Destinations

Starting a new project with friends - writing one piece per week based on a shared theme/prompt. 

This one is late, and feels unfinished, but also feels sort of complete. Not sure where to take it from here, so this is how it stands. 

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The car rattled and made a sudden heaving motion - worse than before - and driver gifted passenger another repentant smile. 

"She's never let me down before," driver said, giving the well-dusted dashboard a somewhat less than inspired pat. The gesture was akin to a professional sport coaches' reassurances that his star player was definitely, totally, assuredly, no-way-no-how, not in the middle of a slump. 

Passenger sighed and made no effort to hide a heavy mixture of doubt and annoyance. 

It may not have been so disconcerting were they traveling on a more well used roadway. This one - never mind being surrounded by a forest so foreboding it would have given Bigfoot second thoughts - had apparently been forgotten, a theory well-supported by faded paint lines and a slalom of axle-bending potholes. 

Despite the vehicle's age, driver managed to navigate these obstacles well enough to keep the voyage in progress, but passenger feared that if they were ever forced to stop, forward momentum would never be regained. 

"I suppose this is a bad time to remind you that I said we should have taken the other exit," passenger said. 

Hold fast

He followed the last words of her goodbye like a set of muddy tire tracks - praying that, even as they faded ever too quickly into the grayish-black asphalt of the night, they wouldn't really disappear forever.
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Song of the Day:
Simon & Garfunkel, Baby Driver

Scalpel, stat

This will end up as a part of something larger, I think. But here it is for now, in all its unfinished, unpolished glory.
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He was already moving before the cold clink of ceramic had signaled a disaster. He snatched up the manuscript and ran to the paper cutter on his design table. Only the bottom, right corner of the paper had been contaminated so far, but it was leaching upward and outward, like blood on a white t-shirt. He placed the stack on the cutter, positioned it as exactly as his haste would allow and sheared the offending corner from the rest of his valuable work. He held the manuscript aloft and fluffed the pages, satisfied that he had caught the infection in time. He felt like a surgeon, having successfully removed a nonessential limb before the cancer had a chance to spread. He would treat himself to a celebratory bourbon.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Souls of Mischief, 93 'til Infinity

And a world

It's been twelve years, and her porcelain is beginning to crack. All the edges frayed like an aging art class project, decaying paper mache and crinkling acrylic paint. She remembers the artistry of the old days. The days when her son was small enough to hold, too small to punch angsty holes in his bedroom door. The days when her husband spent equal time at work and at home (it was just so busy, he told her - always so busy) and when he wouldn't come home smelling like perfume. She remembers when the fog eased at night and lifted in the mornings, emotions clear to sail. She remembers when the car moved without grumbling, stopped without screaming into the dead night air of the empty neighborhood. She remembers when their house was a project, not a chore. She remembers when her eyes wouldn't flicker in mid-afternoon, alone on the couch, Oprah droning on above her. She remembers a life that could convince her to keep living, and a world that could keep her afloat.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Kendrick Lamar, Sing About Me, I'm Dying of Thirst

Performance review

photo by Kevin Trageser

Have you ever had one of those weeks? Everyone knows what this means. Arthur was having that week. The one that could have inspired the saying. The one that could color the lens through which we see all of our "those weeks" when our boss brings his bad home life to the office or no one else is around and we get stuck with all the work. Arthur's week was like all of our weeks had a week of their own.

He wanted to be somewhere else, of course. He had been online all morning trying to decide where he would like to be. Not one of the places he saw stood out to him. Hawaii was beautiful, New York was exciting, Europe was intriguing. But none of them offered exactly what he wanted.

Arthur wanted to be somewhere so pretty that it all looked fake. He wanted to believe that he had been transported to a make believe place, in a painting perhaps, or a photograph of a movie set - all plaster and fine, detailed craftsmanship. He wanted to ride the escalator out of an airport somewhere and be so distracted that his shoelaces get caught in the machinery. He wouldn't even care, he decided - he would just ditch the shoes and spend his vacation barefoot.

Vacation, though? Would that be good enough? Arthur imagined that even a month away from work would be tainted by the constant thoughts of what he had left behind - or, more depressingly, what would be waiting for him like a old, ruined predator that he could never outrun. He hoped that wherever he ended up going, there would be an escalator built like an MC Escher painting - an impossible loop that he would never have to step off of. He could have his meals delivered.

Arthur's Outlook calendar snapped him out of his daydreaming with an ironically joyful ping. He crinkled his face in disappointment and gathered his things. Meeting with the boss. It would go poorly, no doubt.

Arthur's boss spent the meeting yelling about expense reports and unpaid vendors and late shipments. He had brought his bad home life with him to the meeting. It stuck out in the fog of anger like a massive, shining iceberg. Arthur tired quickly of all these subjects. They were all real things - things you took at face value, things you could see and touch and had to get done. Arthur didn't want real anymore. He wondered what it would take to get a few days off. Even if it wasn't long enough, it would be better than nothing.

