Watch Your Eyes

"Hunting Tales" (Part 1)

2011-10-13T12:57:00.001-04:00

The Gravediggers

Only the gravediggers would speak of him.

I met them in the old cemetery at dusk, by the road that led away from the village toward the hill country. They stood in mute silence, one waist-deep in a half-dug grave, the other leaning on his spade by the hole’s edge. I halted my mount beside them.

“I seek the beast,” I said.

They nodded. Fresh markers lay all around them, rows of crosses on dark soil patches. More new graves, it seemed, than all the old ones put together. The hill people were simple folk, but not blind.

“The master sleeps in the iron keep," said the one standing in the grave.

“The keep sits atop the stony hill,” said the one leaning on his spade. He pointed.

The road wound up a shallow slope to the west. At the top, sharp rocks jutted from the earth, like the bony fingers gripping the sun and pulling it below the horizon. Soon it would fall.

"Do not travel at night," said the one standing in the grave. "In darkness he finds his strength. Seek him at dawn, when the light goes with you."

“I fear no living creature,” I said, gripping the pommel of my sword.

The gravedigger bowed his head.

I urged my mount forward. Behind me, through the slow pound of hooves, the sound of digging resumed.

Dynamic Views Are Dynamic

2011-10-11T01:23:00.002-04:00

These dynamic views are pretty cool. Gives the blog a much cleaner interface. Apparently, anyone can switch up the layout, though I can't promise this site will look too good on the settings that require pictures. I prefer the sidebar setting, which should make it easier to search through all my posts.

Anyway, new flash fiction series coming soon.

"Fielder's Choice" (Part 10 of 10)

2011-10-08T20:28:00.000-04:00

THUD.

“Frank!”

THUD-THUD.

“Hey, Frank!”

THUD-THUD-THUD.

“FRANK!”

Frank jolted awake.

He was sprawled on the floor of his sitting room. Light streamed through the window, reflecting off the blank TV screen and the glass top of the coffee table, blinding him from all angles. He sat up and rubbed his eyes.

What was he doing on the floor? Frank couldn’t remember falling asleep, much less falling off the couch. He closed his eyes and tried to think. Nothing. It had been a deep, dreamless slumber. He looked at the clock above the TV. It was almost noon. So it had been a long, interrupted sleep as well. That didn’t happen to him very often. Frank was surprised he hadn’t been awoken sooner by his usual body aches.

Actually, come to think of it, he felt pretty good at the moment. He stood up and bent forward to stretch, touching his fingers to his toes. There was no pain. The fact that he had spent the night on a hard floor hadn’t seemed to register with his back, which felt as supple as a baby sapling. Come to think of it, the skin on his arms looked different, too. It was smoother, no wrinkles to be found anywhere. He had a farmer's tan. Frank put his hands to his cheeks. His usual salt-and-pepper stubble was gone.

“Frank, over here!”

Frank looked up. A round face was pressed against the lower half of the window. Chris banged his fist against the glass again, causing the entire frame to vibrate. Then, seeing that he had caught Frank’s eye, he waved.

“You’ve gotta get out here,” Chris said when Frank rushed over to open the window. “There’s a game about to start down at the diamond, and we need you on our team.” He started to run, beckoning to Frank. “Come on!” he yelled. “Get your stuff and let’s go!”

“I’ll be right out!” Frank yelled back, grinning.

A game! His stomach leapt to his throat. He felt giddy with excitement. Slamming the window shut, he hopped across the couch, grabbing his glove off the coffee table along the way.

Chris was still in sight when Frank got outside, and he sprinted to keep up. They ran toward downtown. The road was empty and they were right in the middle of . When Frank got closer, Chris slowed to a jog.

“Save it for the game,” he said. Then, as an afterthought, he turned and threw something to Frank, who caught it one-handed. It was a crumpled baseball cap, navy blue with a faded red Boston “B” on it.

“Put it on,” said Chris. “You could use a hat.”

“Thanks,” said Frank. It was a fitted hat, but it was the perfect size.

More boys appeared alongside them, running from the houses that lined the road. Frank saw a few familiar faces—Dillon was there, panting—but most he did not know. They carried gloves and bats and baseballs. Some had cleats laced together and slung over their shoulders. As a group, they all marched down the middle of the street.

Suddenly, there came a piercing wail from down the road. “Watch out!” Chris yelled, only to be drowned out by the sound of a siren. The boys leapt to the sides of the road, splitting the group in two to let the oncoming ambulance pass. It sped by them, without slowing, up the street and out of sight. Several moments passed before the siren faded.

“That was close,” Frank said to Chris, who laughed.

A full team of boys was already practicing at the diamond when they reached it. Most of them stood by home plate and the batter’s box, taking practice swings with two bats at a time for the added weight. Chris ran over to talk to one of them.

“Looks like we’re out in the field first, guys,” he said when he returned. “We’re the home team today.”

The other boys jogged out to their positions, tossing away their bats and donning their gloves.

“Where should I play?” Frank said.

“Well, Chris said, scanning the field, “No one’s in center. Think you could handle that?”

“Center field’s my old position,” Frank said, grinning. “I think I’ll be okay.”

“Good. Don’t want to disappoint the crowds. They’ll be watching closely.”

