TMoH #11: The Pony

And yet another edition of thirty minutes of hell!  Anyway if you don't know what I'm talking about, my introductory post on this topic provides a quick summary.

The writing prompt from NANO fiction is: Write a story about a character who receives a gift from a family member which changes how the character feels about that person.

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The Pony

"Here she is," John said, his voice artificially cheerful.  He already knew he had made a mistake, but how was that possible?  Wasn't this what Patricia wanted, had always wanted since she was a little girl.

"It's nice," Patricia said in a neutral voice.  She made no move towards the stall though, where her new pony stood sedately, its brown spots on its white coat moving up and down as it patiently chewed on something in its mouth.

Then there was silence.  John glanced over at the stablehand, who had retreated to the far corner.  Was he stifling a laugh?  "What do you-" he began, and then started again.  "You can name it anything you want, you know."

Patricia rolled her eyes.  "I'm not six anymore, dad.  Seriously, what would I do with a pony?  I'm with mom most of the time."  She fired a parting shot as she walked away: "I do like bacon bits though."  And John said nothing and clenched his fists and watched her go.

---

beep-beep-beep...

Eh... nope, this story sucks.  Seriously, a pony?

I guess it's truthful in the sense that it reflects something I'm scared of - losing the connection between me and my daughter.  But frankly, I can't see me being as out of touch as John or my daughter being as biting as Patricia.  Maybe that's why this reads so much like a parody.

TMoH #10: The Other World

And yet another edition of thirty minutes of hell!  Anyway if you don't know what I'm talking about, my introductory post on this topic provides a quick summary.

The writing prompt from NANO fiction is: Think up an unusual addiction and give it to your character. Write about how they go through each day, week, and month with this addiction.

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The Other World

The problem with Harold was that he read too many damn books.  Even when we were kids and I went over to his house to play, I'd have to sit in his room, fiddling with his action figures while I waited for him to finish a page or two or ten.  Did I mind?  Maybe sometimes, but not really.  It's cool to see someone love something so much.  And if I ever got annoyed on the outside, maybe it was just because I was jealous on the inside.

All of this was fine when we we still walked together to the small elementary school, but once we started taking the bus to the larger middle school, things changed.  When you're little, you're so physically sheltered from so much of the world that your mind has to fill the rest with wild guesses and extrapolations.  That's okay.  But if you want to become a functional adult, then those childhood flights of fancies have to go away, replaced by what's real.  That's what growing up is.

That's what Harold couldn't do.  Fifth grade was a feral delight for me; a chance to learn truths you can't learn in books: truths about girls and friendships and the way things work.  The things that really matter in life, I mean.  I tore into this new world with ravenous hunger.

But Harold?  His face would smooth and he'd just put on a painfully fixed smile.  His expression was just like a mask, and like a mask it couldn't hide his eyes: shiny and frantic.  I tried to help him, I really did, but instead of coming with me, he'd just retreat into another one of his damn books.  He was happy in them, you see.  He understood them.  It was where he wanted to live.

We stopped being friends eventually.  I was never mean to him, but by the end I was never precisely nice to him either.  It was hard to be around him.  He watched us like we were animals in a zoo, objects of wonder and pity and envy.  Did he ever realize we watched him like he was the one in a cage?  I don't know.

All of this is to say: I'm not surprised that he ran away.  This world, the one in this town, was one he didn't understand or want, so why wouldn't you leave to find the world that you want?  In a weird way, I suppose I'm proud of him for that.  Or... maybe not.

But no, I don't know where he is now.  I guess I could imagine it, but what would be the point?

---

beep-beep-beep...

This story may have lost its way.  It's supposed to be about how addicting imagination can be.  At its worst, a strong imagination can contort the truths of the world into the shapes you want them to be, and when things don't work out, what are you going to do?  Accept reality?  Or retreat back into the warm embrace of your mind?

The story doesn't really delve into that issue, however.  If I were to re-write it, Harold would need to be far more prominent, and there'd have to be additional details and specific scenes.  Oh well, I can always imagine that it's more complete than it is! (lol me)

Fiction: The Samurai

The Samurai

The girl slumbers as the samurai whispers into her dreams.  One of her fingers brushes the crest on his helmet that arcs up like a golden moon.  She clutches her toy and does not sleep well.

Earlier that afternoon, the girl pranced up the museum steps, action figure in one hand, invisible lightning bolts in the other; for she was, of course, a samurai who knew magic.  A large banner draped above the entrance depicted an imposing warrior charging forward, cherry blossoms floating over his head.  "For the shogunate!" her father said, grinning.  "For the choco-nut!" the girl shouted.  They laughed together.

The first display held a collection of katanas.  "What does that say?" the girl asked, pointing at a plaque.  Her father squinted.  "Carbon steel. . . polished and glazed. . . cut through armor and. . ."

"No," the girl declared.  "That's wrong.  Swords don't hit armor, they hit other swords."  She frowned as she swung her arm to demonstrate.

"Let's look at other things," her father said.

The girl asked no more questions, and spoke only with the tightening grip of her hand.  But as they wandered deeper through the dim and hushed corridors of the exhibit, she heard glimmers of whispered conversations, saw glimpses of meaning.  And the samurai, of course, understood everything.

A red battle mask, carved with empty eyes and a mouth turned down in an immortal scowl.  A stained banner depicting two birds, one ripped in two.  A wakizashi, used first to stab through a fallen foe's neck, then to saw through it completely.

And then the dioramas: the boy-Emperor Antoku held aloft by his grandmother, the eternal moment before she jumped with him into the sea.  A samurai stumbling backwards, two arrow shafts protruding from his chest.  A kneeling man clothed all in white holding a knife with its tip pointing towards his own abdomen; his second behind him, ready to deliver the decapitating stroke.

The girl ignored her father's increasingly insistent pull.  She studied each object, each display, before looking away.

As soon as they exited, her father picked her up.  She dropped her head on his shoulder in a way he thought she had forgotten.  Her samurai dangled loosely from her hand.

He murmured a comfort:  "You're still my samurai with lightning powers."  They both knew it was false.  The girl said nothing and fell asleep in the car.

And now the samurai whispers, and what he says, no one knows.  Does he speak of blood and mortality, transience and the void?  Are those half-formed concepts infecting her even now, a patient contagion that will manifest itself over time as thoughtful outbursts, contemplative sulks, honest silences?

Or perhaps he is planting a different kind of seed.  The samurai knows that no day is without shadow, no year without storm.  And someday, when the woman who was once a girl reaches a moment of darkness, perhaps the samurai wishes her to remember this: she once believed that she could call to the clouds, and the heavens would answer.

---

This feels less like a story than a meditation.

I've always told stories to my daughter that some might argue are a bit too mature for her.  No, not in the sex-and-violence sense; but in the thematic sense, most often with the idea that the world can be unkind, uncaring, and simply unfair.  Why?  Because I think it's true, and because I think it's a realization that many people eventually come to without having the proper emotional support.  Better to have my daughter learn now when she's still young enough to come to her father with her sadness and concerns.