Arthur's boss noticed him drifting back into dream world, and the focus of his distaste shifted from matters of business to his listless employee. He yelled and yelled, so much that Arthur stopped hearing anything he was saying. Arthur ignored the tirade and reached back to his pants pocket, removed his wallet and slid his work ID out of the pocket it had occupied for the past eight years. He watched the slight dent it had made in the leather collapse slowly, like an open air mattress. He stared at the picture on the front of the ID, noticing the shape, intensity and youth of the smile he gave the photographer that day. A similar smile then came to Arthur's lips. Arthur's boss yelled louder. Arthur's smile grew wider. This was going to be an excellent trip.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Fleet Foxes, The Plains/Bitter Dancer

100 Words: A rock is a rock, unless it's a mountain

Inspired by a post from my friend Zach. 

It's a beautiful thing to see, and even more beautiful to hold, he discovers, when he picks it up off the ground, a small mushroom cloud of dust erupting in its wake. There isn't much to it - just a round-ish, smooth shape, speckled grey and black. It resembles a misshapen egg, and he decides that this is why he likes it. There's hope that life might spring from this lifeless object, and as he rubs it between his palms, the heat of friction keeps that hope alive. His watch alarm dings twice before he stops it. Break's over. He places it gently back on the ground and dons his work gloves. He grabs the sledgehammer he left leaning against the cement wall nearby. He picks it up by the end of the handle and drops it straight down, smashing that hope to pieces.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Blu & Nottz, God Shit (feat. Aloe Blacc, Co$$, Definite Mass)

The greatest lie

Painting by Joe Rea

In the language of the ancient Greeks he was the bringer of the dawn, the bright morning star that separated the heavens from the earth. For a long time, he was nameless, and that was the way he preferred it. He kept the headlines in front of him, and when he needed to speak, he spoke well, his syllables floating effortlessly as though they were filled with helium.

"Speak plain," he would ask of his constituents. "The road is paved with honesty and with simplicity. Any bumps we feel are as warnings that one among us has laid down a lie."

Skeptics fell before him as grass in an unending wind. He would dazzle them with tricks and illusions. He would cover the ugliness of the world as one would bandage a wound. It was something to behold, this chicanery.

I witnessed it once. We were out among the highest steps, a vantage for the ages, when he beckoned us to the edge and gestured our gazes out into the distance.

"Here," he spoke. One word, nothing more.

We were silent, waiting for something to appear or occur. He stood, his back to the horizon, cloudless and clean, and said nothing. His expression suggested that he was waiting for us to realize something. None of us did, and moments passed. Then, one of us, a troubled soul, stepped forward.

"It's a trick," the troubled one said. Confident, but not loud. "There was something there, but you've taken it. Haven't you? It's somewhere far from here, hiding where only you can find it."

The morning star smiled and shook his head, enjoying the confusion he had sown among us.

"No, my friend. It is here. It is always here. There is nothing up here you can take away - it is all permanent, parts of the scenery, so to speak. The only thing that changes here is what you see." He turned and spread his arms. "So, what do you see?"

The troubled soul gave him a doubting glance and stepped forward, focusing intently on the airy landscape before him. He spent several minutes that way, adjusting his stance, his vantage point, going from standing to crouching and back again. Murmurs spread through the crowd behind him, tiny whispers ("Do you see it?") and silent denials.

The bringer of the dawn stepped up beside the troubled soul and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"There is no shame in this," he said. "None at all. Do you think any of these beasts behind you would have better luck?"

"I don't know," the troubled soul said. Subdued now. Uncertainty tainting the tone of his voice. "It's just - it's just not there."

"You're right," the morning star said. His grip tightened. "In a sense."

He stepped away from the troubled soul and turned his back to the scenery once more.

"There is nothing here, friends." He placed his hands inside his pockets, feigning sheepishness. "I've lied to you. Perception is an untruth, a bump in the road. There is only what is and what is not. What gray do you see here, up in this world? What middle ground have we found? None. None, because have not built it."

He removed his hands from his pockets and gave a flourish, a magician standing before awestruck children. He wheeled around, his shoes grinding two half-moon shapes into the terrain beneath him. His back to us, he raised his hands high and out to the sides.

"My hopeful allies," he yelled, "I have built our middle ground."

His arms flashed to the side and he gripped something invisible. With a single motion, he tore the bandage from the wound and an enormous, cloak-like sheet came tumbling down from the background. Pale blue as the sky, it blanched as it fell to the ground, a pallid shroud.When we could tear our eyes from it, we looked up and saw, appearing in the sky, a single, tumultuous cloud. Its folds fell over one another, a mirror of the cloth that lay crumpled at our feet.

"So you see?" he said, triumphant. "What was not here now is. But what is it, really, besides a conjurer's trick?"

The troubled soul fell to his knees, choking sounds back into his throat.

"Enough," he cried. "There is nothing to this but madness!"

The morning star knelt beside him, stroking his shoulders.

"Fear not, my brother. There is no madness here. I said you were right, in a sense, and I meant it. It is a conjurer's trick, and I am only a conjurer."

He gave the troubled soul one last touch, then stood and walked to his creation.

"The truth is, this cloud does not exist," he said. "And neither do I."

He shook his head and laughed - a deep, horrible sound.

