Quick & Dirty

New Story Installment 2: Untitled 2007

2007-09-28T22:38:00.000-07:00

What I say: Here's the second installment of my untitled story. This is a bit more...depressing than the last one. I do know where I want to take it and this is a little shorter than the last installment, but I like it. Lemme know if you like it.

It was extremely rare for the alarm clock to wake Vanessa up in the morning. It was usually her son crying, her husband waking her up, the phone, the couple next door enjoying their morning traditions, the doorbell bringing the ranting of an angry neighbor that does not understand that babies make noise and no one understands this better than her and yes, sir of course she will do what she can but she can’t muzzle the baby and no, sir of course I respect your right to live next door and of course, sir, would you like to come in for coffee. But today it was the alarm. The singularity of the event was not lost on Vanessa, who let it ring six or seven times before she smashed the sleep button with her fingertips. Her fingers crawled over to the switch to keep the alarm off, flicking it to the right, letting her arm fall off the side of the nightstand. She buried her face in the pillow, hoping she’d raise her head and the events of last night would simply have never happened. She didn’t have time to raise her head before the phone rang. She slammed her hand along the nightstand twice in an attempt to find her cellphone, grasping it with her third strike. She flipped it open and held it against her ear, rolling to the side. “You almost beat the alarm,” she mumbled in to the speaker.

“I’ll have to be faster next time,” the voice on the phone said. “You said you’d call when you woke up. You’re awake. You didn’t call.”

“If it makes you feel better, the six or so seconds between my alarm clock going off and the phone ringing were dominated by thoughts of calling you.” Vanessa got up and stumbled toward the bathroom. “I need to brush my teeth.”

”I agree.”

“No, I mean, you’ve checked up, I appreciate it, I need to hang up now.”

“Hm…no. Brush your teeth, get dressed, take care of the baby. I’m coming over in a bit.” The speaker clicked with the sound of a phone being shut.

“Hey, wait! I didn’t…fuck,” Vanessa sighed. She put the phone down and placed her hands on the counter, leaning forward. The sink creaked under the pressure of her palms pushing down on it, the sound making her realize how much force she was unwittingly applying to the porcelain countertop. She looked in the mirror for the first time since she talked to her husband the night before. Her sight traveled up the reflection her body, unsatisfied with anything she saw, catching her own eyes between tufts of her hair. They were red, watery, scary, the kind of eyes you look away from. Vanessa followed her instincts and performed her morning duties without looking back in the mirror’s eyes. She checked on her son, being careful not to wake him while checking on the baby monitor. Her paranoia about the batteries inside the device was enabled by her husband endlessly, to the point where he’d leave spare batteries around the house just to keep her from worrying.

She missed Michael.

The hallway door was open slightly, just enough not to notice it unless you were looking right at it. Vanessa sidled against it and pushed the door closed with her back, the doorknob clicking so loudly she could feel the sound in her body. She didn’t have time to dwell on the feeling before she heard the front door open. Optimism overtook Vanessa as she rounded the corner of the hallway, expecting to see her husband walk in with the backpack on his shoulder. Her fantasy did not become a reality. “I forgot I gave you a key.”

“Yeah, that’ll happen,” said the blonde woman at the door, closing it behind her, stumbling a bit getting through. She was tall, much taller than Vanessa, but with the appearance of being far less delicate. Her hair hung down, wrapped around with a rubber band and placed over her shoulder, sitting alongside a college sweatshirt with the letters “USC” written proudly on the front. She grabbed the frame and swung herself inside the apartment, shaking her head and blinking to shake the wooziness off. The taller woman turned her focus to Vanessa. “You look like hell,” she said.

“I wonder why,” Vanessa mumbled, clearly annoyed with the other woman’s presence. “And shut up, you’ll wake the baby.”

“He’s smarter than you.” She paused. “The baby, I mean. He knows how to get a good night’s sleep, Ven.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Ven?"

”Yes, Linda. Don’t call me that.” Vanessa turned her back to her friend and walked toward the kitchen. “No one calls me that.”

“No one but Michael,” Linda mumbled under her breath. She followed Vanessa through the door, unconsciously matching paces with her. She pulled a chair out from underneath the covered table, scraping the legs against the floor, and planted herself against the back. “Does anyone else know yet?”

Vanessa shook her head and poured a bag in to the coffee maker. “No. Maybe. I only told you, but I’m not the only one involved, so…” she trailed off, pushing down a button or two on the machine. “Do you want some?”

”No, thanks.”

“I don’t want any, either,” Vanessa sighed. “But I’m making it. I don’t want any, but I’m fucking making it.” She turned the coffee machine off.

“That’ll happ—“

“I swear to God, if you say ‘That’ll happen’ one more time, I will kick you out of this apartment right this second.” Vanessa didn’t turn to look at Linda, unsure herself if she was merely joking.

“So, when you said you’re okay, you were, like…lying? Joking? Denial? Help me out here, because the only thing I know is that you’re not really handling this well.” Linda got up from her chair, tugging at the table cloth a bit to stabilize.

Vanessa turned around. “Jesus, are you drunk already?” She grabbed Linda by her shirt and pulled her face close. The two stayed quiet for a moment, until Vanessa piped up. “It’s not even nine in the morning. What the fuck is wrong with you?” Vanessa raised her hand and extended her fingers.

Linda spoke and closed her eyes. “Heh. So this is how you treat me? I come over here to check on you and this is what you do?” A subtle grin appears on her face. “The parallels are a little creepy, you know. Mom held me like this the first time I came home drunk, too.”

Vanessa clutched her sister’s shirt tighter. “Shut up.”

“You’re becoming like her, same as when dad left. Just like dad and just like Michael.”

“Shut up!”

The thud against the wall made a powerful sound, amplified by the silence of the apartment. The baby’s cry pierced through the apartment, his sleep broken by the raucous spectacle outside his room. Vanessa picked herself up off the ground and washed her face in the sink, preparing for neighbor that will soon be rushing to her door.