All that being said, it's not like I keep my daughter in a Box of Tragedy.  People who know us know that we're both pretty... I'll be kind and say 'whimsical'.  We both like making people laugh, and I think we both have genuine hope for the future.

I think this story is my attempt to bring these two seemingly contradictory viewpoints together.

TMoH #9: The Daisy

It's Friday, so... wait, it's Saturday.  Whoops, looks like I slipped a day for this edition of thirty minutes of hell!  Anyway if you don't know what I'm talking about, my introductory post on this topic provides a quick summary.

The writing prompt from NANO fiction is: Write a piece about something that you can only learn outside a classroom setting. Forget Math, Science, History, and English—what are some subjects that aren’t taught in school, but that you think make important lessons?

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The Daisy

The little girl picked the white petals off the daisy, one by one by one.  With each petal she alternated between: my wish will and my wish won't.  It was her seventh daisy and by now she had learned to begin each flower with my wish won't.  As she picked the last petal off her current daisy, she smiled.  It was her third my wish will in a row.

Her mother came to her.  "We should have been home already," her mother said.  The little girl didn't look up.  She didn't like seeing how tight her mother was these days, as if her skin were a tense balloon on the verge of popping.

"Just one more," she said to her mother and picked another daisy.

"What are you doing?  Making wishes?"  Her mother's laugh was like a dull knife.  "What's that going to do?  How's that going to fix anything?"

"Maybe it won't," the little girl said, unconcerned.  "But there's nothing else I can do, is there?"

 There was no reply.  And after a moment her mother picked a daisy of her own.

---

beep-beep-beep...

The little girl sounds waaaay too old, and there's not enough setting here.  I also need to explain how the "s/he loves me" daisy game got transformed into a general wish game.  Oh, and if you're curious, a typical field daisy has 34 petals.

But I kinda like this story and actually it's fixable.  I think it has the potential to be a little bit sweet.  Perhaps bitterly so.

Fiction: Closing Eyes is Magic

I've published exactly one piece of fiction, ever: Closing Eyes is Magic in the online journal Monkeybicycle.  I'm quite proud of it; it feels both sparse and honest.  And I'm even more proud of the magic trick described, especially because I came up with it all by myself.

I hope you like the story too!

TMoH #8: The Birth

Another Friday, another thirty minutes of hell!  If you don't know what I'm talking about, my introductory post on this topic provides a quick summary.

The writing prompt from NANO fiction is: Write a story about something being born. It can be from the POV of the baby or of the parents or of the doctor. It can be about the birth of a human or an animal or even an idea. It can be set in the womb or the mind or the delivery room. It’s all up to you. One stipulation: no death, just birth.

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The Birth

The birth happened five years after they met and three years after they got married.  That was how long it took for the tempestuous crests and valleys of their relationship to settle, for the extremes of their passion and joy and doubt to level off into a flat plateau of certainty.  He had wanted children from the start; she was less certain that she was ready for the sacrifices and compromises that would be needed.

Yet he was insistent, if likeably so.  He charmed her with promises and visions of the future.  He spoke with patience but also with certainty, and it was the latter that wore down her defenses until she could no longer hold back his calm constancy.  And so it was that one year after their wedding, they began to try for a child.

Even now she will admit that it was fun at first.  There were seduction and games and smiles derived from hope for the future.  Remember: the plateau had not yet been reached.  Remember: they still loved each other.

Weeks turned to months turned to a year and there was no sign of a pregnancy.  His laughter turned bewildered, and her uncertainty returned.  But it was not until his puzzlement turned to frustration that her uncertainty started changing into something new, something that came into focus with each sullen glare or petty word.  This thing that was new was 'certainty', and that certainty was this: having a child would be a mistake.  Especially with this man she had married.

The birth happened the year after that.  It happened like this: the man found a prescription left carelessly - or was it? - on her nightstand.  He picked it up with a curiosity that turned to confusion as he deciphered the doctor's scribbled note.  And when the confusion turned to an understanding that she had never wanted to have a baby at all - that was the moment when the birth happened.  It was that moment when he knew that he hated his wife.

But what he still did not know was this: her hatred for him had been born nine months ago.

---

beep-beep-beep...

To those that know anything about me, I feel obligated to make this statement: this story has zero autobiographical features.  With that out of the way...

Well, that was unpleasant to write.  It came about because I have a contrary mind: I saw the word "birth" in the writing prompt and immediately thought "death".  Sadly the prompt creators forestalled me with their qualification that the written story could absolutely not be about death.  So I went for the next best thing: a story about a failed birth.

How would I continue work on this story?  First I would add some texture and depth to their disintegrating feelings for each other.  Right now I'm just 'telling', and although that may be okay-ish for an intentionally short story, I think two or three added details would help pull the reader in more.

Second: I would carefully consider whether either party in the marriage seems more at fault.  Neither one is supposed to be; instead the true culprit - lack of communication - is supposed to be shared.  So I think I'd have to step back for some time and then re-examine the story to see if any balancing is needed.

Well, this has not been an uplifting thirty minutes.  Time to see if the Red Sox can survive extra innings against the Yankees!

TMoH#7: No More Winter

Another thirty minutes of hell!  If you don't know what I'm talking about, my introductory post on this topic provides a quick summary.

The writing prompt from NANO fiction is: Write a story... where winter disappears forever.

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No More Winter

There was once a man who hated winter - hated the ice and the snow and the naked black branches of the trees all around.  His story is a tragedy - but only because he was both motivated and wealthy, and thus unable to learn how to accept the things that he did not like.

This is what he did.  He bought two homes, one in the Northern hemisphere and one in the Southern hemisphere.  And he spent six months of each year in each home, carefully timing his travels so as to never feel the biting winds nor see the pale winter sun.  It was a simple solution, as the solutions for the rich often are, and it worked: the man never experienced winter ever again in his lifetime.

So why is this story a tragedy?  It is because once the man solved his problem, he never had to think about winter ever again in his lifetime.  It became neither a source of satisfaction nor dissatisfaction; instead it was simply gone as a concept, never to trouble his mind ever again.  And so perhaps the man was not unhappy; but neither was he happy.  He simply was, and what satisfaction there can be in that I cannot fathom.

---

beep-beep-beep...

Confession: this was originally going to be a story about a bunch of penguins driving the earth into the sun, and don't deny that you would have wanted to read it.

But alas!  I guess an entire day spent with my daughter has imposed a lecturing mood upon me, and that's why I wrote a dry - and frankly, illogical and nonsensical - fable instead.  Ah well, maybe I'll use this in a story where a confused little girl is forced to listen to one of her father's bizarre and rambling stories.

TMoH #6: Heartbreak

Yes, it's time for another thirty minutes of hell!.  If you don't know what I'm talking about, my introductory post on this topic provides a quick summary.

The writing prompt from NANO fiction is: Write about a character with a tradition. This can be a ritual that involves superstitions, something surrounding religion, or any other kind of thing you can think of.

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Heartbreak

By the time he reached a certain age he knew exactly what to do when his heart broke.  He would take a firm grip upon his right arm with his left; then he would guide his right arm - ever so slowly and ever so carefully! - down his throat, using his limb like a precision surgical tool.