"So many bumps in the road."
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
St. Vincent, Just the Same But Brand New

Plain to see

This isn't a fairy tale. She knows it because in that version, he isn't breaking up with her. In that version, he's holding out something small, indistinguishable if not for its shine. She doesn't need anything fancy - she conceded that long ago - so the object's modesty doesn't faze her.

But that isn't this version, she reminds herself. He's still talking on the other side of the kitchen table, but at this point she's barely paying attention. She remembers the beginning of the conversation, when he told her that she "didn't do anything wrong." She wonders how, if that's really the case, this is entirely necessary. She knows the real reason he called her. She knows the real reason he asked her if he could stop by. It's that new girl in the consumer marketing division. She wonders, if she really didn't do anything wrong, what this girl has been doing right, in particular. She wishes she could ask and take notes. She knows how strange that would be.

He finishes talking and asks if she's okay. She is, and she's not sure entirely why, but she doesn't question it. Sure, she says, I'll be fine. He says he's sorry, which she isn't sure she believes, and she represses the urge to make a smartass comment at the new girl's expense. He stands up and walks to her side of the table. He leans in to kiss her cheek, and does, and she turns to stare at him, wondering if he knows the cliche about insults and injuries. He leaves the apartment and closes the door behind him. She hasn't moved from her seat.

She turns and stares out the window, eyes to the sky. Her kitchen is dim, so she can see the edges of a few constellations, peeking out from behind the corners of neighboring buildings. On nights like these, she fancies that she is out there, too - a star burning an unimaginable distance from the earth, hidden in the dark, visible only to those who care to look the hardest.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Delta Spirit, Strange Vine

All this weird beauty

photo by Lukasz Wierzbowski

It stood out to her, a lonely red impulse in a sea of green hedge. She stopped and tiptoed off the sidewalk, dropping her work bag next to the bush. She knelt down and reached out. The rose was trapped, having somehow found it's way into the shrubbery's dense inner lattice. She gently cupped her hands around it and extracted it. 

She cradled the flower in her hand like it was an infant, like if she juggled it only a little, shifted just a bit too far in any direction, it would crumble. It would collapse into dust - she just knew it - and blow away with the next odd gust that tumbled past her. She put her other hand over it as a safeguard and studied it.

"It's been quite a day, hasn't it?" she asked.

The flower did not respond.

"I know I'm pretty much done at this point," she continued. "Can't wait for tomorrow. Never thought I could use a new day as much as I do right now."

Several petals rippled as a soft breeze picked up, tossing a few stray hairs into her face. She picked them aside, rearranging them as neatly as she could before rushing her hand back to the flower's protection.

"I can't believe some of the things they've been saying, can you?" She struggled for words, her mouth opening and closing in wordless gasps. "I guess our first instinct has always been to look for the reason things happen. They always want to know why - they always want to deliver an explanation. I'm not sure there always is one, though."

A bird warbled unsteadily in the distance. The flower stayed silent. She scrunched up her nose as a familiar tickle of emotion built up int the corners of her eyes.

"But something like this..." She adjusted her posture, settling into a cross-legged position but slumping forward, defeated as tears began to flow. "If there isn't a reason for this, where do we put it? Where does it fit into the world?"

The rose, as precious as it was to her, still offered no support. It gave just a slight quiver, a motion carried through her splayed fingers by the wind. She began to laugh, even as saltwater gathered and dripped from her jawline.

"I guess there really isn't anything to say, is there?" She raised a hand and ran it through her hair. "Nothing more than sympathies and well-wishing, anyway."

Her hand came to rest on the back of her neck, her fingertips brushing an imaginary itch as her brain ran through one possibility after another - none of them making complete sense. She came out of her trance just long enough to notice that the tears had stopped. Then, in one inexplicable burst of instinctive energy, her hand was in the air and momentum was carrying it right down into her steadily outstretched palm.

She felt something soft and broken, something tragically at rest between her hands. She opened them, knowing that she wasn't going to like what she saw. The rose was a scattered mess, dented petals trickling between her fingers onto the grass. She dropped it, horrified, and knelt beside it like it was a dying relative.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

As the words drew slowly out of her mouth, she wondered why she was saying them. She didn't feel sorry. Whatever the feeling was, it seemed closer to disappointment. Or perhaps it was longing, like she was watching an old friend board a plane to another continent, never to return home.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Dawes, Take Me Out Of The City

An expansive philosophical discussion

If I told you I had invented The Doomsday Device, would you believe me?

You shouldn't, because it isn't true, but that's not the point. Point is that since only recently I find myself in a position of power and everyone seems to look up to me and, for reasons unbeknownst to yours truly, put a great deal of stock in the things I say. So chances are that if I went on Twitter tonight, waded through the mountain of messages people have sent me and told the world - in 140 characters or less, obviously - that I am indeed responsible for such a heinous creation, a lot of folks would probably buy it.