New Story Installment: Untitled 2007

2007-09-23T13:14:00.000-07:00

What they say: I should really get rid of this part for non-writing exercises, shouldn't I?

What I say: This was originally intended to be about five times longer and I had a Point A and Point Z mapped out in my mind, but couldn't bridge the two together well. I figure I'll just post this up as a first installment and if I can work my way out of it (which I probably will, inspiration tends to come randomly), I'll add more in future posts.

Four in the morning proved not to be the best time to catch a Greyhound in the city. Michael flipped open his cellphone, keeping it close to his body so the rim of his baseball cap blocked any rain from hitting the screen. “No new messages,” he mouthed to himself. Michael leaned back against the cold and increasingly uncomfortable steel bench. A young lady came to sit beside him, ticket in hand and a checkered red-and-white cardboard tray in the other. The food was soaked, water dripping off the fries and the paper napkin turning a dark brown on the bottom. Despite this, the girl hungrily devoured the soggy food in front of her. “I guess when you’re waiting for a bus out of the city in the middle of the night,” Michael thought, “you’ve long since moved past the need for dry food.” He paused.

Out of the city?

He hadn’t put the words in that order before. It had already been twelve hours since he left home and this was the first time he’s really thought about where he’s going. He looked at the girl and smiled. She was black, her hair down past her shoulders as if far more work had been put it in to it than necessary for catching a bus. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen or seventeen, less than half of Michael’s age. Being around young people made him nervous. Between every like-you-know and o-m-g, he could feel the full force of his thirty seven years alive crush his spirit. The young girl noticed Michael staring and crooked her neck, silently asking what the hell he thinks he’s looking at. “I--uh, sorry,” Michael mumbled, grabbing his guitar case and clutching the handle.

She furrowed her brow and cleared her throat, putting the last fry from her tray in to her mouth before turning the other way. “You have a way with women, huh?” she asked, not looking at Michael. “I don’t think there are going to be that many other people here. You might as well introduce yourself, old man.”

He looked back at her. “Kind of blunt, aren’t you?” Michael said. She turned back and faced him, giving him a look that made him look like he was at fault. Michael almost apologized before catching himself. There was a bit of paranoia taking the reigns in his head, wondering why this girl wanted to know who he was. Surely there’s some sort of protocol of anonymity for late night bus stops. The silence was going on a little long and it was becoming obvious she wasn’t going to answer his admittedly rhetorical question. “Name’s Mike. And you are?”

“Bored.”

“Thanks,” he replied semi-sarcastically.

“Not with you. Well, yeah, with you, too. But with this city. You wanted to know why I was here, right? I can see it, I’m not dumb. That’s why. I’m bored,” she chatted. She didn’t take a breath between sentences, as if the information had to come out of her before she exploded. She finally stopped and inhaled, belting out again “I’m bored of this bus stop, I’m bored of my friends, my family. I’m bored of school and the teachers that think that same boredom makes you smart.” She unzipped her purse and started fuddling through it, not looking for anything in particular but wanting to look busy. “I want to go somewhere exciting, somewhere that you can be a different person every day. I’m sick of being the fourth name on the roster in every class, I’m sick of always being introduced as the youngest daughter. I have an identity separate from other people, I don’t always need to be defined by how I relate to someone else.” She closed her purse up and put it on the bench. “I’m bored with all of it,” she punctuated.

“So, you’re bored,” Michael interrupted, putting his hand up in front of him. “That’s great. It’s also a stupid reason to be here.” The rain was picking up, the thunder providing a brief respite from the awkward silence.

“Who the fuck do—“

“Yeah, yeah. I don’t know you. I’ve never met you. As far as I know, you have great reasons to leave town.” He stopped, waiting for a response and she knew it. “Remind me to bring you to my next poker game as a ringer,” he digressed. “You say you’re bored. You say it over and over. Is that really a good reason to leave everything you know?”

“It’s my choice,” she said defiantly. “I want to find something new, if I want to pursue my dreams, I can go somewhere to make that possible. What do you know about it?” She stomped her foot on the ground, not even realizing she was doing it. This wasn’t a pleasant little conversation anymore. She was visibly upset by someone questioning her, whether it be someone she’s known her whole life or a complete stranger. “Well, tell me! What does an old man like you know?”

“I’m not that old,” he sighed. “I know a lot more than you’d think, like how to mix drinks perfectly and how to get inside the house without waking up the baby. I know this,” he said, holding up his guitar case, “and I know what it’s like to leave to pursue a dream.” He looked down at the ground and smiled. “What are you today? A photographer? And tomorrow you’ll probably be an artist. And the day after that, you might decide you really want to get in to music.” He looked back up at her. “That’s when you realize you’re not bored anymore. In fact, your life is too hectic and all you want to do is settle down. The people you left behind because you were bored might just be the only thing you need.”

“Idealistic bullshit,” she stated immediately.

“Yeah,” Michael replied. “But that’s what dreams are.”

The bus pulled up a few minutes later and the driver stepped out to check tickets. “Just one passenger tonight, huh?” the driver said.

“Seems so. It’s pretty boring waiting here,” Michael said.

The hours passed by in the bus as Michael fought off sleep. He knew the driver would wake him up when they reached their destination, but he was afraid the worst case scenario where he would fall asleep and wake up in Albuquerque. “Hey,” he said to the driver. “You ever watch those old Bugs Bunny cartoons?”

The driver shrugged.

Michael followed through, anyway. “There’s one in particular. Bugs Bunny starts tunneling and ends up in Germany during the second World War.” He smiled. “When he realizes where he is, he says he must have taken a wrong turn at Albuquerque. I wasn’t alive when it first aired, but I watched it on TV as a kid. I didn’t even know where that place was. I thought it was made up. I found out in high school it was real.” Michael realized the driver was doing his best to ignore him. “Tch. Guess you had to see it.” He leaned back in his chair, pulling his hat down, and drifted off to sleep.

“Wake up, we’re here.”