You might think that it would be difficult to do something like this without doing severe damage to your internals; but by the time he reached a certain age he could do it almost without thinking.  His right arm would slide down his esophagus and brush behind the aveoli of his lungs and then it would be at its destination: his heart, beating oddly and insistently - or insistently oddly? - within the cage of his ribs.

It was simple from that point on; remember, by the time he reached a certain age he had performed this procedure upon himself tens of times.  He would simply use his fingers to feel along the raw surface of his wounded heart until he located the break; then he would massage the break closed, gently pressing and folding the sad material of his heart until the break was sealed.

And then he would use his left arm to retract his arm, smiling all the while; for by the time he reached a certain age he knew that his self-operation would lead to health and success.  His heart would be healed, beating steadily and in time once more, and he would be free to go back into the world and have his heart broken all over again.

---

beep-beep-beep...

I'm aping the style of a classmate of mine from a writing course; she wrote beautifully strange pieces that used grotesque metaphors to heighten inner turmoil and conflict.  I'm nowhere near as good at this technique as she is; my stories tend towards the literal rather than the metaphorical, and I don't have a good enough grasp of imagery to heighten the surrealness of the tale to memorable levels.

Still, it's fun to try once in a while.  And yes, I do honestly feel that a broken heart mended is simply one that is ready to be broken once more (but it's better than having a heart turn to stone).

TMoH #5: The Dragon's Wish

Once again: thirty minutes of hell!.  If you don't know what I'm talking about, my introductory post on this topic provides a quick summary.

The writing prompt from NANO fiction is: Write about someone going into a witness relocation program.

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The Dragon's Wish

There came a time when the dragon grew tired of fighting the knights that came to him weekly.  Although 'fighting' was too kind, as each encounter consisted of an idiot knight marching up to the mouth of his cave and shouting imprecations - rude ones! - until the dragon could no longer ignore the buzzing in his ears, whereupon he would stick his neck out and fry the knight with one quarter-powered blast of flame.

Dragons live long lives, and after a hundred years this dragon realize that this situation was unlikely to change unless he did something about it.  So he took wing and visited Merlin.  The wizard quickly acceded to his request, merely asking for a small donation of dragon scales which the dragon gave.  Then Merlin waved his wand, mumbled some nonsense words, and poof!  The dragon turned into a young human man.

A person might think that it is difficult for a dragon to live his years out as a human; if so, then that person clearly does not know what a dragon's daily life entails.  Although the dragon-turned-man no longer had many of his former skills - flight or fire-breathing among them - his draconic spirit and can-do attitude carried him a long way.  He quickly amassed a fortune - no mean feat within the strict social castes of the Dark Ages - and lived a life of safety and comfort and hard, hard work.

And yet - there came a day when the dragon-turned-man woke up and realized that his tasks and difficulties of the coming week were much the same as those of the week before and the week before that.  And what of the next week and the week after that?  An unending parade of drudgery, no better than when he had been a dragon.

So he bought a fine suit of armor and a fine longsword and rode away on a fine horse.  As he approached a local dragon's lair, he wondered briefly: did he hope to defeat the dragon, or to be consumed by it?  And that was when he realized that the answer didn't matter one whit to him, and that understanding gave him a freedom that he had never felt in all his years as a dragon or as a man.

---

beep-beep-beep...

Sometimes you really want to write about dragons.  What can I say?

I didn't get the beats or consistency of this fable right, but I think this is a reasonable start.  Small note: I originally gave the dragon a name, but after shuffling through hundreds of choices and settling on 'Drason', I gave up and made him anonymous.  Hey, it made me happy.

Fiction: The Girl with the Pink Balloon

The Girl with the Pink Balloon

On the first Saturday of his unemployment, Mark left his apartment and took his usual early morning walk.  Four blocks away, he stopped with his hand on the open door of the coffee shop and reconsidered his routine.  He stood there for a while, people giving him strange looks as they pushed on by.  Thoughts danced and whirled and died in his brain, and after a while, he moved on.

There was nothing for him back at home, so he kept walking.  The early fall weather was pleasant and cool.  He walked by shuttered banks and empty restaurants, passed darkened stores that sold clothes and toys and shoes, and when he came to a playground, he stopped.

He leaned against the chest-high fence and watched as the dim light and breeze rippled shadows across the abandoned bars and swings and slides.  The emptiness felt like a broken promise, a bruise on the heart that he knew he deserved.  Mark smiled and lifted the latch on the gate, careful to close it behind him.  He sat on the far bench and watched as dry leaves spun through the open spaces.  And because he had nowhere to go, he stayed there.

As the morning trickled onwards, the playground filled before him.  Mothers and fathers came in with strollers in front and bundled kids in tow.  Children ran and played, filling the air with shouts and screams, laughter and cries.  A few parents pointed fingers and directed whispers his way, and those who did not still gave him a wide berth.  This was all fine. The trees were lightly dressed in red and brown, with small birds hopping from branch to branch.  The sun ascended higher into the sky; people came and people left.  He felt light, untethered, a feather in the wind.  Mark leaned back, closed his eyes, and drifted away.

His return was sudden and unpleasant.  A small hand was shaking his knee insistently.
Mark's head swung from side to side, and he fought queasiness as he slowly opened his eyes.  He was still in the playground; by the shift in the shadows, some time had passed.  A little girl stood before him, looking up.  She held a large pink balloon, fingers pressing dimples into its surface.  "I said hi, Daddy," she said.  Her face was tight; a small wrinkle creased her forehead.

A moment of vertigo, a touch of nausea in the brain.  Dark hair, dark eyes, that frown on her face. . .  “Claire?”  He reached out his hand, the start of a smile on his face.

“I'm not Claire, I'm Sylvia.  And you're my new Daddy.”

Mark pressed his lips together as reality flooded back.  It had been three and a half years.  Claire was eight now, this girl no more than four or five.  And Claire lived very far away.  "I'm not your dad," he said, voice flat.  He craned his neck and looked for the girl's real father, dropping an arm down onto the bench to steady himself.

Sylvia wiped her nose with the back of her hand, and for a moment, the pink balloon covered her entire face.  Mark caught himself before he could stop her.  The girl's tattered jacket was far too small for her, and she wore thin pants that left her legs exposed.  “You weren't yesterday.  I didn't have a Daddy yesterday.  But I made a wish, see?"  She held out her balloon, squeezing it in the middle so that it puffed up at the top and the bottom, looking like an animal trying to wriggle free.  Confused, Mark reached out to take it, only to have the girl snatch the balloon back, clutching it as if it was her only friend.  "You don't have any kids, right?" she asked.

"I. . ."  Mark paused, then picked the most honest answer.  "I don't."

"See?  My wish worked.  You can be my Daddy."  She stuck out her hand.  "I want to go home now."

Talking to small children was like riding a bike; you could never forget how.  "How can I take you home?  I don't know where you live.  And what would your mom think?"

Sylvia shrugged.  "She doesn't care.  You talk to me more than she does.  All she does is talk to her boyfriends on her phone.  And yell."  She pointed across the playground.  Mark followed her finger and saw a young woman in her mid-twenties leaning against the chain-link fence.  She wore a tight white blouse and jeans.  Unlike the other parents waiting there, she held a cell phone to her ear.  Her other hand rubbed her forehead, back and forth and back again, and by her expression, she was lost somewhere very far away.