This brings to mind quite an expansive philosophical discussion - obvious, perhaps, but no less important - that I am not interested in having with you right now, here, in the middle of this parking lot. Honestly, I would rather just sit down on the curb and eat this delicious sandwich my wife packed me for lunch and forget about all of the bullshit I'm about to force myself through today and, if I'm lucky, make it home tonight without some wacko jumping me on the sidewalk, claiming one of my fingers and selling it on eBay.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Two Door Cinema Club, This Is The Life

There's a girl in New York City

By the time I crossed Greenwich Street my embarrassment had burned away in the evening heat. Now, whatever was left just made me feel silly, perhaps even a bit juvenile, and I laughed aloud as I waited at the next crosswalk, the traffic careening by me in some sort of accidental rhythm.

At the edge of the river I picked the nearest empty bench and sat down in the middle. The Hudson rocked up against the concrete siding of the city, sharp claps of the water echoing in the darkness. The night had not yet brought a drop in temperature, so I sat there sweating through my work clothes and imagining how absurd I must have sounded. All that time spent calculating and trying to predict outcomes. Of course she was going to say no at the end. This sort of thing never worked out, right? So why would it be any different for me just because I tried harder?

I looked up across the river and saw movement in the corner of my eye. I turned my head and saw her walking slowly along the sidewalk, glancing back and forth from me to the water. She reached my bench and I slid off to the side so she could sit down next to me. She faced the river and stayed silent. I imagined she was trying to find the words to say, although I had never been fluent in body language. Finally she turned and looked at me.

"You know this is impossible, right?"

I laughed through my nose and shrugged.

"I guess so," I said. I leaned back into the bench and crossed my arms. "But maybe that's why it seems like such a good idea."

She gave me a look that half-conveyed interest, or perhaps pity, and then turned to the constellation of lights flickering and forming in the buildings across the water. She leaned back against the bench and rested her hands in her lap, and the two of us sat there waiting for anyone other than each other to break the silence.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Tom Waits, Come On Up To The House

This is why the seats face backward

painting by Linden Frederick

The hail falls faster than your parents can drive to escape it, clanking angrily against the roof like a teenager’s first drum solo. The road is tinted yellow beneath the clouds and the warming twilight, and it falls into the blackness as we round each turn on a desperate, careening road home. I feel your fingers start to slacken as the looming dusk is preceded by a glimpse of roaring orange, peering through a crack in the sky. We’ll sit in each others arms until the brake lights go steady, pour out red the color of an entire world’s lost passion and, ultimately, go dark.

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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Sarah Jarosz, My Muse

Not on an empty stomach

Three words for today are fragrant, jostle and remnant.
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To say it was "a mistake" would have been too obvious. Instead, Alby chose to remain silent, staring at me across the diner table as I buried my face in a plate of fries that were still too hot to eat. He took thoughtful sips of his soda and I could see that he was wondering when the spotty remnants of formerly boiling oil on the fries would finally do me in. I stared up at him and spoke with a mouthful.

"What, asshole?"

He raised a bushy eyebrow, unimpressed with my vocabulary. "A bit confrontational this evening, aren't you?"

I contemplated throwing a handful of fries at his face, eventually deciding that I was too hungry and the loss would be too great. Instead I returned my gaze to my food and ignored him. He waited a moment longer before speaking again.

"Max, you know you can't go home after what just happened, right?" He gave me time to respond, which I did not utilize. "I'm just saying...you fucked up pretty bad."

I was running out of fries, which meant I was also running out of good excuses to not respond to him. I snuck a glance around the restaurant, hoping a waitress would be nearby so I could order another plate of anything food-related.

"Max, you need to knock it off, right now."

I picked up the last strip of potato and held it in my hands like it was the Holy Grail. I turned my head sideways and stared at it, watching a grain of salt tumble off the side into the palm of my right hand. I began imagining it was a man in a barrel, plunging over the tempestuous edge of a more delicious version of Niagara Falls.

Alby's hand rushed by my face like a rocket and crashed into my hand, catapulting the last of the french fries toward the diner window. The wooden blinds clattered with the impact and the fry fell to the table, its journey ending with a dissatisfying thwok. I grasped my hand in pain and rose from my seat, staring down at him with all of the fury I could care enough to muster, which was not that much.

"Whatever, man!" I shouted down at him. "Just...whatever!"

"Whatever?" he shouted back. "Are you serious? I know he was a massive jerk, but seriously? Whatever?"

"Yeah, man, whatever." I sat back down, pouting. "I just couldn't do it anymore. What's the worst they throw at me? Juvie?"

"That might be the best you get."

"Thanks, Al. Best friends should always be as good at this as you are."

"Wow, dude. For real, just shut up. You have no idea what you just did, do you?"

I crossed my arms and did my best imitation of an impudent child. A waitress passed by carrying a burger and fries. My head turned on a swivel to follow the fragrant dish to the back of the diner. She delivered it and walked back past our table.

"Excuse me?" I said. "Could I get another plate of fries, please?"

"Sure thing, sweetheart." She smiled at me and kept walking. "Just a minute."

I turned back to Alby and saw him frozen in an incredulous shrug.

"You really don't have any idea, do you?"

I returned his shrug. "Can I just eat some fries?"

"You can eat all the fries in the world, but it won't keep you out of prison."

"At least I'll be full."

"You're already full. Full of shit."