Michael was unused to being woken up by such a gruff voice. He pulled his hat off and got to his feet, fumbling for his baggage claim ticket, which seemed patently absurd when he was the only passenger on the bus. The driver took his ticket and gave it the once-over for no apparent reason. Michael grabbed his bags and walked toward the sidewalk, waving at the driver getting back on the bus. “Don’t take any wrong turns in Albuquerque,” Michael said. The bus driver responded by closing the door.

New story: Moselle

2007-06-27T14:51:00.000-07:00

What they say: Absolutely nothing. This is not a writing exercise, it was just a story I wanted to write.

What I say: I really enjoyed writing this story. It's a bit (a lot) on the long side, but it's the first time I've really felt I've completed a story in a long time. I encourage you to read all of it.

They say the devil is in the details, a phrase which is often used to emphasize how important it is to know the whole story and not just its general outlines. It always seemed like an odd phrase to me, like it's implying something sinister is waiting for you if you dig deeper. I can't say I ever pondered the line much, I made my judgement on it when I first heard it and have applied the same negativity since. It's unfortunate that this is the way the gears in my head turn, as I've never been able to dissociate something from the judgement I once made on it. This sometimes works in the favor of other people, as it's very difficult for any man to get on my bad side once I've developed feelings for him. This personality "quirk", as it were, often works out as badly for me as it does for the segment of the population that happen to know me.

This, perhaps, is why I initially refused to believe the stories in my father's journal. I chose to stick my nose up in the air and proclaim them fiction, using my entire being to express my distaste for anyone who dared argue. We had found it in the attic shortly after dad's death. My older sister, Marcy, wanted something to keep with her to remind her of our father as she went away to college. The things she could have taken with her, like his coat or his hat, were apparently not memorable enough. She insisted, at length, that we all find something that only dad owned, something that he would want his daughter to have. Marcy's intention, at which I'm only guessing, was probably to get us to reminisce about him as we looked through his belongings as a family. The unfortunate reality was that we weren't done grieving and her demands on our time only caused more suffering. In her defense, she was not very perceptive about this sort of thing and could not have forseen how much worse it would get.

We found the journal inside a cardboard box which had the name of a popular cereal brand plastered on the side. Dad would frequently ask the people at the grocery store if they had any boxes they wanted to give away. It seems like such an odd request now, but back then it was perfectly normal to us. He didn't use the boxes for anything but storage and occasionally transportation, but it still seems weird to hold such valuable things in frail hand-me-down boxes. The journal itself was covered in dust, it looked like it hadn't been opened in years even before dad passed away. Lifting it up, my thumb print was clearly visible in the thick layer of dust that lined the front of the book. The cover was hard plastic, but with a dark red fabric sheathing. My mother's face grew pale as soon as she saw what I was holding. She never did try to stop us from opening the book. Maybe she was stunned in to silence, the memories of what she knew flooding back to the forefront of her mind. Marcy and I talked about it almost a year later, coming to the consensus that maybe she was silently praying that we wouldn't read what's inside. Mom herself went on to survive dad by a good year or so, despite choosing to sever ties with us. It was Marcy's guess that she was ashamed of how she handled the whole thing, not just the stories in dad's journal, but our lives after we discovered it. She died a year later, as well. At her request, her grave stone read "Here lies Anna, she will always be a star to her beloved."

The journal itself did not read like a day to day log of someone's life, but rather like a series of confessions. In it were lurid details of a man's life before he settled down. Several entries were just women's names with ratings beside them, others extended far beyond the realm of creepy in to monologues of deceit, con-artistry, and sadistic venom. The words "they're so stupid," were sprinkled here and there at a frequency of at least one every other page. Nothing he wrote was particularly violent, but the thought crossed my mind that it's possible he simply showed restraint when writing about those things. What struck me the most was the complete lack of remorse or shame contained within the journal. The words were boastful, bragging about how he would rob old ladies of their money, either by force or by charm. To his credit, what little there was to be had, he did seem to prefer to use charm, but it was by no means a deal-breaker.

The journal ends about two hundred pages in, leaving another hundred after it blank. The last ten pages were all related and could, if one were to take them out of context, be considered the makings of a spectacular novel. It was far from the worst thing dad had claimed to have done in that journal, but something about it was strangely compelling to me. He told the tale of a small town in Mississippi called Moselle. He described it as barren, but used words that made it seem almost like a wistful scorn. "It was a dozen miles of green," he wrote, "the only thing that could make this town worse is me." He appeared in Moselle with a briefcase and a typewriter underneath his arm, claiming to be Anthony Walker, a writer from New York City. The plan, it seems, was to convince the town to invest in an idea of his. Unfortunately, he never went in to much detail about how he planned to do this, nor what the idea actually was. For that matter, much of the story was incomplete, ending with the words "I've taken all I've can, but now it is time to give." They were viciously cryptic, tearing the closure away that I needed. It did not bother Marcy much, she preferred to remember dad as the father he was, not before that. In a fit of anger once, I accused her of being in denial and still the same lost little girl she's always been. I immediately felt bad, not because I didn't believe it, but I didn't feel it was appropriate to actually say. That is when I last saw Marcy, both of us agreeing to go our separate ways. She knew where I was going, anyway, and could follow if she so desired. Two years after I had originally found the journal, I decided I had to find out what actually happened in Moselle.