"Besides, part of my wish is that she's not my mommy anymore,” Sylvia said.  “Are you married?”

The answer came quick this time.  "Nope," he replied, and was relieved to find that, unlike the previous question, this one did not hurt.

"That's okay.  Before I didn't have a Daddy, now I don't have a Mommy.  Come on, let's go."

"Look, I'm sure that your mom cares about you.  And even if something's wrong, can't you use your magic balloon to fix things?"

"It can't do that.  It can't make all wishes come true.  Just one for each person, and just some of them.  That's the rules."

Mark laughed despite himself.  He stood up, and for the first time since waking, he noticed that the playground was full of shouts and happy cries, children running and sliding and swinging.  He raised his arms and stretched.  "Well, let's go check with your mom - your old mom - and if she says it's okay, we can go home.  Okay?"

Sylvia said nothing.  Then she nodded, slowly, as if she had turned to stone.  Even though he knew better, Mark reached out, and the little girl took his hand without hesitation.  When her fingers squirmed to find a grip he smiled, remembering the way another small hand had once moved against
his.

But that was all gone, he remembered.  His smile faded.  All gone, and by his own choice.

They walked together across the playground in a small bubble of silence.  Mark took small, slow steps, and his stomach cramped when he realized why.  He stole a glance at Sylvia, and was startled to see a shine in the corner of her eye.  He thought desperately, trying to remember something he had once told Claire. . .

"Why was six afraid of seven?" Mark asked suddenly.

Sylvia blinked.  "What?"

"It's a joke.  Why was six afraid of seven?"   

She thought for a moment.  "I don't know, why?"

"Because seven ate nine!"

Sylvia frowned.  "I know seven-eight-nine-ten-eleven-thirteen-fourteen. . ."

"No, it's a joke.  Seven ate nine.  You know, like how people eat spaghetti or Cheerios."

"Like. . ."  Sylvia screwed up her face, thinking.  "Oh, I get it!  That's funny!"  She laughed, once and then twice, and in that instant Mark knew his life, each past mistake a demon with sharp teeth, each new day a fresh wound that would never heal.  He turned away and let go of her hand.  They had reached Sylvia's mother.

"Excuse me?  Ma'am?"

The woman glanced up at him, then at the little girl, then back.  She raised one finger, continuing to listen intently into her phone, and now Mark could see that the mother's eyes were puffy and red rimmed; in them he saw – recognized - withdrawal and a kind of desperate refusal.

He came to a decision.

“Hey,” Mark whispered.  Sylvia looked at him.  “One wish, right?”

Sylvia nodded and held up the pink balloon.  He took it from her and felt his fingers sink into the thin latex.  The balloon's air was leaking out; in another day or two, it would be nothing but a shriveled skin.  He hesitated for a moment.  There was a sudden light in Sylvia's face.  He closed his eyes, then looked at her and forced a smile.  I'm sorry, but this can't be for you.

Mark rubbed his right palm over the balloon, and made his wish.

---

This was the first story I wrote after a long hiatus, and the first one I wrote after my daughter was born.  It may be lacking in subtlety and missing a certain amount of grace - but it feels honest enough, and I like it for that!

The Fable of the Circle and the Rectangle

This is the first story I ever wrote for my daughter.  Note the extreme artistry.

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For some reason I always crack up whenever I read the last line of this story - maybe because after a certain point blatant moralizing becomes funny rather than annoying.

I am also extremely proud of the expressions on the characters' faces.  Well done, me!

TMoH #4: Not Yet Six

Here's another thirty minutes of hell!.  If you don't know what I'm talking about, my introductory post on this topic provides a quick summary.

The writing prompt from NANO fiction is: Write a prose poem, flash piece, or micro essay about a five-year-old.

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Not Yet Six

Marilyn thought that a trip to Moo Moos, the ice cream parlor a few blocks away, would cheer her son up.  But they had barely stepped outside their apartment building when Billy began to fuss, whining while trying to climb up her damn leg like a persistent monkey.  "I'm tired," he said, over and over and over again, as if she wasn't completed exhausted from her long day.  "I'm tired."

"I'm tired too, Billy," Marilyn said, fighting to keep her voice calm.  "And it's a nice afternoon, and we're going to get ice cream.  Can't you just walk by yourself for a little bit?"

"No!" Billy shrieked and plopped down in the middle of the sidewalk, his butt barely missing the evaporating puddle that was the remnant of last weekend's rains.  A passerby in a suit glanced at him quickly, winced, and strode on by.  For a moment Marilyn wished she could do the same.

"Besides you're the one who wanted to get ice cream.  It's not fair if I have to walk to get the ice cream you wanted!"

Marilyn stared at her son (who had his eyes locked on the ground), truly flabbergasted by what he had just said.  Did he - could he - really believe that they were getting ice cream for her?  She wanted to scream at him, she wanted to break down in tears, but in the end she settled for the easiest thing to do: she laughed.

"Okay, fine," she said, and held out her arms.  Billy brightened immediately and jumped up.  Marilyn stumbled for a moment - sometimes it seemed as if Billy were gaining pounds by the second - and then found her balance.  Still she staggered a few steps before adjusting his weight properly.  This isn't so bad, she scolded herself.  He's still very young and the past year hasn't been easy for him.  Plus, you could use the exercise!

Two blocks later she had had all the exercise she could stand.  His small tousled head was no longer resting on her shoulder; instead he was swinging his head about in little jerks, looking from side to side with great interest while kicking his feet, and now he was starting to slip.  "Okay," Marilyn huffed, "that's enough.  Time to walk, big boy."

Far more compliant now that he had gotten his way, Billy slid down her body, landed on his feet, and soon they were walking hand-in-hand.  "Look around," she said, able to look around herself now that she didn't have to concentrate on holding up a five year old in the 80th percentile of the weight chart.  "Look at all the kids walking with their Mommies and... and their Daddies.  Do you see anyone else being carried?"

To his credit Billy did look around.  "But they're all big kids," he said.  "They're all six years old, or maybe seven or even eight.  I'm not even six years old yet!"

Marilyn looked down at him, eyes gleaming.  "Does that mean I don't have to carry you when you're six years old?"

Caught, Billy squirmed.  "Maybe," he mumbled.  "Maybe."  Then he brightened.  "There it is Mommy!  Let's race!"  And he let go of her hand and ran to the hideously colored cow in front of Moo Moos.

***

That night after Marilyn had read him his bedtime story, Billy went quiet almost at once, snuggled tightly in between Mr. Roar (a tattered blue teddy bear) and Patty (a green dinosaur that he always indignantly prevented her from calling a 'Brontosaurus', although she was pretty sure that it was one).  Standing up, she kissed him once on the forehead and went to the door.

"Mommy?"

She turned back.  "Yes, sweetheart?"  In the soft glow of his nightlight she saw that his eyes were still closed.

"How old are you?"

"Hm.  How old do you think I am?"

"I don't know.  Like... nineteen?"