I pounded my hands on the table in succession, then lifted a spoon and tapped Alby's glass to simulate a rimshot.

"Well done," he said. He settled his arms at his side and adopted a sour look. "Well done."

I sighed and turned to the window, wedging a few fingers between two of the wooden slats to get a better view of the highway. I could see the faint glow of faraway police lights bouncing off the streetlights in the parking lot. I sighed again and withdrew my fingers, letting the blinds close in a disruptive clap. Alby saw the lights, too, and his eyes widened as he turned to look back at me.

"Max..."

The waitress returned with my plate of fries and set them down on the table in front of me.

"Anything else, hon?" she asked.

I shook my head, not even bothering to look up at her. I didn't hear what she said after that, but I saw her walk away out of the corner of my eye. I picked up a handful of fries and stuffed them into my mouth, letting one or two spin out of my grip and onto the floor. The police lights flew directly into my vision now, and I squinted to concentrate on my food. In a few moments three officers jostled through the diner door and made a precision turn toward our table. One of them grabbed Alby by the arm and guided him out of the booth. The other two stood by my side.

I kept eating, taking care not to lose any more fries as I nibbled on one at a time. One cop's voice buzzed in my head like a broken stereo speaker, then stopped. Then buzzed again, and stopped. Then began buzzing constantly, and I saw three more fries plummet onto the smooth tile as the second cop grabbed me and pulled me out onto the floor. I felt the handcuffs slap on one at a time and I was lifted to my feet. I barely noticed the terrified look on Alby's face before I was in the back seat of the police cruiser, slumped forward.

I shrugged, for no one but myself. At least I was full.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Deerhunter, Helicopter

And the angels sang out of tune

 
Three Word Wednesday! Please help me get out of my rut! Today's words are angelic, foster and ruin. Just imagine me saying that in a game show host's voice. Awesome, right?
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The top frame of my glasses spun and flashed with the glow of the dancing neon lights above me, like a thin, striped caterpillar was racing across my forehead. I watched it run, the never-ending trail lulling me into an otherwise unjustified daze. If anything I should have been wide-eyed, fearful of danger, whatever animal instincts I had pulsing harder and faster than any of the giant-sized billboards that transfixed me. But it was not so, and I hardly even noticed when she stole my wallet.

She stole my wallet?

The alley was darker, and so was my memory. She led me here, I think. By the time I found her she was already seated comfortably on a chair that had no business being in this part of the city. It glittered obnoxiously amid the various degrees of ruin that surrounded it. I watched her face, waiting for the cue, waiting for her voice to ring out in sweet, angelic beauty. She licked her lips and opened her mouth, and I tensed.

"You're missing something," she said.

I raised an eyebrow. Her voice didn't match her face. She was pretty. That's really the only word for it. Not gorgeous, maybe, but certainly attractive. She was dressed in plain clothes that fit her perfectly - fashion without even a hint of strategy.

But her voice? A woman's, to be sure, but lower, more meaningful. It wasn't high and golden; it wouldn't draw any forest animals from their homes. If it was any color, it was most certainly dark blue - something deep and pulsating, coming in waves like an ocean. Her face didn't tell me anything about an ocean. I was confused.

"What am I missing?" I asked her, acutely aware of what I sounded like. I sounded like a whimpering doberman.

She smiled, baring perfect, white teeth.

"It's not your wallet, that's for sure," she said. She motioned to my back pocket. "It's been right there, all along."

I patted my pocket suspiciously. She was right. She had never stolen my wallet. That's why I didn't notice. But if that was true, what was I doing here?

"It's something to foster your belief, isn't it?" she said, her smile twisting at the corners. "It's something to bring you back to where you need to be."

I stared at her. And then, suddenly, a loud laugh burst forth from my throat. It surprised me, and apparently her as well. Her smile shrank and then disappeared. Her eyes narrowed and settled into an intense focus.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing," I said, coughing my way to composure. "I just find it interesting that you seem to think you know so much about me." I turned and began to walk out of the alley. "You may need to rethink your approach."

I made it to the very end of the corridor before she spoke again.

"She's gone, isn't she?" she said, her question not even really a question at all. "Just like all the others."

Her tone said it all: I know what you won't admit, what you can't admit. I swallowed hard, clenched my teeth, my nostrils flaring.

"She'll be back," I whispered. "Someone will come back."

I felt her smile return, a grimy surge of satisfaction radiating down the alley.

"It's time to stop waiting," she said. "It's time to take control, to be aggressive. It's time to make the world do what you want it to do."

I turned to retort, in some small way to take her advice, but she was gone. A grizzled homeless man stared up at me from a small nest of cardboard and blankets he had built at the mouth of the alley. His eyes were wide. I nodded carefully at him and walked back to the street. The lights were still flashing, scrambling about on the horizon. I hid my eyes.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Feist, Gatekeeper

NaNoWriMo begins!