There are no paved roads leading to the town. While the town itself was far from ancient, it was not exactly modern, either. The only path I could find was made primarily of dirt, made soft by fairly recent rain. The signs read "Welcome to Moselle - Be prepared to use your feet!" The sign was meant to be cute, invoking a sense of nostalgia for people who appreciated traversing mainly in pedestrian areas, but it seemed rather unsettling to me. The actual town was about a mile south of the sign, down a big green hill. There was a restaurant nearby with a near-empty parking lot where I parked my car. I stood at the top of the hill, looking through the same eyes my father did when he was here. It was green, there was no debating that. A yellow elementary school could be seen clearly from the hill, clashing slightly with the red brick church beside it. The town was small, the bulk of it mostly being farmland. Tourism, I was betting, was not a big industry here. I locked my car and walked down the hill, my back extended straight up and my feet rapidly getting ahead of my body. I nearly tumbled in to town, my confidence in my ability to walk on slopes greatly diminished. The very first thing that struck me about the town was how incredibly empty it was. Despite the presumably small population, it should have been a lot busier mid-afternoon. The restaurants were empty with the chairs stacked up over the tables, the only place in my immediate vision I could see that was manned was a small candy kiosk, baking in the heat. The old man running it was wearing a candy-striped vest and straw hat, his dark-rimmed glasses matching the color of his slacks perfectly. He was as good a person as any to ask.

"Do you know an Anthony Walker?" I asked. It occurred to me that I had not even bothered to introduce myself, letting my curiosity take over whatever tact I may have once possessed.

The old man folded his arms, shook his head, and began to apologize for not knowing. "Well, can't say that I do. But you might try--" he stopped. "Tony Walker, you say?"

I nodded and smiled that fake smile I use in place of conversation.

He bit his upper lip and looked at me harder, as if trying to read something tattooed on my skin. "You know what you should do, you should go talk to the mayor." He spit something out on the ground, presumably candy, but I certainly wasn't going to investigate further. His grandfather-like vibes began to feel almost menacing, like he was growing annoyed with my presence in the town. I didn't doubt he was trying to help me, but I got the feeling he certainly did not want to. "You a reporter?" he asked, in the same way a cop might ask someone if they've been drinking. "We don't have many reporters here, don't want them anywhere near here, matter of fact." My instincts told me to back away slowly, but I never listen to my instincts.

"Why don't you like reporters?" I inquired. "It seems like tourism would be good for this place. It doesn't look like a lot is really going--" I bit my tongue. Far be it for me to badmouth a town I'm looking for answers from. I could feel his eyes narrow before I even finished the sentence, indicating whatever damage I've done was already out there.

"Young lady, this may not be whatever big state you're from," he chided as I fought the urge to tell him I'm from Idaho. "But we like what we have here. We're not stupid just because we're not busy." He looked like he was going to spit again before I interjected.

"I agree, you're right. I'll just go see the mayor now." I acted purposefully ditzy as I escaped his view, hoping to keep from looking snide. The direction of the mayor's office was not hard to find; incredibly, it was his home, a small apartment building in the middle of the town. The apartment complex looked familar, strangely so, familiar enough that I had to step back and take a picture of it. Showing it to my friends later, we discovered that it bore a striking resembalance to the Lorraine Hotel. We were unsure if this was a strange coincidence or a strange attempt at subtle racism, but neither one would be unlikely in Moselle. The mayor's apartment was on the first floor, with a plaque that read his title on the outside. People, presumably young people, defaced the plaque with amusing captions. "Mayor of Toilet-Town" was my favorite, if not a bit simple.

I knocked on the door, at first getting no answer, then knocking again and getting startled by a gruff "WHO IS IT?" I immediately felt embarassed for knocking while he replied. The door did not wait for my answer to pass through it as it swung open, revealing two men. On the left was a very old man, dressed in a black suit and red tie. His big, thick moustache and white hair betrayed the young, successful image his clothes attempted to portray. Sitting beside him at the only desk in the room was a younger man that looked far less sophisticated. His balding head was perhaps the best looking thing about him, which is not meant as a compliment. In sharp contrast to the older gentleman, he was wearing simply a tanktop and jeans, and I could did the best I could to keep from gagging at the sight of him, his flesh pouring out of his shirt at every seam. This was not just an unattractive man, this was an unattractive man who was not capable of cleaning himself up. The older man softly questioned "And who might you be, young lady?" It was immediately obvious that he was not the one who just yelled through the door.

I brushed my hair back back behind my right ear and smiled. "Hi, I was wondering if you could tell me about someone. The old man at that candy stand..." I gestured with my thumbs pointing behind me.

"That's an odd name," the fat one said, thinking he was being funny. "Isn't that right, pops?" My ears perked. These two were related? They're absolutely nothing alike! My suspicions of their differences were confirmed as the father shot the son a hard glare. If looks could kill, I thought, then I'd be one hell of a murder witness. The son stammered, grabbing a small handheld fan and turning it on. I was glad not to be downwind of that.

I ignored him and continued talking. "Right, well, the old man at the candy stand mentioned I should come to you. Can you tell me anything about a man named Anthony Walker?" Their eyes both lit up. I knew they recognized the name, but for whatever reason, I continued to explain. "I had heard about him in relation to this town. I came to...well, I wanted to know the whole story." For the second time in my entire half an hour in Moselle, I felt the angry glares of its citizens.

"Why don't you ask him yourself, if you're so familiar with him? We want nothing to do with that man!" The older fellow stood up. The son, faking the same indignation, quickly imitated his father as a monkey might do with his master. The old man played the part of the organ grinder well, yelling and screaming while the other one pounded the desk to accentuate the moment. I waited about twenty seconds before I put my finger in the air to interject.

"I can't ask him. He's dead. I came to find out what he did here." I crossed my legs and leaned forward. "Look, it's obvious you two know something, so why not just tell me? I'm not looking to glamorize the man, I simply came here out of curiosity." I felt the son's eyes leering at me. He was easily a man over thirty years old and he was staring at me with silently expressed ideas that I wouldn't consider even if there were no age difference. His creepy intentions, however, did end up working out for me. In a misguided attempt to impress me, he began talking.

"Anthony Walker, right?" he said, raising his eyebrows as if he were dangling a golden carrot in front of me. "I can tell you about him. I was only a kid at the time, but everyone knew who he was." He stuck his hand out to shake mine. "I'm Jake, by the way." I saw no immediate harm in telling him my name, especially if he is choosing to be polite about it.

"Andrea," I replied. I didn't know how much they knew about my father, including his real name - at least, the name he used with us - and didn't want to take any unnecessary risks. The less they knew about me, the better.