"I'm thirty-four, sweetheart."  The correction didn't hurt; in fact it made her smile.

"Oh.  Okay."

Silence.

She was about to leave when he spoke once more.  "Mommy?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think you can be happy again when you're thirty-five?"

She stood absolutely still, suddenly paralyzed.  And while on the one hand she was regretful that her son had noticed how tired and lonely and, yes, sad she so often was now - on the other hand a secret part of her was glad that he knew.

So she said, "Maybe.  Anything can happen when we grow older."

Billy smiled, eyes still closed, and said, "Well, maybe I can help you.  When I'm older too, I mean.  When I'm six."

Quietly, she said, "Maybe you can."

Billy said nothing more.  And after a few more moments Marilyn left to face what was left of the night.

---

beep-beep-beep...

I like writing about children, having one of my own that I find endlessly fascinating.  Children are simple to read, but that doesn't make them simple; in their own innocent way they bubble up the true complexity of life that adults often fight so hard to keep hidden away, for better or for worse.

 Another fascinating thing about children is their almost mystical attitude about age.  Each turning of the year is magically transformative, enabling them to suddenly do things like walk on their own or sleep with the lights off.  I find that belief sweet and a little sad - not for them, but for us grownups that find change so hard to come by.

That's the attitude that I tried to capture in thirty minutes, and it's not all together there.  There needs to be more complexity in Marilyn's thought, more indications as to her backstory (a divorced single mom), and more genuine unhappiness.  And I think Billy needs to have a lot more volatility.

Still, I kinda like this for what it is: a very very early draft of an idea I don't hate.  Oh, and please don't tell my daughter this, but I still like carrying her once in a while.   It really is good exercise :P

Fiction: The Book Burner

This story came from a thought that might make a good flash fiction prompt: think of an action you can't imagine ever doing, then write a story where someone has a reason to do it.

 

---

The Book Burner

"Hey.  Hey mister, what are you doing?"

The old man didn't look up.  It was obvious what he was doing.  So he said nothing.

"Hey mister, can I help?"

The old man hesitated.  He knew the kid, a boy who had moved into the house next door earlier in the spring.  He had seen him riding a bicycle with training wheels up and down the driveway.  There was no harm in it, the old man decided, and handed a book to the boy, a paperback with a grim-looking cowboy on the cover.  "I'll leave home then," said Billy, strapping on his sleeping father's guns.  He turned away from the rising sun and smiled.  "I'll go West to find my fortune and my fame."

It was his own voice he heard reading the words.  The voice haunted him day and night, whispering words like falling snow.

The boy tossed the book onto the grill.  The flames quickly enveloped it, stabbing the cowboy through and through.  The boy laughed and clapped, and for the first time since hearing the news, the old man felt his heart lighten.

They watched until it was nothing but a blackened husk with pieces falling through the grate.  Then the old man reached down and threw another book on the fire.  Thurston hesitated. . . and then slammed his fist down on the hyperspace button.  It was true that the Slurvax outnumbered Earth's space fleet 10-to-1.  "But it only takes one man to make a difference," he said out loud.  "It only takes one man to be a -"

"Mister, can I do the next one?"

The old man handed the kid another book.  The boy started to throw it, then stopped.

"This one looks pretty cool.  A knight!"  The boy flipped through the pages, examining the illustrations.  "I bet he goes on a quest.  I bet he kills a dragon!"  The boy swung the book like a sword and then looked up at the old man, face bright with excitement.  The old man closed his eyes.  "Father, I have to go," Gerald said.  "There's no one else left to fight the beast."

The boy was asking a question.  "- I?  Mister, can I have this one, please?"

"No, you can't have it."  The old man snatched the book away.  "It belonged to someone else."  It was true.  He had merely read the words aloud.  The stories, the damnable stories, had taken root in his son's heart.

The boy stared at him open-mouthed.  "Why are you burning it then?  If you don't want it, why can't I have it?"

The old man's chest grew tight.  "My duty means more to me than my death," Gerald said.  The young squire swung himself up onto the horse.  "Father, why won't you understand?"

He nearly screamed the words.  "You're a selfish brat."  The wind had changed, his eyes were watering, and he turned away from the smoke.  "Fuck off.  Fuck off, I said!"

The boy burst into tears.  He ran a short distance towards his house, only stopping to yell, "I'm telling my mom!"  Then he was gone.

The old man stared into the fire, watching the hypnotically flickering embers.  He caressed the book with his thumb.  He hadn't wanted to chase the boy away.  He had wanted him to stay. 

He took a deep, shuddering breath.  Then he threw the book onto the fire and watched as the words turned to ash.

---

I hate the idea of burning books.  But there are things that I dread more, and this story is about one of them (which it turns out I can't bring myself to explicitly name).

On a sidenote, I've never said "Hey mister" in my life.  I can't help but think that this opening comes from some other story, but I can't figure out which...

TMoH #3: A New Year

And here we are again, with another thirty minutes of hell.  If you don't know what I'm talking about, my introductory post on this topic provides a quick summary.

The writing prompt from NANO fiction is: Write a micro essay, flash fiction piece, or prose poem about a New Year’s Resolution. Be specific!

---

A New Year

On the first day of the new year, Oscar woke up and decided that he was done with pizza.  Finishing off the pie had seemed like a good idea at the time (what was the point in saving the last piece or two?  who really liked re-heated pizza?).  But his stomach was telling him now what his brain should have known last night: it had been a mistake.

He stretched, wincing, and forced himself out of bed and into his desk chair.  Then he wrote down the date and his new resolution ("FUCK PIZZA" was his elegant way of putting it), and filed it away with the others.  Then he started his painful preparations for the day ahead.

***

He had expected the walk to the bus stop to hurt, but to his surprise, it seemed to massage away his aches and cramps.  By the time he got to work in the call center, Oscar was in a fine mood, whistling cheerily and greeting his co-workers with a big smile.

Some of them came by his workspace and asked if he wanted to join them for lunch; they were going to the pizza joint a block away.  Oscar smiled regretfully and shook his head.  "I can't," he said, "I made a resolution."  His co-workers laughed.  "Another one?" they said, but left him alone to his own devices.  He ate a cold sandwich from the building's commissary instead.  It tasted disgusting.

Who knew that lunch was such a key component of the day?  Oscar only realized the truth of this as he stepped off the bus for the walk home in a bit of a cloud.  He was hungry, and no matter what he did, he couldn't get pizza out of his mind.  The weather in September had also turned chill faster than he expected, and the light jacket he wore wasn't much protection.  He scowled as he took step after step, shooting one furious glance into the pizza restaurant he sometimes ate at for dinner... and then stopped.

There was someone new working behind the register, someone new with lively eyes.  She was leaning against the counter looking off into space.  Then suddenly she turned and looked directly at him.  Oscar blushed, shame-faced.  To his surprise the woman laughed and beckoned him in.

Oscar's flush heightened.  His resolution flashed through his mind as he backed away with what he was sure was a ridiculous expression on his face.  He held his hands up as if to say Sorry, my bad, and hurried away.  The truth was that even without his resolution, he would have probably refused to go in.