Indeed there were groups of people filing into the aluminum bleachers that sat along the first baseline. Frank hadn’t noticed them at first. They seemed to arrive from all directions: children and parents, men and women, old folks too. He wondered where they had come from, and why they had come all this way, even on a Saturday, to watch a pickup game. Even the old high school games never had that much of a turnout. But there they sat.

Chris started toward the field.

“Where are you playing?” Frank said.

“Where do you think?”

He stopped at the pitcher’s mound, stretching, adjusting his cap, then playfully tossing a ball with one hand, waiting, practically exuding confidence.

Frank made his way past to center field. For the first time that day, he noticed how much nicer the diamond looked. Gone was the pervasive overgrowth that once threatened to swallow the dirt paths and base markers. The grass was trimmed, the bases clean, and the foul lines freshly marked. Even the surrounding fences looked shinier than usual in the bright sunlight.

The crowd was getting thicker. Now that he was close, Frank could see their faces. He didn’t recognize any of them. The packed in tightly, filling each space until those on the very edges seemed on the verge of falling off.

Except for one space...

It was a small gap at the center of the bleachers where no one sat. There was only enough room for a handful of people, yet within the packed crowd it may as well have been a crater. Whether those sitting around the gap were aware of its existence was not immediately clear. They didn’t move inward, even to make room for others. If the seats were reserved for someone, no one came to claim them. Frank stared at it with interest.

And then...

...It drew him in, like a whirlpool, and his gaze fell upon the thing, that Thing that was Not There, and it looked upon him, and considered him, and all around the others sat in judgement...

...the first batter stepped up to the plate, a wiry kid with Coke-bottle glasses and a stance that made him look like a curved banana. Frank heard someone laugh, and his attention snapped back to the field. It was the kid playing second base—Dan, that was his name. In right field, Dillon moved in closer. Frank did the same. Apparently, Coke-bottle kid had a reputation.

Chris's first pitch screamed over the plate, low and inside, and Coke-bottle kid’s swing was a second late. Strike one. Dan laughed again. Coke-bottle kid stepped back from the plate and adjusted his glasses, his face beet-red.

The next pitch went to the inside again, but Coke-bottle kid was ready for it. He pulled his hands inside the ball and smashed an opposite-field shot well over Dillon’s head. It landed behind him and rolled toward the fence. Swearing, Dillon bolted after it.

Coke-bottle kid was faster than he looked. By the time Dillon got his throw off, he was already approaching second. Frank moved up to play cutoff, but it was too late. Coke-bottle kid reached with no trouble, leaving Frank with the ball...

...and the Thing that was Not There came to a decision, and the others nodded in agreement...

...and some of the players were looking at him, including Coke-bottle kid, eyes wide through those giant glasses. Frank blinked. He realized that he had been standing frozen, holding the ball in one hand. The gap in the stands seemed even wider, and the people surrounding it squeezed closer together to make room.

“Don’t stare at it yet, Frank,” said Dillon.

“What?” said Frank. "What did you say?" What’s going on? he wanted to ask, but Dillon turned away and didn't seem to hear him. There were whispers in the audience, ethereal sounds, spoken in unison. Frank had never seen such a strange crowd before.

He shook his head and threw the ball back to Dan, who passed it to Chris.

Up came the second batter. This kid was different: tall and broad shouldered, clearly older than any of the other boys there. He gripped his bat like a caveman holding a club. Frank looked around the field and noticed that his team had fallen completely silent. So had the audience. It was time to focus. He backed up.

Chris’s first pitch went in the dirt; the caveman didn’t budge. The next pitch was too high, and again, no swing. But he wasted no time with the third pitch, sending a line drive that cleared Dan’s reach and bounced in front of Frank. He darted forward to scoop the ball up and was about to make the play at first when he saw Coke-bottle kid rounding third and heading for home as fast as his long legs could carry him. A fielder’s choice. Quickly, Frank reared back and hurled the ball as hard as he could, past Dan at second, past Chris on the mound, to the catcher, who stood at the plate with his glove wide open.

For a brief moment the game appeared to continue in slow motion as Coke-bottle kid slid to avoid the tag. Then dust clouds.

He was safe. 1-0.

The other team erupted in cheers. Players ran out to high-five him as he stumbled back to the dugout and collapsed on the aluminum bench.

Meanwhile, the caveman made it safely to second. He stopped to catch his breath...

...the Thing that was Not There waited for the end...

...and then the caveman was staring at Frank, with shiny black eyes that bored into him, accusingly. He pointed at something off the field. Frank knew what it was, could see the growing gap in his mind’s eye, but he did not look, did not want to...

...the Thing that was Not There...

...Thing that was Not...

...Thing...

...so he looked around the field instead. They were all watching him now, the game all but forgotten. And for the first time, they did not appear to Frank as boys, but as the men they truly were, young men and old men, clutching their sun-bleached caps and hole-ridden gloves and all the things they had carried with when they first came here, a long time ago and yet no time at all.

All except for Chris, whose face was as young as ever. He kept his eyes to his toes as he kicked dirt off the pitcher’s mound. The aura of confidence had vanished.

The caveman kept pointing, his arm unwavering. And Frank began to understand. And he felt very, very old.