Thanks to the miracle of Twitter, I discovered that November is National Novel Writing Month, and an organization called the Office of Letters and Light brings writers together to write 50,000-word novels in a month. So, being the glutton for punishment that I apparently am, I decided, "Yeah, why the hell not?" So here you will find my first bits of writing for NaNoWriMo 2011, started just 15 minutes ago:

This is the beginning of my new novel, Seize.
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PROLOGUE:

The first thing she noticed was how quiet it had become. Highways can be so loud - one of the reasons she was glad her husband's car had noise cancellation - but right now, it was a vacuum. She turned her head, noticed how slowly it moved. Noticed the scarring on the windshield, blossoming like a horrible, prickly flower.

Next she noticed the low, humming scream. She wasn't sure where it was coming from. Was it her husband? One of her daughters? Was it her? It seemed to be coming from everywhere, rising like someone was pulling it out from under the water, a terrified child after its first foray into the pool.

Finally she heard it all - sounds came crashing in from everywhere, ripping her attention span to pieces as she tried desperately to focus on something, anything to grab hold of and stop the spinning. Why was she spinning? Her head thrashed in wild circles, forward, backward, around to the right halfway before looping violently back into the headrest. Crystalline dust filled the air - she could feel it puncturing her skin as it blew through the interior of the car, ignoring all the expensive safety features. She tried to find her husband, her daughters, but the force of whatever misspent momentum was carrying the vehicle would not let her. For the longest part of that moment, it pried her eyes outward and glued them to the windshield.

The ruined glass blew apart, and the whole car seemed to tilt forward onto its nose - but it did so violently, in a sudden, crunching screech, and she felt gravity start to fail. Again her focus failed her. Nothing to grab hold of. Nothing to keep her there. Why was she flying?
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
The Tallest Man on Earth, Troubles Will Be Gone

Beginner's luck

 
Another edition of Three Word Wednesday. This week the words are admire, follow and piece.
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"It's been four hours, Kopack...FOUR HOURS." Andrews clenched his teeth and growled for emphasis through his last two words. "And what have we seen?"

Kopack turned from where he'd been monitoring the warehouse out the passenger's side window, stopped mid-chew with a mouthful of slightly warm Snickers bar. He glanced over at his partner carefully, as if expecting his apologetic gaze to be met with a right hook.

"I'm sure they'll show up," he mumbled around the sticky caramel. "They have to pick it up eventually, right?"

Andrews let his head drop onto the headrest of the driver's seat, sighed, and shrugged sarcastically.

"Well sure, they'll have to..." He tensed and turned to focus on Kopack. "...if your crackpot theory is even right."

When there was no immediate reaction from the junior officer, Andrews finally couldn't contain himself anymore. He let loose.

"Look, I know the chief is obligated to put a little extra stock in your investigations since he's your father, but isn't this overdoing it a little bit?"

Kopack admired the contours of the last unchewed peanut left in his mouth, trying very hard not to pay attention to his superior.

"I know you'll probably tell him everything I say, but at this point I don't really give a fuck. If he was any kind of cop at all, he could see plain and simple that your evidence is all circumstantial, at best, and that accusing a legitimate, well-respected, squeaky-clean local businessman of counterfeiting hundreds is completely absurd, especially in this town."

The peanut finally met its end, and Kopack swallowed it slowly, nervously. He had been sure of his theory, as sure as he'd ever been of anything since graduating from the academy. Andrews kept talking, proceeded to poke holes in every little pontoon of evidence Kopack had built. He felt himself sinking. What was it that always happened to cops who failed? He thought for a moment, then nodded slightly to himself. Traffic duty. He'd get bumped down to traffic duty for sure.

"And I know you always hear in TV and movies and whatever the hell else you kids watch that the guys with the perfect records are always hiding something, but in the real world, people actually do go a very long time without getting in trouble." Andrews stopped to breathe, his complexion noticeably reddened with frustration. "Are you listening?"

Kopack nodded vigorously, but with a tinge of sadness.

"Yeah, and you're right," he said breathily, letting the last of his confidence escape into a fog on the inside of the windshield. He turned to the side window again, stared blankly into the growing murk of nighttime. "I guess there were a few more checks I should have done before I went to my dad..."

Andrews threw up his hands in sarcastic joy.

"Thank goodness, the young lad has learned his lesson," he said. "And it only took up four hours of my weekend to make it happen. Glad to have volunteered my time." He nodded at the keys in the ignition, motioned out the front window. "Shall we?"

Kopack looked back at him, nodded sadly, concentrated on the pieces of dirt nestled the fibers of the floor carpet. Andrews sighed again and shook his head, then put his hands to the keys and turned. The engine rumbled back to consciousness and the cruiser's headlights popped on, spewing dirty yellow light across the front of the warehouse and the road in front of it.

Andrews saw it first, and groaned loudly before slapping his palm to his forehead.

"Mother fuck..." he said, enunciating each unbelieving syllable.

Kopack looked up and followed Andrews' gaze out the window. Standing frozen in the road, red-handed deer in the headlights, were the legitimate, well-respected, squeaky-clean local businessman and two of his associates, each shouldering as many duffel bags as they could carry, the occasional hundred dollar bill fluttering out of an open zipper onto the dusty asphalt.