He returned to his apartment in a confused state, a mix of disgust at himself and despair at his future... and an odd sort of hope.  She had waved him in, after all.  He glared at his resolution box... and the brightened.  Almost running to his desk, he sat down, tore his morning's resolution to shreds, and then wrote a new one, dating it for the next day.  "Every day a new year," he said.  "Every single day."

---

beep-beep-beep...

And this is what you get when you have a reasonable story idea and too little time to add minor things such as characterization, subtlety, or detail.  Ugh.  The whole thing clearly needs to be reworked to flesh out Oscar much, much more, with a greater sense of the twin optimism and pessimism that I imagine he has; and to make the events of the day read more organically, rather than as the clearly artificial constructs they are.

Still, I do like the central conceit of the story, so there is that.  Maybe I should make a resolution to finish it sometime (haha, I'm so funny)!

Fiction: The Biggest Number in the World

That 'infinity' sure is crazy, am I right?

 

---

The Biggest Number in the World

Sixty-two.  Sixty-three.  Martin lay on his back and breathed deeply, slowly, calmly.  His lips moved, barely, and the slightest of whispers slipped away into the dark.  His parents were talking downstairs.  Their voices were muffled, but if he tried, Martin thought he might be able to make out a word or two.  He didn't try.  He knew they were talking about him, their only child.  He knew that they didn't know what to do with him.

Sixty-eight.  Neither did his school.  He had always been a quiet student, and if he had been quieter than usual over the last week, well, at least he never caused trouble.  Until today.  A child had asked Mrs. McGregor a question, and the fourth-grade teacher had laughed.  Numbers go on forever, she had said.  There is no such thing as a 'biggest number'.  And then Martin had stood; startled, everyone looked at him.  Liar! he had screamed.  Liar!  Liar!

Seventy-two.  Because maybe there was no such thing as a 'biggest number', but there was the biggest number that mattered, and it was this: the number of breaths one took in a lifetime.  Beyond that, who cared?

Seventy-sev. . .  Martin rubbed his eyes, exhausted.  He hadn't slept well in days.

He imagined numbers streaming out into space, growing darker and darker as they stretched out into infinity.  He imagined himself clutching and clawing at them, flailing as they grew slick and lost shape.  He imagined himself slipping, falling, down and down into. . . what?

That was the question he feared, the one that suffocated his nights like a dull gray fog.  The answer was obvious, inevitable, and to live the rest of his life with that knowledge?  Unthinkable.

No, Martin thought.  That won't happen, not to me.  One more breath.  Always, just one more.  His face smoothed.  It was easy.

Seventy-seven.  Seventy-eight.  He felt warm, as if the numbers embraced him, as if they pulsed in time with his heart, his blood.  Seventy-nine.  He smiled.  He felt strong.  He felt like he could go on forever.

---

In some odd paradoxical way, I've always associated infinity with death.  Perhaps it's because infinity means that there'll always be a bigger number, one that you'll never know (in fact, since infinity is not a number, this means that there's a number beyond which no creature in this universe will ever conceive).  And really, that's the troubling thing about death, isn't it?  Not just that you'll be gone, but that the rest of the world will continue on?

As a kid, I was terrified of death, of the emptiness and blankness and the thought that your consciousness can simply be erased.  I lay awake at night pondering this idea, and although I didn't tie the concept together with infinity back then, it seems strangely logical now.

TMoH Special Magic Edition: Crux of Fate

Considering the constraints Magic: the Gathering operates under when telling a story - the largest being the need to express a linear plot through a non-linear set of cards - I'd say that the game's team has done a very credible job of creating an epic fantasy.

Take the latest block for example.  Tarkir is a world where dragons have long since been driven extinct.  In their place five warring clans scrabble for dominance in a land slowly being driven to ruin by the constant fighting.

Tormented by voices in his head, the dragon-loving Planeswalker Sarkhan Vol returns home to Tarkir.  Long suspected by others to be insane, he now learns that the voices are not a sign of madness, but murmurings from the past.  Centuries ago, two enormously powerful dragon Planeswalkers - Nicol Bolas and Ugin - battled for dominance.  It is Ugin's defeat and death that ultimately drives the dragons of Tarkir to extinction, and it is Ugin's ghost-whispers that Sarkhan hears today.  Sarkhan is now presented with an opportunity: to travel back in time and save Ugin - and the dragons of Tarkir - from their fates.

The key moment of this story is presented in a single card, titled Crux of Fate:

[ full wallpaper ]

It's an epic moment, one that the Magic creative team presented in an online short story, The Reforged Chain.  This story tells not only of the battle between Nicol Bolas and Ugin, but also explores the immediate aftermath as Sarkhan races to save the dying Ugin.

The story isn't bad.  However it fails to evoke the grandeur and scale of the moment captured in Crux of Fate (perhaps due to space constraints), presenting the action in more matter-of-fact terms.  And after I was done reading, I couldn't help but wonder: could I do better... ?

Interesting question!  I'll give myself thirty minutes to find an answer.

---

Crux of Fate

Sarkhan opened his eyes to madness.

The sky was blighted, a roiling bruised pattern of gray and purple.  Lightning crackled through the clouds in whites and reds and blacks.  Thunder shook the world, and between the crashes of sound he could hear the wailing cries of thousands.

At first he thought that the voices that had been trapped inside of his head had somehow escaped.  He had been told that the complex enchantment that he wove using the dormant power trapped in Ugin's pristine bones would allow him to splinter the barrier of time, to reclaim the moment when the great Elder Dragon had fallen at the hands of Nicol Bolas and doomed the dragons of Tarkir for all time.  But what if it had all been a trick?  What if the spell had merely allowed his voices to escape, insanity given form?

Suddenly bone-weary, Sarkhan struggled to stand, clutching his worn staff with both hands.  His strength was nearly gone, his power spent.  Had his madness finally claimed victory over him?  Very well; he would resist to the end.  "To the end, do you hear me?" he shrieked, and could not hear his own challenge.  The wind tore the sound from his words even as another roar of thunder shook the earth, spilling him onto his knees.

He closed his eyes.  Gritting his teeth, Sarkhan forced himself back up.  I will not die on my back, he swore.  I will not!  He opened his eyes, ready to shout out his final defiance - and then his eyes widened.  He sank back down on his knees, trembling as holy wonder and terror consumed his soul.

In the distance, dwarfing the crumbling peaks of rock and stone over which they fought, two gods in dragon form battled.  One a tarnished gold, his body plated with stolen runed armor, his eyes a bilious green, his veined wings spread like that of a giant bat: Nicol Bolas.  The other an unearthly pale blue, his lithe body shimmering with ghostfire magic, his feathered wings flaring: Ugin.  The two Elder Dragons struggled in the midst of a chaotic whirl of blinding energies, reduced to striking with sharp tooth and brutal claw.  And surrounding them both, birthed from the tempestuous energies they had unleashed, the dragons of Tarkir came into being, screamed their defiance, and fell as chaotic powers shattered their bodies.

---

Okay: writing fantasy is hard.

I cheated a bit with this one.  I had an outline of the scene sketched out in my head before I started, and even with that advantage, I barely managed to make it halfway to my goal.  What's missing?