The sun darted behind a dark cloud. There may have been sirens in the background, or they may have gone by an hour ago, a lifetime ago. The day grew gray and he was no longer able to tell the difference.

“If it wasn't for baseball, I'd be in either the penitentiary or the cemetery.” -Babe Ruth.

***

"Fielder's Choice" (Part 9 of 10)

2011-09-30T00:35:00.000-04:00

Peggy came to see him that evening.

She didn’t bother to call ahead, like she usually did. She didn’t even knock on the door. Frank was slouched on the couch when he heard the click-click of her key turning the knob. The local nightly news was on commercial break—he had the TV on mute—and he was nursing a cold can of Bud in one hand.

Peggy was still dressed in her work clothes. She set her purse down on the coffee table and stood in front of him, arms crossed, blocking the TV.

“Where did you get that?” she said, glaring at the beer.

“I bought it,” Frank said. He burped. “There’s five more in the fridge if you want one. Picked them up on my way home. You should’ve seen the kid who sold them to me. He tried to card me! Poor guy. I laughed in his face, but still…”

Peggy snatched the can out of his hand. “You’re not supposed to be drinking!”

Frank made a grab for the beer but missed. “I’ve only had a little. It won’t kill me.”

“What about your pills?”

“Don’t worry, I haven’t taken them.”

“Dad!”

“What?” He edged around, trying to see past her. The commercials had ended. “Do you think you could move over a bit? I think the sports roundup is coming on.”

“No, I will not move over.” She turned around and whacked the power button on the set. The news anchor’s face blinked out to darkness. “I came over here to talk to you, not to watch TV.”

Frank sighed. He had been hoping to use the background noise to drown her out. A conversation with Peggy in this sort of mood was the last thing he wanted. After a long day out with the guys, he had been hoping to relax a bit and then go to bed early. Chris had mentioned getting enough people together to play a real game tomorrow.

“Alright,” he said, waving his hand at her to come closer. “Have a seat. I’m all ears. You can even keep the beer.”

Peggy sat next to him. “Forget about the beer for a second,” she said. “Where have you been?”

“I’ve been here.”

She threw up her arms in exasperation. “No, you haven’t! You’ve been gone for two days. You weren’t at the shop. You weren’t at home. What were you doing, roaming around town the whole time? I thought something had happened to you.”

She was more right than she knew, but Frank didn’t want to tell her that. Who was she to demand his whereabouts every moment of every day? For the second time that day, he said, “I’ve just been taking a little vacation.”

“Well, you could’ve mentioned that. If Mrs. O’Toole hadn’t seen you today, I was going to call the cops!”

“I’m surprised it took you so long, the way you’re acting.”

She glared at him.

“Speaking of Mrs. O’Toole,” Frank said, “you know, that woman nearly took my head off earlier.”

“Good,” said Peggy. “She was just as worried about you as I was. She checks up on you a lot, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“I have,” said Frank. “But that’s different. She was just worried about having a place to do her shopping.”

“That’s not true,” said Peggy. “She also keeps an eye on you for me.”

“Are you employing spies now?” Frank said, eyebrows raised. “I swear, I’m harboring no state secrets.”

“It’s not funny. I don’t have a lot of free time as it is, what with the bank asking me to work extra hours after they had those layoffs. It’s nice to know that I’m not the only one looking after you.”

“Who says anyone needs to look after me?”

“I do!” She jumped up from the couch suddenly and rounded upon him. “I don’t want to sit back and watch my father die in front of me.”

“For Christ’s sake,” Frank said. "Where did that come from?"

Peggy didn’t answer. She kept staring at him, hands on her hips. In that moment, Frank was reminded of her mother, who used to get that same look when they argued—whatever it was they argued about. They were so alike, those two women, but they never realized it.

"I'm fine," he said. “I mean, Jesus, doesn’t anyone care about what I want?”

She gave him a look. “Okay, Dad,” she said, her voice wavering. “What do you want?”

He thought about it for a moment. A week ago, he wouldn’t have had much of an answer. But things had changed. It was simple, really. The words that were about to pour out of him had been building up for days. Frank let them go.

“What do I want?” he said. “I want to move again. I want to be outside, on the baseball diamond with my cap and glove, and a bat over my shoulder. I want to make diving catches in the dirt, hell, the kind where I end up sliding on my face. And I want to hit something! You have no idea.

“And you know what else? I don’t want to sit behind a counter for another minute. No more responsibility. I don’t want to wait on anybody, except for a good pitcher. I want to wake up on a beautiful weekday morning and not care one wit about my schedule for that day until the sun goes down. That’s what life used to be like for me, and I want it back.”

Peggy just shook her head.

“You know that’s not possible,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because it’s not.” She threw her arms up in the air. “You can’t just choose to walk away from your life and your career to relive your glory days. They’re gone for a reason.”

Frank picked up the glove from where it had been sitting on the coffee table. He pointed it at her as if it were itself a hand. “Yes, I can,” he said, making sure to look her in the eye as he said it. “I already have.”

Peggy started to speak but cut herself off. Something had broken within her. Her resolve was gone. Her mother’s daughter, through and through. It only took time. “Fine,” she mumbled. “I see. I think we’re done here. There’s no point in me arguing with a child.”
“Fine. Feel free to leave.”