The young policeman felt his skin stretching as his smile grew wider and wider. He turned to Andrews, then back to the counterfeiters, then back to Andrews, who looked up with disbelief still stamped on his face. Andrews could see that Kopack was still searching his brain for the right procedure, trying to dodge the clouds of euphoria that interrupted his judgment. Andrews' expression finally softened, and he smiled at his partner's elation.

"All right, rook," Andrews said, his tone bordering on fatherly. "Go book 'em."
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Also, Quick Links to some fellow Three-Worders whose work I very much enjoyed last week:

Thom gives us a disturbing look at Another Thursday Night in the 'Burbs.

Dee eloquently touches on the subject of the 99%.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Pharoahe Monch, Free

I am who I am

 
"We've been talking, your dad and I."

Never a good way to start off lunch with your mother. I stopped mid-chew and stared at her, deer-in-the-headlights look in full effect.

"Mmmmm?"

"He told me he feels badly that he couldn't always make it to things for you and your brother when you two were younger."

I swallowed my forkful of chicken parm and squinted.

"Never bothered me - I mean, last I checked, I'm not a spoiled rich kid with daddy issues."

"That's not what I'm trying to say," she said, reaching for her water in what I took to be a reflexive response to my too-dry humor. "He just wishes he could have been at more soccer games and that kind of thing."

"Well I never held it against him. Still don't. I know he had to work - somebody has to keep a young family afloat."

She smiled, and I tensed for the "I'm so proud you're so grown up I guess we did an okay job after all" line I was sure would follow, but it never came.

"Someday you'll have to tell him that," she said. "I think it would mean a lot to him."

She put down her drink and returned her focus to the roasted red pepper sandwich in front of her.

There's more, Mom, I wanted to say. I am who I am because of him. You too, of course, but as far as I'm concerned, a boy doesn't grow up well without a father figure who does his job. So if you're ever proud of me, be proud of him, because he's a big reason why.

But I kept my mouth shut - it'd be better for him to hear, I decided. I took a sip of my iced tea, my focus split between the straw and the how. How would I relay such a message to a man who I figured was harder to read than a quantum physics textbook? Another sip of tea brought no answers.

"You know Father's Day is coming up, right?" she asked, yanking me back into the here-and-now. "Have you talked to your brother about getting a gift?"

"No, Mom," I groaned. "I'll handle it though, I've been thinking of ideas."

"Do you need help? I could probably think of a few good things."

"I've got it, thanks though. I think I'm going to go pick something up later today."

"Oh okay. Just thought I'd ask."

We finished lunch, and I walked with her back to the train home. She chatted away, as usual, me only half-listening as I ran through my options. How would I convey feelings I couldn't even bring myself to say out loud?

I scratched my chin stubble as we waited at the next crosswalk. I'm a college-educated 24-year-old, I thought to myself. I'm sure I'll manage to think of a way.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
The Eagles, Learn to Be Still

Reynolds (Part One)

 
The mist of that damp, rotten Baltimore midnight curled around my feet like it was tied to my ankles with the finest thread. When I moved, it followed, circling tiny ripples on the cobblestones and then hurriedly chasing my heels down the road.

He seemed perfectly serene when I first came upon him, making no sound or movement besides sporadic, arbitrary weight shifting that seemed more ambient than the product of his own muscles.

I stepped closer through the fog, and he twisted violently at the hips to look at me.

I stopped, trying my best to measure his intensity and stability despite the muddling effect the mist had on my vision. I could barely make out most of his face, but what I saw for sure were his eyes, eyelids spread wide in what I perceived as either horror or insanity. Not certain of which it actually was, I decided it was best to stay put.

"Edgar?" I said. "Edgar, is that you?"

His eyes stayed completely open, like sight was the last of his five senses that remained operable and he was trying to take it all in optically.

"Where is he?" he asked, pupils flitting about as he scanned the street behind me. "He came with you, didn't he? He used you, didn't he, Mags? He used you..."

He trailed off into silence and his eyes locked on me. At least now I knew it was Edgar, evidenced by the use of his nickname for me - the one he had used ever since I had nearly blinded both of us during a college science experiment.

It made me smile to know this was my friend, but I couldn't see past the crumbled, wild exterior to see just how much of him was still there.

He stepped closer to me and reached out a dirty, almost-gloved hand.

"Come with me, Mags," he whispered. "I know where we can hide."

More worried than scared at this point, I grabbed his hand and let him lead me. His palm was cold and covered in dirt or some other gritty substance. Despite his frayed condition he was still strong, and he pulled me almost headlong down the street. I took a glance behind us and saw nothing but the mist spiraling up from the road, crimping in protest before fading into the blackness above the streetlamps.

Edgar took me down a short alleyway, bursting out into the street and then a painfully sharp turn and down a longer alley, one I couldn't see the end of. I dodged garbage and empty crates, our speed increasing with the aid of the straightaway.

And just as quickly as he had accelerated us down the alley, Edgar brought us to a halt, stopping dead in his tracks in front of a bleak wooden door. I crashed into his back, the impact upsetting the silt that covered his jacket. He turned and looked at me, unimpressed with my momentum, and I noticed that his eyes had finally started to calm, which left me mildly relieved.