• The sight of his beloved dragons re-energize Sarkhan; in the grip of a near-religious frenzy, he takes on dragon form and flies towards the Elder Dragons, uncaring of his own safety.
• He starts getting torn apart in the maelstrom, but doesn't care.  It's like being called to rapture.
• And then Ugin falls, the maelstrom dissipates, Sarkhan suddenly remembers himself.  As Nicol Bolas departs, Sarkhan lands by Ugin's side, suddenly remembering his purpose.
• But how can he - a mere insect in comparison to the vastness of Ugin's presence - heal the Elder Dragon?  Moment of uncertainty, fear, etc.
• He goes for it anyway.  Of course.

It seems so basic in outline form, so simple and direct.  But the difficulty - for me, at least - is that epic fantasy requires, well, a sense of epic-ness.  And it takes added time and work to imbue a story with that feeling.  It's something that doesn't come naturally for me.

Still!  This was a fun little exercise.  Maybe I'll try it again someday.

Fiction: Whatever doesn't kill you

This story was delightfully easy to write.
 

---

Whatever doesn't kill you

makes you stronger.  This is what my friend said when he took me out to dinner not long after she left me.  I sat back, chewed it over, and realized that my friend didn't mean whatever doesn't kill you; he meant whatever hurts you.  So when he reached for another piece of calamari, I stabbed the back of his hand with my fork.  He grimaced in surprise, sucking in his breath and hissing out his pain, and when I asked him if he felt any stronger, he threw his beer at me and called me a fucking asshole and left.

A fucking asshole.  That was rich, coming from him.  Yet, as I watched him rush out of the restaurant with one hand cradled by the other, I had to admit that his stride did look more forceful, more purposeful.  Stronger, one might say.  And that was when I realized I might just be the strongest man in the whole wide world.

---

Back in college, some of my friends were waaaay into working out.  Which was cool and all, but it always took me aback when one of them started screaming in pain, and another screamed back, "Yeah dude!  Whatever doesn't kill you make you stronger!"

Being the contrarian that I am, I mulled this claim over in my mind, and one day I asked, "Hey, what if, you know, a lion ate your hand or leg or something?  Or what if the lion left you like that dude in Monty Python, the one with no arms or legs?  Would that really make you stronger?"

My friends were forced to concede that, yes, I had a point, and from them on they qualified their statement: "Yeah dude!  Whatever doesn't kill you or irreparably maim you makes you stronger!"

This story is both an homage to their original statement, and an apology for being such a stickler for details.  Sorry guys, and thanks for putting up with me!

TMoH #2: Most Improved

Another thirty minutes of hell! If you don't know what I'm talking about, my introductory post on this topic provides a quick summary.

The writing prompt from NANO fiction is: Write an essay, flash fiction piece, or prose poem of under 300 words about a person not many people know who is famous for one specific thing.

---

Most Improved

It was starting to smell, a faint but troubling brownish odor that was no doubt leaking out from within Jared's dirty jeans.  Mark held resolutely still anyway, burying his face into the grass and breathing in the comfortably natural smell of dirt.  In his mind he could feel his wrists spinning and his thighs aching as he tensed and jumped, over and over and over...

Eventually Jared got bored and stood up, lifting himself off of the back of Mark's head.  Mark scrambled to his feet at once, taking a disoriented step or two as he tried to regain his balance.  It was more than his balance that was off; he caught himself right before he was about to make a small hop in the air.  Stop that, he chided himself - but with a smile - and got ready to run.  He knew better than to struggle once caught, but once he was free?  Getting ready to flee was just common sense.

Jared had no interest in further torments though; perhaps Mr. Offsprung's lackadaisical gaze had drawn too close for comfort.  "You're still a loser," Jared said, backing away.  He kicked the paperback book on the ground, and the cover half-ripped.  "No one in class likes you.  You'll always just be a dumb stupid loser."

Mark said nothing.  He waited until Jared had tromped away.  Then he sighed and went to pick up his book.  The library wouldn't like this, he thought sadly as he examined the tear, one that split the silhouette of the detective into two.  In his mind he remembered the feel of the rope catching against his ankle.  A hundred stumbles and falls from the past happened all at once.

He shrugged and checked his watch.  There were only ten minutes left in recess, six hundred seconds for him to dive back into his book, six hundred thousand milliseconds until it was time to line back up and march back into his third grade class.

Mark smiled and began to twirl his wrists once more.  "What do you mean, 'only'?" he said out loud.  There were still ten minutes left, and even if he was a loser now - and he was pretty sure he was; why deny the obvious? - there were still months, weeks, days in which to get better!  He thought he could.  He knew he could.  After all, who had been named 'Most Improved at Jump Rope' three years ago?  It certainly hadn't been Jared!

And so with a smile, Mark plopped himself down on the ground, found his page (147) and continued to read.

---

beep-beep-beep...

Okay, I cheated - but in my defense, thirty minutes isn't a lot of time to think of a person who's "just famous enough" while also figuring out a story about that person.  So instead I came up with one specific thing that I'm proud of accomplishing that nearly no one knows about: being named the Most Improved Jump Roper all the way back in kindergarten.

This is completely serious, by the way.  I sucked at jumping rope as a six year old, and I remember working really, really, really hard to get better.  And when my efforts were recognized... wow!  Pow!  Sometimes trying really hard really is enough!  Really!

The rest of this story comes from a conscious effort to write something a bit more uplifting.  I think there's a common mistake made by novice writers like me, and that's to believe that 'depressing' equates to 'adult' and 'hopeful' equates to 'childish'.  That's simply not true.

A few more notes

• I started this story knowing that I wanted to tie in Mark's memory of his jump roping award with his optimism that life will get better.  The first draft of the story had no reference to his award; that started to get layered in during the second draft, which is what you see above.
• Subsequent drafts would have tried to integrate his memory with his current situation a bit more seamlessly.  They would have also tried to deepen his interior feelings somewhat and maybe add a bit of self-conflict.  Right now, Mark comes off as unnervingly blasé.
• I wasn't really bullied all that much in school.  In fact, for a few glorious months, I got much of my small third grade class hooked on Agatha Christie novels.

Fiction: The Watcher

I wrote this flash fiction story a little over... three years ago??  Time sure does fly sometimes.
 

---

The Watcher

The young man didn't notice her at first.  The early evening flow of commuters draining out of the city had subsided, and the train was quiet, with plenty of seats empty.  He chose to stand anyway, and when he glanced up, he saw the young woman standing across from him.

She was reading a paperback book with a pale blue cover.  The young man could not make out the title, and even if he could, he would not have known it, for he was not a reader.  It was a literary book, though.  The discreet cover and restrained title told him that.

The woman was less discreet.  She wore a tight black sweater and a turquoise pleated skirt that went down mid-thigh.  As befit the winter months, she also wore flesh-covered hose that hung loose around her slim legs and wrinkled around her knees.

He studied her face.  Her dark brown hair was pulled back in a short, tight ponytail. Her face was carved like a cadaver, pale freckled skin over bone and a slight frown like a drained cut. Her posture was tense, and while he examined her, her head sprang up like a trap.