"Pleasure to meet you, my dear." He bowed in his seat like a movie cliche, somehow convinced this would be a sort of selling point for me. "Anyway, you needed to know about Mr. Walker, right?" Looking around, I had just noticed his father stealthily left the room during his attempts at courtship. My opinion of him raised a little bit more. "Yeah, he got this town good." He paused, waiting for me to ask for an explanation. It was clear I wasn't so easy to manipulate, so he continued on. "Had to have been...a little less than thirty years, I guess. Yeah, that sounds right. Walker comes in here and says he's heard about Moselle from a friend and wants to write a book about us. People here had never heard of such a thing."

Dad's mention of the typerwriter under his arm in the journal suddenly became a lot more sensical.

Jake lit a ciggerette and continued. "Yeah, we set him up with an apartment and all that stuff. I was playing on the street when he first came in. All the shop owners waved hello to the newcomer and he'd just look at them and nod. Wasn't much used to people being friendly, I guessed." He puffed, making a show of it. Once, twice, and a third time, drawing it out to get me to bum a smoke off him. I just waved my hand and shook my head, insisting I quit years ago. I never started in reality, but I figured such a story would do little to deter this man. "He came right up to the pops' office and said he's writing a book and he needs the full town's cooperation."

I asked him to pause. "Why did he want to talk to your father?"

"Pops was the mayor back then. Yep, everyone loved him. In turn, he loved everyone. He'd give a home to anyone that asked, as long as they promised to be productive people here. They were always so moved by pops' kind heart, they'd do whatever it took to make Moselle the place pops always dreamed it could be. Constant visitors, big tourism, maybe even just a rest stop for people on their way to see the river." His eyes lit up with a boyish charm when he talked about his father. It seemed almost like boasting, that he felt his father's accomplishments and dreams were his own. It was sad, but also mildly endearing. "That's why Walker was such a big deal. He said he'd written two national best sellers and everyone on TV knows his name. We didn't, but we also didn't watch a whole lot of TV. I think the first one we got was to watch Armstrong and them."

I rolled my hand, gesturing him to get on with it. "If you don't mind...?"

"Ah, yeah, sorry." He rubbed the back of his head. "Of course, pops set him up with an apartment. He always does, but he did a whole lot more. He made sure people gave Mr. Walker free meals and, everyone oweing pops and such, they obliged." As soon as he finished that sentence, I could see the old man's shadow in the other room quickly stand up, but not do any walking. It was like he had just been charged with something he knew he was guilty of, but still couldn't over the shock of the accusation. "Pops wanted Walker to make this town famous and he thought he got his wish one day. Walker comes out of his apartment and says to pops he got a movie deal. They're going to come film this city and Walker's was to write the script. The actors were going to be people from the town, so pops' heart swelled and he got all misty eyed. He looked Walker in the eye and told him, if he makes my sister a movie queen, he can marry her. Walker promised he would."

I should have been paying more attention to the story, but I was transfixed by the movement of the old man's shadow. He seemed to be in positive agony. I wanted to scream to him, "Why are you listening to this if it bothers you so much?!"

Jake put out the ciggerette in the ash tray. "Next day, Walker calls all of us to the church to audition. I go up first and Walker says I can play an extra. Let me tell you this, that was the best day of my life. I got so damn excited I nearly fell off the stage! Everyone in town showed up and they all congratulated me, saying 'Jake, you're going to Hollywood!' My sister goes up next and Walker takes one look at her and tells her she's hired. Pops nearly fainted right then and there." Jake got up to pour a drink. "Want some?"

"No, thank you," I replied. I wasn't going to be robbed of closure again. "What happened to the movie?"

"The cameras never came," the old man's voice projected. He walked out from the other room and stared at the pictures on the wall. "Walker asked us for some money to help the project get started. Everyone in the town paid what they could because he...I promised they'd make it back ten fold. On the day the film crew was supposed to arrive, Walker was gone." He took the picture off the wall and showed it to me. "And so was Annabelle."

My heart stopped. The photo, in black & white, showed a brown haired girl wearing a frilly dress. She had a big smile and looked right at the camera. There was no mistaking it, it was my mother. She bore more of a resembalance to Marcy than I, mostly because I inherited my father's black hair and nose. I put the picture down and began to understand the gravity of the whole thing. I was in a room with what were apparently my grandfather and uncle, who I had just met, but they had no idea who I was and I couldn't bring myself to tell them. "So...they ran off together?" I asked, looking at the floor.

"Seems like it," Jake said. "Annie never told us where she was going and we only heard from her once. She said she was happy and even if the whole world hates Walker, she's finally happy and nothing's going to change that." Jake smiled, seemingly genuinely happy for his sister. "I always said, good for her, you know? At least she's happy. I got stuck with this mayor job and she's gone off and done what she wants."

I laughed. I realized I was both the niece and granddaughter of mayors of a small town. I realized why my mother would suddenly have a southern drawl when she was yelling at us. I realized why her life ended when my father's did. I realized a lot of things on the walk back to my car. One of them was that I didn't have the strength back then to accept the truth. That's why I'm standing on this hill again today, with my older sister holding my hand, and we're going to walk back down and I swear I won't stumble this time.

Writing Exercise 3: Those eyes

2007-05-16T19:22:00.000-07:00

What they say: Two friends are in love with the same person. One describes his or her feelings honestly and well; the other is unwilling or unable to do so, but betrays his or her feelings through appearance and action. You do not have to explicitly state both of their feelings, but focus on at least one.

What I say: I spent about five revisions on this one. It came out longer than I thought it would, but I feel like it wrapped up too quick. There was a point where I just thought I couldn't take the story any further and had to start wrapping it up. It was mainly to focus on first-person description, though, so I think it worked out fairly well.