“I will.” She scooped her purse off the coffee table and headed for the hall. “But once I do, do me a favor,” she said, turning around to look back at him. “Just one favor. Take your damn pills before you go to bed.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Frank said, but the only answer he got was the sound of the door slamming.

He must have fallen asleep on the couch.

It was the pain that woke him.

His chest burned. It stretched from his abdomen all the way up to his shoulders and neck. Instinctively, his hand reached up to clutch his breast. He couldn’t breathe.

Water.

The burning intensified. Beads of sweat formed on the back of his neck. He tried to get up, but he didn’t have the strength. He slid off the coach and collapsed to the floor. The hardwood was cold as ice against his cheek.

Not again.

Oh god, not again.

It was as if a hand had reached inside his chest and grabbed his heart, grabbed it and squeezed until his veins burst and the blood within rushed free as it pleased…

And then it stopped. The pressure released. The pain ebbed away.

Frank felt nothing at all.

Oh.

It’s not as bad the second time around.

And then sleep took him once more.

Banned Books Update: Free At Last?

2011-09-25T14:08:00.000-04:00

Back in July, I wrote about a school board in Republic,Missouri that decided to ban Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five and Sarah Ockler’s Twenty Boy Summer, due to questions regarding the books’age-appropriateness and one guy who was convinced that they taught principlescontrary to the Bible.

The decision, as such things often do, sparked all kinds ofcontroversy. In August, officials from nine national organizations—including theNational Coalition Against Censorship (didn’t know we had one of those)—sent aletter to the Republic Superintendent calling on him to end the ban and letstudents make their own reading decisions. The ALCU actually threatened topursue legal action. And this was all on top of a public outcry both within andoutside Republic.

Wouldn’t you know it, the complaints worked. Sort of. The books have now been reinstated in the high school library, but it seems theRepublic school board couldn’t bring itself to say mea culpa and completely overturn the ban. Instead, they wenthalfway: The books are being kept in a “secure section” of the library and willonly be accessible to parents.

I don’t know what a “secure section” is supposed to be, soI’ve decided to picture the Hogwarts library restricted section. Except thisone is far less cool and completely unnecessary.

The National Coalition Against Censorship, as you mightimagine, isn’t buying it. Executive Director Joan Bertin called it a“ridiculous notion of ‘compromise’” that "a 17 year-old will have to bringin Mom or Dad to check out books of inarguable artistic and educationalmerit".

Ockler is also understandably annoyed, telling the Guardian,“By this time next year, some of these students could be serving on the frontlines in Afghanistan. Yet they need mum's permission to check out a librarybook?"

But I think the best response so far has come from the Kurt Vonnegut Memorial Library in Indianapolis, which has offered to give away up to150 free copies of Slaughterhouse Five to students from Republic HighSchool.

Oddly enough, all this has come just in time for Banned Books Week, which runs from Sept. 24 to Oct. 1. Since 1982, over 11,000 bookshave been challenged—348 in 2010, according to the Office of IntellectualFreedom. Celebrate the week by reading something that someone, somewhere wouldprefer you not to read.

"Fielder's Choice" (Part 8 of 10)

2011-09-23T22:12:00.000-04:00

“There you are!”

From across Main Street, Mrs. O’Toole came rushing over to where Frank stood on the sidewalk. She was an odd sight, wearing a puffy green winter coat and a pink, fake-fur hat that she held tightly on her head with one hand. It was a windy day, and brown leaves and bits of paper blew around her in miniature cyclones, threatening to take the hat with them. Her other hand held the largest purse Frank had ever seen. He could only guess what she filled it with—whatever it was, it weighed her down like an anchor.

“I’ve been looking all over for you,” she said as she reached him. She made a show of holding her hand to her heaving chest as she caught her breath. “I kept stopping by, but the shop was closed. Have you been sick? I would have brought you something if I had known…”

“Don’t worry," Frank said. "I’m fine. I’ve just been taking a little vacation.”

He’d been gone for two days, and was hoping to make today a third. It was late morning on Friday and the streets were nearly bare of people. He thought it would be a good time to swing by real quick and check on the shop, just to make sure nothing had been broken or stolen. He hadn’t planned on staying long. The guys would be out playing by now, and Frank wanted to meet up with them. He was already wearing his glove.

Mrs. O’Toole did not look pleased. “Well, you should have said something,” she said. She swung her purse at him for effect and nearly knocking herself over in the process. “You can’t just leave without letting anybody know. What about all your customers? Where are they supposed to go?"

Frank highly doubted that his brief absence had resulted in a swarm of disappointed debtors and junk dealers. More likely Mrs. O’Toole had been pining for another vase for the sitting room. It would certainly explain her mood.

“It was a last-minute vacation,” Frank said, recoiling backward out of her range. “I needed some time off.” And I’d really like to continue it, he thought.

All that swinging caused Mrs. O’Toole’s hat to fly off her head. She bent down to chase it. “Never mind that,” she said, cramming it on even tighter this time. She turned back to him and the look on her face softened—whatever was bothering her seemed to be out of her system. “It’s a good thing you’re here. You’ve got customers. That's why I came over. The Chase’s are waiting outside.”

“The who?”

“The Chase’s. Don’t you remember? Mr. Chase, the one who sold you that big box of things on Monday?”