The man looked away.  He waited for the woman to return to her book, then he continued, eyes scrabbling all about.  He knew there wasn't much time left.  Her fingernails were ragged and her fingers unadorned.  She wore dirty white tennis shoes.  Her upper forearm had slipped forward, out of the sweater, and the skin beneath was fevered, glyphed with a tumble of precise cuts.  She favored her left leg and. . .  She wore a silver necklace around her. . .  Her eyebrows. . .

The second time the woman glared at him, her eyes flared like a cornered cat.  The young man turned and walked down the subway car.  He could feel her stare drilling into his back.  He ignored her.  It was time to plan.

The train sped over the river.  Behind it, darkened skyscrapers pressed up and upwards, wounding the sky with bruised reds and purples.  The man watched the skyline retreat, his thoughts elsewhere.  Then the train dipped into a tunnel and the view was gone.

When the doors slid open at the next stop, the woman snapped her book shut and slipped through.  She walked to the escalator with hurried steps.  He might have followed her, as he had others - but he thought he had everything he needed from her, for now.

The doors closed, the train moved, and she was gone.

But not really, not for him.  "My mind is like a cage," the man whispered.  He sat down, closed his eyes, and held her inside of him.

******

The night was full by the time the young man reached the squat complex where he lived. He walked up to the third floor and down a pale green corridor of closed doors and timid noises.  The faint odors of age and sweat were not unpleasant, at least not anymore.

Once inside his studio apartment, the man walked to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.  He made and ate a sandwich in the dark, and when he was done, he sat down at his desk and switched on the lamp.  He readied his instruments, sharpening them as he went over his plan one last time.  Then he hunched over and went at it.

Fifteen minutes passed, then thirty.  His concentration and focus were total, but that was not unusual.  Forty-five minutes passed, and then he was done.  He sat back and examined his work.

It was a picture.  Done in colored pencils, it depicted the young woman sitting alone at a table with a checkerboard tablecloth.  The remainder of the restaurant was shadowed and unimportant.  A half-eaten salad sat before her.  A fork dangled from one hand; the other held a book with a pale blue cover.  Her eyes were alive as she read.  Her smile was distant, and genuine.

The man hesitated, then erased the sharp red lines on her wrists.  A faint pink smudge was left behind.  "There," he said.  It was true, or would be.  He could feel it.

He framed the picture, then hung it up on the wall, where it joined the others.  There was the old man watching television and laughing with crumbs spraying out of his mouth.  The little girl spinning in a pink tutu in front of an audience of stuffed animals.  The teacher staring out at row upon row of empty desks.  There were hundreds of pictures, and in each and every one, someone alone, but not always lonely.

The man smiled and turned off the lamp.  He could feel the people, his people, all around.  "Good night," he said, and went to sleep.

---

I kind of like this story (and so did the instructor in the flash fiction class that I took).  I like the way that it's quiet and not unkind.

It's also semi-autobiographical.  Whenever I see a person with a book, I can't help but want to know what that book is, even if I have to crane my neck and contort my back in order to get a good look at the cover.  Long story short, I did this once in a New York subway, only to have the woman described in the story above give me a death stare.  I'm sorry ma'am, I really was only trying to figure out what book you were reading!

TMoH #1: Slurpburger

Here's my inaugural self-inflicted sojourn into thirty minutes of hell! If you don't know what I'm talking about, my introductory post on this topic provides a quick summary.

The writing prompt from NANO fiction is: Write an essay, flash fiction piece, or prose poem of under 300 words about junk food..  And without further ado... here we go!

---

Slurpburger

"I don't think I want to eat there," Kimmie says.  John nods right away.  He is only surprised on the inside.

"That's probably a good idea," he says to his daughter.  Still, he drums his fingers against the steering wheel, some part of him not quite ready to turn the key in the ignition.  "So, where do you want to eat?"

Kimmie shrugs from the back seat.  She is still dressed in her karate gi, her yellow belt loose around her waist, and John suddenly realizes that the knot is not quite properly tied.  This shouldn't irritate him.  Should it?

"Come on, Kimmie," he says.  "Make up your mind.  Where do you want to eat?"

His daughter yawns.  "I don't really care," she says.  "I'm not that hungry.  Can't we just go home and eat later?"

They could go home.  That is true, a true fact.  Something else that is true is that John does not want to eat at home.  Not in front of his wife, not in front of her smile, not in front of her eyes that can't quite hide the faintly distressed pity within.  Something else that is true: he should not be eating at Slurpburger.  And a fourth thing: right now the thought of devouring a greasy bacon cheeseburger with a side of bacon cheese fries and a large Coke (diet, of course) is so tantalizing that he wants to scream.

All this is true, and none of it can be said.  Instead he says, "Okay, let's go home."  Then he turns the key in the ignition with fingers that feel like brittle iron.  He has a plan.  It's a good one.  He knows it is.  As he wends his way through the parking lot and towards the turn onto the local highway, he casually says, "Didn't you want that new toy, though?  Those things?  You know, the cats with the wings?"

Kimmie had been idly staring out the window; now her head snaps to attention.  "Kittyflies?"  Her voice grows excited.  "We can go get a Kittyfly at a toy store?"

He hastily retreats.  "No, I meant - aren't they giving away little ones at Slurpburger with the Yum-Yum Meals?"

"Oh." John peeks in the rearview mirror.  With a sinking heart, he witnesses the disinterest spread across his daughter's face.  "Those aren't real Kittyflies.  Kathy brought one of those in to school, and she said she had to glue one of the wings back on because it came loose."

"So you don't want to eat at Slurpburger?"  John can't help asking the question even though he already knows her answer.

"No, I just want to go home."

"Okay.  Sure.  That's fine."  The Slurpburger is approaching on their right, and in a few seconds he will have driven past it.  It's better this way, he reassures himself.  Eating there isn't good for you.

And so he surprises even himself when he turns into the Slurpburger lot at the last moment.  The

---

beep-beep-beep...   Time's up!

That was surprisingly painful to write.  One problem: I wrote a short flash fiction piece about fried chicken not too long ago, and it was difficult to sweep that out of my mind to make way for something new.  As a result, I'm not quite sure I was going anywhere with the above.  Some sort of contrast between the father's furious need to eat at Slurpburger versus his daughter's slightly negative ambivalence...

Other notes:

• I hate coming up with names, but John is incredibly generic, even for me.  I still don't understand how other writers think up original (yet natural) names.
• I think there's an implication that John is heavily overweight, but that's not my intention.  In my mind he's not actually all that unhealthy; perhaps the division in his mind is due to a throwaway comment from his last checkup ("... and remember, people your age should start worrying about cholesterol!").  In other words, this story is really about a man in conflict with his own sense of himself.  This theme is something I'd try to layer in on a successive draft.
• Slurpburger!  Kittyflies!  Yum-Yum Meals!  I've obviously missed my calling as an advertising executive.
• Kimmie is wearing a karate gi because my daughter used to take tae-kwan-do classes.  "Write what you know": maybe that's not so much a rule as a piece of advice for writers that are having trouble figuring out what to write about.