***

The greatest failure isn’t when you don’t try, whoever told you that was lying to your face. The most pure, distilled form of failure is when you try at something and give your all and still can’t make it work. After that, you know there are no more excuses you can use to lie to yourself with, you know that you just didn’t have what it takes to succeed. Nothing evokes this emotion better than relationships. If they’re broken at a fundamental level, there’s nothing you can really do about it, they’re doomed to failure no matter how hard you try. So what do you do in that situation? Do you blame yourself? Or circumstance? Most people would blame the latter, but I am my own personal punching bag. It can always be traced back to me, so much so that a guy just begins to get sick of it. Love, when it gets right down to it, is not worth the trouble. It is a series of never-ending failures that only serve to make you feel worse and I no longer wanted any part of it.

That is, until I met Netania.

Her name was Yiddish for “Gift from God”, which was perhaps the most striking example of forethought I could ever imagine two parents having. She didn’t like me calling her Netania, instead preferring the somewhat more common “Nat”, but I rarely obeyed. It’s not that I was choosing to annoy her like a petulant brat trying to get a girl’s attention, but the name Netania was so beautiful to my ears that I couldn’t stop myself from saying it alone, never mind how hard I had to fight with myself to avoid saying it when she was in front of me. The first time we met, she held my hand in prayer over dinner. I’ll never in my life forget how it felt, as the moment was damn near religious for me on a completely different level than God blessing the microwaved turkey we set on the table. Her nails felt like plastic and her skin like rubber, but both were warm to the touch, like she was flushed with embarrassment when her hand was pressed against mine. She squeezed my hand whenever my roommate prayed for God to improve his golf swing, which I always took as a signal that she was laughing silently to herself. Whatever she found funny, I inexplicably found hilarious, as well. Netania was a vision of beauty and everything I’ve ever wanted in a woman. This was made all the more disheartening by the fact that she was dating my best friend and aforementioned roommate, David.

David Klipps once viewed me as his special project. Whether out of the kindness of his own heart or a sense of curiosity and self-imposed competition, he took me under his wing in high school to try and bring me out of my shell. This included things like defending me against less enlightened members of our school’s population and playing the wingman when we went out at night. Somewhere along the way, probably through our number of shared experiences, we became friends. David would confide things in me, his thoughts, his hopes, dealing with the alcoholism and drug use in his family, things he’d never tell anyone else. If you were to only listen to the things going wrong with his life, you might even pity him, but he has never wanted another person’s pity. David eventually moved out on his own and got away from his destructive family, got a good job, and got in to the same college I did with my help. He pulled himself up by his bootstraps and defied the odds, something I never would have guessed when he originally confessed the things he was too ashamed to tell anyone else. I came to respect him, even admire him, as something more than the generic stereotype of a suave lady’s man he always portrayed. Eventually I moved in to his apartment and halved the rent with him, having to finally spread my wings a bit, as well. Living with someone is an entirely different beast from being their friend, however, and the things I loved about him as a person grated on me as his roommate. The self-confidence he displayed in wooing any woman in to our apartment would often cost me as I had to entertain whatever unfortunate looking girl David’s newest conquest would bring along with her. “Girls travel in packs,” he’d tell me. This wasn’t untrue, but it doesn’t mean I enjoyed fighting off the advances of an overly-excited minx who didn’t want to go home without her friend. Tact prevented me from asking them if they knew that they were “the ugly one” in the group to get them to leave, but there was a certain amount of knowledge there that someone could easily turn that question back on me. When David brought Netania home, however, there was no girl accompanying her and it wasn’t the typical one-night stand, either. The only thing David asked of me earlier that day was if he could bring her to dinner.

The question immediately confused me, because I didn’t know we had a tradition of dinner. Usually, we would warm up whatever we can find in the fridge and retire to our rooms. The only thing that could even be construed as dinner is when we each pay half of a pizza, but he ends up eating three quarters of it. I looked at him strangely, then puckered my lips and set forth the more pressing question, “Do I have to cook?”

Disturbingly, David pondered the concept for a minute, as if entertaining the idea that I would willingly stand over a stove to make food for someone who isn’t me. He made a gun-style gesture with his right hand and waved his finger at me. “No,” he said. “No one has to cook. She’s bringing over some leftovers from the other night.” David paused, perhaps because he said something he didn’t mean to say, or maybe it was for dramatic effect. It’s really damn hard to tell with him sometimes.

So we hammered out what little details there were to pound on. For the first time ever, I was to meet his girlfriend, which is decidedly different from “girl he is currently sleeping with”. The evening was not phrased as such, obviously, but we both knew each other long enough to understand the meaning behind simple words and questions. I looked in the bathroom mirror and held my electric razor in my hand, trying to decide if I needed to shave. I wasn’t proud of the stubble growing on my chin, but I hadn’t reached the point that week where laziness turned to self-disgust and forced me to shave it off. I put the razor back down on the kitchen sink and ran a wet comb through my hair. It snagged on a knot, requiring an attempt to smooth it out by forcing the comb through, anyway. As I struggled with the cheap, thin plastic wires just above my scalp, I heard two voices from the living room. “Shit, I’m late,” I whispered quietly to myself. I took the comb out of my hair and turned the rusted knob on the door. I’m not going to go in to everything I felt at the moment I saw her. Partly because a lot of it can not be described with words, also because some of it wouldn’t be appropriate in any sort of elegant venue. Suffice it to say, I was immediately smitten.

Over dinner, I tried not to stare at her. I would frequently look down at my food, maybe giving off the impression that I am more awkward than I really am. She had beautiful brown hair, the kind that came down just to her chest and stopped at its own pace. It didn’t look like it just abruptly ended, but rather that the way her hair looked was the way it was meant to look. She’d frequently pull it back behind her ears and it would dangle off the side of her shoulder, falling off the side to her back when she’d toss her hair back to laugh. My God, that laugh, I’ve never heard anything like it. It wasn’t quiet, not even close. She laughed like she hadn’t done so in years, bouncing against the back of the chair and clapping her hands together, releasing something visceral from the gut. It was a satisfying laugh for everyone involved, because you never feel as funny as you do when someone reacts like that. The most stunning thing about her was her eyes, dark brown with the expressiveness of thousands of words condensed in to a single look. They’d frequently dart around, absorbing information at a pace I doubt I could even fathom. But, like I said, I tried not to stare.

