would like the world to think we are; we should clean up the reputation of our churches, our pastors, our ministers -- not by making them more "acceptable" to the outside world, but by keeping them accountable for their own holiness.
What I have noticed happening at times is that the message is being tweaked so more butts are in pews. "God is Love," while true, is not wholly-correct if not taught that He is also a jealous, righteous and angry God. We ignore the parts we don't like -- and even tweak the parts we do -- in order to make Truth look more appealing.
We are to be ministers, missionaries, pastors, etc. -- not truth-benders. I will not sacrifice the kernel of veritas that has been given me so that I can make God look cooler.
5.28.2008
5.19.2008
Sonnet XII
Not newly written, but worth a post, I think.
O Lovely, do not weep for me –
your salty tears will do nothing
for this poor boy’s heart and
you’ll build up only a well to
die in. This absence will not
be too long, my glorious girl,
and the miles will build
an intimacy like winter. I will
go, always facing the enemy,
heart always held in your
baker’s hands and glowing.
Fly the flag of our deep affection
over the fortifications in your soul
and tell them of our deep resolve.
Destroying/Building Never Felt So Good
I have no apologies for my lack of writing. I have had little to say. With that, we move onward...
This past weekend, I got a chance to do some ministry with CA. It was called Urban Plunge, we worked with Youth With A Mission (YWAM) and delved into the inner-city. Some people called it a missions trip, though there was little missions work done; it was called an outreach, though that doesn't seem to apply, either. In all honesty, it was more like ministry to those already doing the missions work full-time -- I would definitely call it inreach more than outreach.
That said, on Saturday we woke early and got out to the Pico/Union district in LA. I got to demolish plaster in a building erected in the 20s -- I mean all walls and ceiling in 2 rooms. By the time I was finished, i was covered in white from head to foot, happy as a clam and sore -- very sore. While there, I made a friend in Lukas -- a guy a couple of years older than me, and with a mind for construction (also like me.) We pulled out plaster, chicken wire and floor molding. Az did a great job in helping and getting her hands dirty -- I was very proud.
Next day, arose early again and cruised out to First Evangelical Free Church. There, our team covered multiple projects in a place called The Nehemiah House. -- It is used as a shelter for young adults, a home for the worship pastor and all around cool commune of people. The house was built in 1895 and it shows. Not only is the architecture beautiful, it is in a state of dilapidation and needs repair.
Lukas and I were given the task of drywalling a basement wall. We pulled all posters, shelving, etc. off of it, tore down the old fiberboard construction and erected a new wall made of sheetrock. It took all day, but Az helped with the mudding and taping. All said, it was about 288 square feet, minus the doorframe. We placed the new electrical behind the wall, and cut in slots for the water piping to come through. It was very productive.
Anway, erecting things like that is something I greatly enjoy. 1 Thes. 4:11 makes it a point to tell us to lead a quiet life and to work with our hands. In destroying something of no use, or of danger, and in creating something of beauty and utility in its place, I feel as though this is how things are supposed to be. We are supposed to be doing these things all of the time. So, Lukas and I are going to go back to First EV Free and help out some more. We don't have details yet, but it should be good.
Honestly, I just enjoy working with my hands. I am not writing about my experience to brag, but to get it out. Working like that gives me time to ponder the eternal -- I think a lot about God, Christ and His godhead, and His ability to construct something beautiful from the damned. Its funny, but it puts things into perspective -- in placement of a sinner, God has erected a saint. The metaphor is imperfect, but it is one that stays with me.
This past weekend, I got a chance to do some ministry with CA. It was called Urban Plunge, we worked with Youth With A Mission (YWAM) and delved into the inner-city. Some people called it a missions trip, though there was little missions work done; it was called an outreach, though that doesn't seem to apply, either. In all honesty, it was more like ministry to those already doing the missions work full-time -- I would definitely call it inreach more than outreach.
That said, on Saturday we woke early and got out to the Pico/Union district in LA. I got to demolish plaster in a building erected in the 20s -- I mean all walls and ceiling in 2 rooms. By the time I was finished, i was covered in white from head to foot, happy as a clam and sore -- very sore. While there, I made a friend in Lukas -- a guy a couple of years older than me, and with a mind for construction (also like me.) We pulled out plaster, chicken wire and floor molding. Az did a great job in helping and getting her hands dirty -- I was very proud.
Next day, arose early again and cruised out to First Evangelical Free Church. There, our team covered multiple projects in a place called The Nehemiah House. -- It is used as a shelter for young adults, a home for the worship pastor and all around cool commune of people. The house was built in 1895 and it shows. Not only is the architecture beautiful, it is in a state of dilapidation and needs repair.
Lukas and I were given the task of drywalling a basement wall. We pulled all posters, shelving, etc. off of it, tore down the old fiberboard construction and erected a new wall made of sheetrock. It took all day, but Az helped with the mudding and taping. All said, it was about 288 square feet, minus the doorframe. We placed the new electrical behind the wall, and cut in slots for the water piping to come through. It was very productive.
Anway, erecting things like that is something I greatly enjoy. 1 Thes. 4:11 makes it a point to tell us to lead a quiet life and to work with our hands. In destroying something of no use, or of danger, and in creating something of beauty and utility in its place, I feel as though this is how things are supposed to be. We are supposed to be doing these things all of the time. So, Lukas and I are going to go back to First EV Free and help out some more. We don't have details yet, but it should be good.
Honestly, I just enjoy working with my hands. I am not writing about my experience to brag, but to get it out. Working like that gives me time to ponder the eternal -- I think a lot about God, Christ and His godhead, and His ability to construct something beautiful from the damned. Its funny, but it puts things into perspective -- in placement of a sinner, God has erected a saint. The metaphor is imperfect, but it is one that stays with me.
1.24.2008
Such an American
We as Americans work more than anyone else on the planet. We are workaholics. I feel like I am beginning to "fit right in" to my own culture -- I have gotten a second job.
On top of my 40 hour a week position at Prime, I am also throwing freight and driving a truck for a courier service at night, M-Thursday. Here is my schedule:
0830am -- Wake up
930 -- Leave for Prime
1030 -- Begin working
0300pm -- lunch!
0700 -- Get off work and drive home
0800 -- Get home; nap until 0820
0830 -- Leave for work
0900 -- Begin working
0330am -- Get off work
0400 -- Go to sleep
All of this to say, please pray for me. I don't want to burn out, but I need to pay bills and make ends meet. I went to my primary boss yesterday and asked for a raise. He is working on it.
On top of my 40 hour a week position at Prime, I am also throwing freight and driving a truck for a courier service at night, M-Thursday. Here is my schedule:
0830am -- Wake up
930 -- Leave for Prime
1030 -- Begin working
0300pm -- lunch!
0700 -- Get off work and drive home
0800 -- Get home; nap until 0820
0830 -- Leave for work
0900 -- Begin working
0330am -- Get off work
0400 -- Go to sleep
All of this to say, please pray for me. I don't want to burn out, but I need to pay bills and make ends meet. I went to my primary boss yesterday and asked for a raise. He is working on it.
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