“What do they want?”

“Mrs. Chase mentioned something about buying back everything her husband sold you,” said Mrs. O’Toole. “Apparently, she only just found out about it, and…” Mrs. O’Toole bent to whisper in Frank’s ear, “…between you and me, I’ve never seen anyone so upset.”

Frank looked over her shoulder. Two people stood by his shop window. He recognized Mr. Chase leaning against the wall, his hands shoved deep inside his jacket pockets. The woman next to him, who Frank assumed was his wife, paced back and forth in front of the shop door, occasionally brushing long strands of blond hair away from her face.

“Well,” said Frank, “I suppose I won’t keep them waiting.”

Without really thinking about it, he stuffed the glove out of sight under his jacket. Mrs. O’Toole followed him across the street.

Mr. Chase didn’t seem to want to make eye contact with anybody. He stared at his shoelaces as they approached. But his wife immediately met Frank’s gaze. Her eyes were red and puffy, as if she had been crying. He found it difficult to look at them. There was something very familiar about those eyes, but he couldn't place it.

“Are you Mr. Hart?” she said.

“Yes ma’am,” Frank said, fishing his keys from his jacket pocket. “You can call me Frank. What can I do for you?”

“Mr. Hart, I don’t know if you remember, but a few days ago my husband brought you some things that belonged to my son…” Her voice choked for a moment. “I don’t know what your rules are about buying back items, but I was hoping we would be able to come to some sort of a deal.”

Frank felt his pulse quicken. The glove felt like a lead weight underneath his jacket.

“That’s not a problem,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. “I don’t know how much your husband told you, but from what I recall, he didn’t pawn anything—he just sold it.” He wrenched the door to the shop open and led them all inside. “You’re welcome to buy whatever you’d like,” he said, gesturing to the back corner where most of Mr. Chase’s things still sat, unsorted. “I haven’t gotten around to putting most of it away, so it should be easy enough to find.”

Mrs. Chase rushed over and began rummaging through the pile. Mrs. O’Toole went over to help her, but Mrs. Chase didn't say a word to her and refused to make room in the corner, so she ended up watching from a distance.

Meanwhile, Frank sat behind his counter and waited. Mr. Chase stood on the other side, eyes unfocused. He could have been watching his wife, or he could have been staring straight through the wall at the world beyond. Occasionally, the man opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Frank considered starting a conversation to break the tension, but thought better of it.

After about fifteen minutes, he heard Mrs. Chase speak from across the shop.

"Where's the glove?"

She emerged carrying the box full of the things she had gathered, all strewn about haphazardly from her search. "Where's the glove?" she said again, looking back and forth between Frank and her husband, expectantly.

"Sorry," Frank said. "What glove?"

Frank's heart felt as though his heart had risen to his throat. Of course she would have noticed that the glove was missing.

"My son had a baseball glove," said Mrs. Chase. "He played with it for years. I know it was here. What happened to it?"

Frank crossed his arms so she wouldn't notice the bulge in his jacket.

For one brief moment, he actually considered giving to her. The look on her face was becoming unbearable. It was obvious that she was hurting. But could he do it? The thought of just handing it over to her ... Frank pictured Chris and the guys, laughing and playing catch for hours on end. And then he thought of his high school days on the old diamond—days long gone, relegated to photographs and memories Slowly but surely, the glove was giving those days back to him. But to give them away again? No. No. The glove was his now. She would be fine without it, one way or the other. All he needed was for her to leave and let him be.

He took a deep breath.

"Oh, right," he said. "I remember that one now. Someone bought it—just yesterday, now that I think about it. It was in pretty good condition. I got a good price for it."

Mrs. O'Toole looked like she was about to say something, but a brief glance from Frank silenced her. Mrs. Chase only stared at him.

"Like I said before, ma'am," Frank said, staring back at her. "You're husband sold all this stuff to me. Pawning and selling are two different things. Now, had he decided to pawn it instead, well, then I would have had to hold on to it for a while, at least until I was sure he wouldn't come back for it. A lot of my customers come to me to raise some quick cash with a little collateral. And that's one thing. But when they sell something to me, and it becomes my property, I try to re-sell it as soon as I can. That's how I do business."

It was the best pitch he had, and he could see that he had sold her. She seemed to deflate in front of him. Perhaps, deep down, she had expected something like this to happen.

Mrs. Chase turned to her husband and gave him the fiercest look Frank had ever seen on a person. Then she paid for the box and left the shop without another word.

Mr. Chase didn't leave right away. He kept staring at the spot where his wife had stood.

"I thought it would be for the best," he said, to himself more than anyone else.

"Perfectly understandable, dear," said Mrs. O'Toole, as she patted him on the back and led him to the door. "I think you ought to head on home now. I'm sure you two will have a lot to talk about."

He nodded and left. Mrs. O'Toole shut the door after him.

"Well," she said, sighing deeply. "That was certainly something."

Frank didn't answer. They stood in silence for a while. She went to look at some more vases, but he knew she was waiting for him to say something.

Finally, he did.

"I think I'll be going now."

Mrs. O'Toole looked up in surprise. "You're leaving?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

Under his jacket, Frank held the glove close to him. "Because I've had enough of today already."