After dinner, the pair retired to David’s room and I to mine, wrapping a pillow around my head as I did my best to pretend what was going on across the hallway wasn’t what I thought it was. I posthumously dissected the night, thinking about every word she said, trying to figure out what she liked and what she didn’t like. I’ll tell you right now, at that moment, I had not even considered the fact that she was dating my best friend. You may not believe me, no one else does, but it did not enter my mind. I don’t want to say I was in love, I don’t believe in love at first sight, but I was as close as I could reasonably be at that moment. That night, I drifted off to sleep thinking about her. In retrospect, it feels pathetic. I even feel embarrassed talking about it, but I would be lying to you if I didn’t tell you that she was the only thing on my mind.

The next morning’s events did nothing to evict Netania from her place of residence in my head. Usually, David’s gal-pals will stay the night and quickly leave by six or seven. I theorized once that he chooses girls based on their class schedule, so he can get them out of the house by breakfast. Netania, however, was standing there in a long button-up shirt, making eggs over the stove. I am not a morning person, nor am I a night person, but if I had to choose one it certainly would not be the one with the bright, burning ball of fire in the sky. I can only imagine how unattractive I looked standing there in front of her, mouth agape, my hair messed up and my clothes wrinkled. It would be the kind of image that turns women lesbian and gay men straight. My first instinct, which in retrospect would have served me well, was to turn around and dash in to my room and wait until she leaves. This would not have been the most mature thing I’ve ever done, but it would have been a lot smarter. Instead, I stood there dumbfounded, trying to get words that weren’t “Go out with me” out of my mouth.

She put one hand in to her other hand’s sleeve and grabbed her fingers to hold on. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she stammered. Apologizing was her way of saying good morning, I guess. It was cute in a very self-deprecating sort of way. She returned her fingers to the handle of the pan, moving it over the red glowing coils of the stove. “You know, David talks about you a lot. Every day, he tells me a story about you two in high school or how much you helped him.” She smiled at me. “I guess, thank you? I’m not sure what I’m trying to say, but…thank you.”

“Why are you thanking me?!” I thought. “I don’t want him to be happy! I want us to be happy!” I couldn’t vocalize these thoughts. I tried, I honestly gave it my best shot to open my mouth and form these words. I had so many conflicting thoughts at that one moment. I wanted to tell her she’s beautiful, tell her that David would eventually leave her like he leaves every other girl, tell her that she’s smarter than this. I wasn’t afraid of ruining years of friendship over a girl, because fear implies I was concerned about the consequences. The only thing I was afraid of losing was myself. Could I really be the person I wanted to be if I even attempted this? “I…you’re welcome. Thank you, too.”

She smiled.

I moved out about a month later and we lost contact shortly after. I did get invited to the wedding, but never responded. I’d like to say I heard they had kids and lived happily ever after, but I honestly have no idea and have no desire to ever know. I wonder sometimes would have happened if I told her what I felt, if I were even capable of such a thing. She would have rejected me, but maybe it would be better to know that for sure. Maybe.

Writing Exercise 2: Aging

2007-05-06T15:02:00.000-07:00

What they say: Write about an event in present-tense as a child, then write about it in past-tense, reflecting back as an adult.

What I say: I'm iffy about this one. I didn't like the concept, but I did the best I could with it. I think my "reflection" should have focused more on the event than the aftermath.

The best part of the day is the afternoon, just after school lets out and our mothers stop talking in the middle of the cul-de-sac. That’s when we can go play in the street uninterrupted, no cars in the way, no homework to do, no mothers getting in the way. If we want to play baseball, that’s what we do. If we want to sit around and trade cards, we can do that, too. It’s not so much the activities I enjoy, but the freedom of being able to do it. All day at school, the only thing we do is what our teachers tell us to do. It’s nice to just be able to enjoy whatever we want.

Today, though, it’s not just about choice. As per the arrangement, Neil and I are going to fight. This isn’t your typical schoolyard disagreement, this has been a long time brewing. We’re going in the middle of the cove and hash it out. Everything he’s done to me will finally be resolved. I didn’t deserve to get made fun of. I even tried to be nice to him. This is what it eventually has to come down to, though. Where does someone named Neil get off making fun of someone, anyway? Fourteen year olds shouldn’t be named Neil, that’s for old men with pipes and sweaters.

There’s a chill in the air outside, which is kind of odd. There are so many people standing around us, chanting and shuffling around that you’d figure it would warm the area up a little bit. I’m trying not to clench my fists, due to the psychological affect it would have to remain cool and calm. Neil must have read the same book I did, because he’s standing there with his hands in his coat pockets and his back to me. It’s a sign of complete disrespect, but more to the point, it’s making me angrier. I walk over to him, stomping my feet, expecting the ground to quake underneath me, and tap him on the shoulder. I’m just going to punch him in the face and end this quick. This plan is perfect, since I don’t enjoy fighting, but at least I know how to. Then I suddenly see a flash of silver come out of his coat pocket. He’s holding something by a black grip, the now obvious blade pointed at me. This is the first time I’ve seen a knife used as a weapon before and not just a cooking utensil. Even though I’m unfamiliar with it, I know enough to jump back. The first slash just barely misses my hoodie as I bend my lower body backwards to avoid it. The second slash comes immediately afterward and nicks my arm. If I look at the wound, then I’ll have trouble seeing where the next slash is coming from, but the pain is too much and my neck follows my hand as it covers the torn skin. The crowd is approaching Neil to wrestle him down, but slowly. Too slow, actually. I guess no one wants to get stabbed, but this is my neck on the line here. I don’t have a choice, I have to wrestle him down. Neil looks at me with a sense of bloodlust, something way beyond the malice he’s shown to me before. It’s like he wants this, he wants to see the knife go in to me. I reach up and grab his arms, struggling to keep the knife away from my wrists. He jams his knee in to my stomach repeatedly, screaming something, but I can’t understand him. My entire being is focused on keeping those arms stable. He can knee me all he wants, that won’t kill me, but the knife will. I push down on Neil with all my force and dig my heels in to the ground. This is it, if I can’t get him to drop the knife now, I’m tapped, there’s nothing else I can do. I close my eyes and push forward again, feeling his arms move backwards and get lighter. Did I do it? Is the knife gone? I feel like I felt something move, my adrenaline is so high that I don’t know for sure how hard I just pushed. Opening my eyes to check, I see blood. It’s everywhere. I stand back up and guard myself for Neil’s next attack, but it’s not coming. One of the other boys runs to his house and calls for his mother. It’s probably too late. Dropping to my knees, I wonder if this is really how it was supposed to go down.