He turned back to his front and flung through his trouser pockets, finally appearing satisfied when he grasped a grimy, grayed key in his right hand. He inserted it into the lock and turned. The door opened with an unhappy croak, revealing a bright, albeit dusty room that was very much the opposite of the door in terms of condition.

With swooping agility that belied his appearance, Edgar moved inside and rushed straight for a set of elegant, wooden cabinets resting against the far wall. He reached for the handle, then stopped himself.

"Mmmmm...not yet," he muttered, and left the cabinet to go bounding around the room, inspecting the rest of the furniture.

Now I came into the room and, my curiosity piqued, moved for the cabinets as well. They were definitely antique pieces, and besides a thick layer of dust, they appeared to be in very good shape. I grasped one of the handles and tensed my arm to pull, but was thwarted when Edgar ran by and slapped me on the shoulder.

"Not yet!" he said, placing heavy emphasis on each word, then went scrambling about the room at a slightly slower pace than before.

"Edgar, let me help you," I said, opening my arms in as comforting a pose as I could manage. "What are you looking for?

He paused with a deep sigh, arms buried deep in a dresser drawer, and turned to look at me.

"I have it here, Mags, everything we'll need…everything…everything."

He was panting now, clearly out of breath, and his eyes flickered open and shut.

"He did this to me...lied...and his men..."

He slowly drew his arms out of the drawer, and used the dresser to pull himself up to his feet.

"Who did this?" I asked. "You have to tell me more, Edgar, please!"

He swallowed and blinked once, opening his mouth to speak and then immediately closing it again. I knew what was about to happen and forced myself into motion, but I was too late. Edgar staggered into the dresser, recovered, and then crumbled into a heap on the groaning wooden floor.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Crash and the Boys, We Hate You, Please Die

300 Characters II

 
Here's another one of those 300-character dohickeys, written on my POS flip phone.
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It's not right, and you know it, but it's popular. Don't let the spotlights hold you, lest they reveal your disagreement and paint you a color you can't see, but you know perfectly well what it means. It means you aren't one of us, no matter your proof of paperwork. Speak well: the stake is made ready.
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Q-Tip, Gettin' Up

The worst part

 
When the bus driver started making angry hand gestures at no one in particular, I knew I had made the wrong - albeit interesting - choice of transportation. Interesting in that I didn't expect to have the last four months of my life flash before my eyes today.

I think the worst part of it might have been not seeing it coming. You probably could have called what happened next from a mile away. You were always a little prescient about things. I figured it was just good instincts, or like those gut feelings Han Solo gets. You told me you got one of those feelings the first time I held your hand, but you never explained what that meant. I'm not sure you knew at the time, and sometimes I really wish you had.

I think the worst part of it might have been when the windows shattered. You never really think about how bad an idea it is to be surrounded by huge panes of glass until you're being pelted and punctured by the shards. I didn't hear myself cry out in pain, but whether it was because of the impact with the road or the airport tarmac-worthy decibel level, I'm not sure.

I think the worst part of it might have been when I started wondering if you'd seen the end coming the whole time. I think you had a glass of wine in your hand. I can't remember whether it was empty or full, but I do remember smelling the rest of the bottle on your breath. I always hated when you drank to ease your tension. I thought it was a sign of weakness, although I never told you that in such a direct manner.

I think the worst part of it might have been the empty, cackling screech of metal as the momentum of 65-mile-per-hour travel carried us sideways down the highway. It was like listening to you scream at me the first time we fought. I wanted so badly to study the asphalt, find some imperfections greater than my own, but I could already feel the sparks burning my neck.

I think the worst part of it might have been when it was going so well that I took it for granted. The priest sought to satisfy us both, the atheist and the Roman Catholic, and suggested "a civil union, and then we'll sprinkle in some Jesus." I remember you told me you couldn't be married by a man who treated your savior like a salad topping, and I remember that your insistence only made me laugh harder. I guess you weren't feeling prescient after that, or perhaps you just didn't like what your instincts were telling you.

I think the worst part of it might have been the impact. I had never once questioned my faith, but in that moment when the median first sent concrete-heavy tremors through the frame of the bus and up the back of my seat, I wondered whether this would be a good time to do so. I wondered if it would be worth it. I wondered if maybe a last-second conversion could send me to the afterlife, where I might wait for you at the gates, sitting cross-legged, my hopefully sad stare trained at the space between the wrought-iron spokes.

I think the worst part of it might have been the impact. It was like that pressurized feeling I'd had in my chest before, but now, 14 carats of white gold felt like the heaviest thing to ever drop into the palm of my hand. The reverberations hurried up my arm and devoured my sense of hearing, turning my brain into a rogue guitar string, and the only words I heard were "paperwork" and "sorry."

It was the impact. The worst part was definitely the impact.
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Some Quick Links to entertain you for the upcoming weekend:

I posted a new issue of 50 to 1 last weekend, and if you haven't read it yet, I recommend it - some excellent pieces.

xTx kicks ass, as usual, in this untitled post.

Glen is having a giveaway! Go! Win things!

I just discovered Kerry's blog (thank you DJ) but damn...she's good.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Pharoahe Monch (feat. Jean Grae & Royce da 5'9"), Assassins