Much later, after he shooed Mrs. O'Toole out of the shop, Frank made his way up to the abandoned lot. Chris and Dillon were there, joined by James, Steve, and

"Hey, look who decided to show up!" said Chris. "What've you been doing all day? Sitting on your ass at home, watching the Sox game?"

"No point to that," said Frank. "They're losing."

"So you were watching the game," said Chris. He threw to Frank, who already had his glove on.

"No," said Frank as he made the catch. "I don't need to watch to know that they're losing."

Soon enough, he had forgotten all about that morning.

"Fielder's Choice" (Part 7 of 10)

2011-09-19T20:35:00.002-04:00

Frank woke up early the next day. He took a shower, got dressed, poured some cereal, and even sat down and attempted to skim through the local paper—everything one might expect a reasonable man to do before work. But behind the semblance of a normal morning routine, he felt as if he was about to burst with energy.

He couldn’t sit still long enough to read past the front page headlines. He paced the kitchen instead. He didn’t dare touch the coffee pot; his legs already felt as if they were going to run out from under him if he didn’t move them enough. It excited him—and made him a little nervous. Not since he was a young man could he remember feeling like this.

Over in the sitting room, the glove lay on the coffee table, wrapped in the bands of sunlight that streamed through cracks in the window blinds. It must be beautiful out, he thought. Why waste such a nice day sitting behind a counter?

No. That was foolish. He had to go to work.

Or … did he?

The glove was like an unopened invitation.

“Oh, the hell with it,” Frank muttered, a smile creeping over his face. Just for one day. One day wouldn’t be the end of the world.

He put on the glove. It smelled faintly of mud and freshly mowed grass.

Outside, the breeze was cool but the sun was pleasantly warm, enough so that he didn’t need a jacket. Two birds flitted and chirped about in a bush by his apartment building. At the site of Frank, they flew off. He watched them for a moment as they vanished into the cloudless sky. The men on the local news would say that it was perfect baseball weather today.

Frank started walking down the road without any particular destination in mind. To occupy himself, he tossed his glove from one hand to the other, in a steadily increasing arch above his head. He wasn’t quite sure why he’d brought it. Was he really counting on Chris to show up again? The kid had promised … but he hadn’t said where, or when.

Just as the thought crossed his mind, Frank heard familiar voices. At least, one of them was familiar.

By the side of the road, Chris and another boy were playing catch in what appeared to be an abandoned lot. So the kid had been telling the truth after all.

The lot was overgrown with weeds that surrounded the remains of a half-completed house foundation. Old oak trees towered along the perimeter, casting long shadows. Frank was sure he had walked by this area before—he must have. It wasn’t that far from his apartment. But nothing about it looked familiar. Strange.

“I didn’t know you would be out here so early,” Frank said as he approached the boys.

The other boy looked startled and gave Frank a strange look. He was bigger than Chris, with think arms and a barrel chest that made him look much older than he probably was. He wore a Red Sox cap backward over his curly blond hair, and had a tan glove the size of a dinner plate. Chris, on the other hand, grinned when he saw Frank. He was wearing the exact same outfit as he had the day before.

Without saying a word, Chris made a hard throw to Frank, who already had his glove ready. He hadn’t even needed to think about it; his reflexes just kept getting better and better.

“Mind if I join?” Frank said, tossing the ball back and chuckling. “Do I even have to ask?”

“Come on over,” Chris said. He pointed to the other boy. “This is Dillon. Dillon, meet Frank.” Dillon gave a small wave and said something in a low, mumbling voice that Frank didn’t understand. He sounded like he was chewing on a candy bar.

Chris threw a grounder to Dillon, who fielded it clean and quickly twisted around to hurl it toward Frank. He may have been quiet, but he had a hell of an arm.

“We were just warming up a bit,” Chris said.

“For how long?” Frank said. “What did I miss?”

“Oh, not much. We’ve only been here for a couple hours. But we’re going to stay for a while.”

“Jeez,” Frank said, “Only a couple of hours? Don’t you guys go to school? It’s Wednesday.”

He wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw the two boys exchange a look.

“I know what day it is,” Chris said. “Yesterday was Tuesday. You didn’t ask why I wasn’t in school then.”

“Well, I—” Now that Frank thought about it, it hadn’t occurred to him to ask at all. He had been too caught up in their game to notice.

“School’s not an issue,” Chris said, a little more forcefully. Dillon nodded in agreement.

Frank raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t the truant officer give you any trouble?”

Chris looked confused. “Who’s that?”

“The truant officer? Well, these days it’s Jim Doyle.” The boys looked at him blankly. “You know, dark hair, short, kind of chubby. He likes to walk around town now and then.” Still blank.

“Never seen him,” Dillon mumbled.

“You’ve been skipping school and you’ve never run into the truant officer?” Tax dollars at work, he supposed.

“Not skipping,” Chris said. “I told you, it’s not an issue.”

“What do you mean?”

Chris sighed. He adjusted the brim of his cap.

“I used to go to school,” he said. “I wasn’t even bad at it. I paid attention. I did my work. When I was little the teachers loved me. I was probably one of their favorites. But, I don’t know, when I got older I just got worse at it, you know? Most of the guys I knew were like that. I remember spending whole class period staring out the window. Even if the weather was shitty.”