I know that wasn’t supposed to happen. I’ve known it for years. I knew it when the police questioned me directly after the incident. Back then, I was crying on my mom’s shoulder, insisting it was an accident. The kids watching backed me up, saying Neil brandished the knife first, so everyone knew it wasn’t my fault. We still had to move, though. Someone spray painted the word “murderer” on our front door. A friend of mine told me it was Neil’s sister whom he had been living with, but when the police asked me who I thought it was, I didn’t tell them. She would always give me looks from across the school yard, watching from her car. It scared me back then, because I didn’t know what she wanted. Revenge? An explanation? I didn’t really have the latter for her and probably would not have minded back then if she took the former. She had contacted my mother a couple of times, prompting the decision to move. My mom would never tell me what they talked about on the rare instance they’d have a conversation, insisting it wasn’t my place to know.

I always wanted to ask Neil’s sister why he was that way. I still remember the look in his eyes as he tried to drive the knife in to me. He was angry, he wanted something to take it out on. The people watching the fight told me he was screaming about how I deserved it, how everyone deserved to die, but my memory can’t verify that. There were rumors going around that Neil’s sister was beating him, or touching him, or something. I don’t know why I wanted them to be true. Maybe because it would give me an excuse, a reason that explains why he did what he did. It would make me almost happy that I could stop him before he hurt someone else. But maybe that’s what Neil’s sister thinks about me. Maybe she thought that someone needed to stop me before I hurt someone, too.

If I had the chance, I don’t know if I’d do it again. I’d like to believe I wouldn’t have a choice in the matter, but I’m not sure that’s true. I started that fight. I let it escalate that far. If I hadn’t, none of that would have happened. Neil might have gotten help and he might not have had to die. I’ve spent the last twenty years regretting one moment when I was fourteen simply because an unstable kid made fun of me. Neil may not have stabbed me that day, but he sure as hell took my life.

Writing Exercise 1: The Room

2007-05-06T14:57:00.000-07:00

What they say: In this exercise, describe a room as best you can and your feelings about things in that room. At the end, tie your feelings to reveal something about you or your characters.

What I say: This turned out a little better than I expected. I might come back to this later and flesh it out a bit.

This room is barren of everything that holds significance. There’s a bed, there’s a desk, there’s everything you need to live. It’s not anything of mine, though. I may live here, but I feel no attachment to anything I share this room with. There are six walls, since someone though it would be funny to have to turn left once you open the door. I’ve always wanted to put a Keep Out sign on the first wall facing the door, but I was afraid of ruining the wallpaper. Ugh, that wallpaper. It used to be a milky-white with floral patterns, the kind you’d see in bathrooms or really gaudy awnings. It’s not that way anymore, though. The sun beaming down from the window has turned patches of the wallpaper a pale yellow, giving it an ominous look when you turn on the lights at night. They line up in vertical lines along the wall, looking like eyes. I hate them, it feels like the room is much older than it is. I want to tear down the wallpaper every night just because those yellow blotches disgust me.

On the desk, there’s a pink cup with two pencils in it. They’ve never been sharpened and I never have any intention of sharpening them. That would be admitting defeat. The cup has ridges which are supposed to make it easier to grip, but I think it makes it look ugly. I’d never drink anything out of it. I have a computer on the desk, too, but I can’t turn it on. It’s not that I’m not allowed to, but it’s broken and I’ve never gotten around to fixing it. I want to move it, but I can’t bring myself to. The computer belongs on the desk and every time I think about moving it, I can’t picture how the desk would look without it there. It would just be a big empty space.

Against the far wall, my dad had a closet put in when I was younger. It has two doors expanding out, like every time I open the door a big musical is about to start. I open the doors and whisper “Showtime!” in my head, because I want a bunch of dancers to run out from the closet like I just opened up a curtain. It never happens, though. All I see are the same old dresses. The colors and styles change as I get older, but the feelings when wearing them are all the same.

The thing I hate most about this room is the window. That stupid window. I never liked it, but I hated it even more when my dad started working on it a few years ago. He said it was for my own good, that it needed to be done. It’s because of him that I got those yellow splotches on the wall. It’s his fault, all of it. I can’t put the curtains over the bars, so the sun is always shining in to the room. If it weren’t for the bars, I’d never have to get rid of them and I wouldn’t be alone right now.

Writing journal

2007-05-06T14:51:00.000-07:00

I'm creating this journal for a few reasons. One, because my computer is suicidal and likes to talk my Harddrive in to jumping off the cliff with it, taking all my writing to hell. Two, because I like people to read my writing. I need the criticism to get better, but I also wouldn't mind a little praise, you know? Lemme know what works and what doesn't. Three, none of my LJ friends probably want this shit on their friends page, so I'm not putting it on my Livejournal.

All I ask of you is that you tell me what you think when you read something. Love it, hate it, love parts but hate others, you're totally neutral, whatever. I just want the feedback. Your reviews can be one word long or a thousand words long, doesn't matter to me, just take the time to let me know on here, on AIM, or through e-mail.

Incidentally, I never check the e-mail address tied to this blog, so if you want to e-mail me, make it at akumajin[at]bellsouth[dot]net.