He had the ball in his hand and was holding on to it. Dillon stood waiting.

“Leaving ended up being easy,” Chris said in a low mutter. “One minute my dad’s driving me home, next minute I’m out. Never went back.”

There was something about the way he said it. “Out?”

“Yeah,” Chris said. “Out.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

Chris didn’t say anything. He threw a high fly ball to Dillon, who promptly returned it with a flick of his arm.

“I bet your dad wasn’t too happy with you,” Frank said after a time.

“I don’t know,” Chris said. “I don’t really talk to him anymore.”

This time his throw was like a laser.

Chris pointed at Dillon. “This kid here,” he said. “He’s not happy unless he’s throwing something or hitting something.”

Frank looked at Dillon. “Is that right?” he said.

Dillon looked thoughtful for a moment. Then he shrugged.

“Beats school,” he said.

“How long has it been since you left?” Frank said. “A few days? Weeks?”

Chris scratched his head. “I think it’s been a few months by now. I don’t really remember. What do you think, Dillon?”

“Longer for me,” Dillon said.

A few months, Frank mouthed to himself. Amazing.

Well, what was he going to do? Report them? What can a man who skips work to play catch all day say about a couple of boys who skip school to do the same thing? Even if he wanted to it probably wouldn’t do any good. Frank had only met Jim Doyle once, a few years back, but he had never struck him as a stupid man. If these kids had managed to avoid him for this long, he would never find them.

Besides—and this was a thought that made Frank smile—part of him couldn’t blame them. His own school memories were foggy, but he had been no scholar, that was for sure. The teachers tolerated him because he was quiet and didn’t cause any trouble, like some of his rowdier classmates. By high school he had only been doing well enough in his classes to stay on the baseball team, but not by much, and he had always suspected—but could never confirm—that some of those teachers had slipped him a few extra grade points for that purpose.

If it weren’t for the team, what would have been worth staying for? Frank couldn’t pretend that school had gotten him very far in life.

“Hey, don’t just stand there,” Chris said, “I thought you came here to play.”

Frank realized he had been staring off into space. “That’s right,” he said, pounding his glove.

"Fielder's Choice" (Part 6 of 10)

2011-09-15T17:37:00.001-04:00

As it turned out, Frank didn’t have to wait at all.

A boy stood in the center field of the old diamond. He faced home plate, his back turned to Frank, as if waiting for an invisible batter to swing. Sunlight reflected off the monstrous chain link fence that backed the field, and Frank, squinting, had to move closer to make him out. He used his glove to shade his eyes. Yes—it was the same kid. He looked younger than Frank remembered: shorter, with a little too much baby fat hanging off him. He realized that this kid was not the typical neighborhood teenager.

Now what?

It hadn’t really occurred to Frank what to do when he found the kid. Now he had to pause.

Maybe it was all in his head. If so, he figured, the kid would soon turn around and give him a weird look, and maybe start sniggering at him, and then Frank would feel like a stupid old man who should be minding his own business. He decided to get it over with.

“Hey, you,” he said.

The kid turned.

He wore the same smile that Frank had seen on the other side of his window, only this time it didn’t appear to be mocking. Actually, if Frank had to guess, he would have said that the kid looked happy to see him. He held up his glove, wide open at head height.

After a moment the kid said, “What are you waiting for?”

Frank blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Throw it.”

“Throw what?”

“The ball, dumbass.”

Frank had the ball safely nestled in the pocket of his glove. He held up between his fingers so the kid could see. “You want this?”

The kid rolled his eyes.

For a second, Frank thought about pocketing the ball and walking away. Teach the kid a lesson. But something stopped him. He was still curious.

Oh, why not? he thought. Let the kid have his ball back.

He tried to throw it, but his arm stiffened halfway through and the ball slipped out of his hand, bouncing on the ground ahead.

The kid snorted as the ball rolled toward him. He bent over to scoop it up. “That was weak,” he said. “I mean, you should actually be ashamed of that.”

Frank’s shoulder felt as if it had been ripped open by a hot knife. He winced as he spoke. “I guess I’m out of practice.”

“No shit,” the kid said with a laugh. “What you need—“ He wound up like a pitcher “—is to warm up.”

His throw rocketed toward Frank, who barely got his glove up in time to cover his face. The ball smacked him in the palm—hard—causing spasms of pain to shoot up his arm. Somehow he managed to hang on to the ball. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he grumbled. He dropped his glove to the ground and started massaging his hand. Maybe pocketing the ball would have been a good idea after all. “Are you trying to break my hand?”

“Sorry,” the kid said. “Hey, you were the one who wanted to play catch.”

Frank looked up.

“I—what?”

The kid seemed to ignore the look on his face. “Come on, toss it back,” he said, pounding his glove with his right hand.

Frank put his glove back on. After a few deep breaths, the pain began to subside. He took a bigger windup. It still hurt, but he felt his arm loosening up a bit. “You know, I’m pretty sure you started this game,” he said, pleased to see that the ball reached the kid in the air this time. “In fact, I’m pretty sure you tried to break my window back there.”

The kid caught the ball lazily. “I didn’t break your window,” he said.

He looked Frank right in the eye as he said it. “That’s true,” Frank said. “Not that I can figure out how. But you still tried, and you can’t tell me you didn’t. I ought to be angry with you.”

The kid threw him an easy toss. “I saw you putting on a glove and I figured, ‘Well, he wants to play catch.’ Why else would anyone put on a glove?”

It still made no sense to Frank, but somehow, he didn’t have an answer.

They threw the ball back and forth in silence for a few minutes before he decided to break it.

“What’s your name?” Frank said.

“Why do you ask so many questions?”

Frank laughed, a real, genuine laugh. The abruptness startled him, but not in a bad way. “I don’t know,” he said. “I guess I’ve just had an odd day, and I’m trying to make some sense of it.”

“Yeah? It’s simple. Think fast.”

Then he threw a rocket off to the right of Frank, forcing him to reach for it. Frank got there just in time without thinking, which surprised him. The ball made a satisfying whump as it buried itself in the pocket of his glove. It didn’t hurt his hand, either.

“Chris,” the kid said. “I’m Chris. And you’re Frank.”

“How did you know that?”

“You mentioned it.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Sure you did,” Chris said, winding up again. “How else would I know?”

Frank knew he hadn’t said anything of the sort—that much he was sure of, if nothing else. “You’re a strange kid,” he said, nearly hopping to make a catch.

“You’re strange, too.”

Frank threw the ball back to him, harder. The pain was ebbing faster than he thought possible. “What makes you say that?”

“I’ve watched you.”

“You’ve been following me?”

“Not following,” Chris said in mid-throw. “Just watching.”

“I’ve seen you, you know,” Frank said. He caught the ball, then stopped and held it. “Sitting here at the diamond. Do you come here a lot?”

“I like it here.”

“Alone?”

“Not always. I hang out with the guys a lot.”

“I see.” Frank waited to hear if Chris would say who these guys were, but the kid had gone silent again.

Chris was a strange kid. Frank couldn’t help but think it as they continued throwing back and forth. It was as if he couldn’t decide how to act. He could get excited about the smallest things: a leaping catch, a high fly ball that seemed to touch the clouds before returning. But, just as quickly, he would become silent and focused, like a closing pitcher who has just hit full count with the bases loaded. When he did that, his throws became deadly accurate.

They didn’t talk much for a while. Frank didn’t see the need to fill the silence. Instead, he kept marveling at his newfound abilities. Frank remembered how warm the glove had felt when he first put it on. Well, a few hours playing catch with Chris had filled his arms with a warmth that melted the pain and stiffness away. He felt energetic. He felt alive. To the boy’s amusement, Frank was ready to leap and dive after everything the kid threw at him. It was as if forty years had been wiped away completely.

He didn’t feel the hours passing by. He didn’t notice the sun creeping steadily past its apex, or the growing shadows hanging over the diamond.

Suddenly, after making a particularly difficult diving catch that left him sprawling on the ground, Chris got up and took off his glove.

“I’ve gotta go now,” he said. “Tomorrow I’ll introduce you to the guys.”

“Oh?” Frank said. “Who said anything about me coming back to play tomorrow?”

Chris let out a short laugh. “You will. Bring your glove.” Then, just like that, he walked away.

Frank couldn’t help but grin.

When he got home later that evening, he felt looser than he had in years. Ignoring the sitting room couch, he headed straight for his bed.

Skipping School

2011-09-13T12:06:00.001-04:00

My schedule has gotten busy of late, so the post I failed to put up yesterday will be up on Thursday. In exchange, here's a completely unrelated Daily Show video remembering 9/13/01, a very important day in our nation's history:

The Daily Show with Jon Stewart
Get More: Daily Show Full Episodes,Political Humor & Satire Blog,The Daily Show on Facebook

Anyway, back to work.

"Fielder's Choice" (Part 5 of 10)

2011-09-08T15:02:00.004-04:00

Frank turned. Peggy stood by the counter, one hand at her hip, the other holding a plastic bag of groceries. She was wearing one of the black pantsuits she typically wore to work. She must have been on her lunch break.

"Did you see a boy on your way here?" Frank asked. "Outside the shop?"

"No. Why?"

"Some kid smashed my window."

She looked at the window for a moment. Then she stared at him, eyebrow raised.

"The window's fine," she said.

"I know."

"Why are you wearing a baseball glove?"

"I'm not sure."

"Aren't you supposed to be trying to sell it?"

Frank sat down behind the counter without answering. He took off the glove and laid it in front of him. The baseball rolled out of the pocket. He picked it up. Yes, it was still there. Yes, it had, in fact, come careening at him only moments before.

Peggy started to look serious. "Have you been eating today?"

"Yes."

"Don't lie to me. I see how empty your fridge is."

Only after you were through cleaning out anything good, Frank thought. Instead, he said, "I had some cereal."

"That's not near enough," Peggy said. "Here, I brought you something," She opened her bag, revealing a lump of goat cheese, some lettuce, and a package of green spinach wraps. Frank made a face. Peggy glared at him.

"Stop acting like a baby, or I'll keep treating you like one. If I didn't come down here, you probably wouldn't eat anything, would you? Mrs. O'Toole told me you stopped bothering to bring lunch the past few days."

Of course she did, Frank thought. "What does she know?"

"She knows that she has to keep an eye on you. She cares about you, even if you haven't noticed. I told her what the doctors said. If you keep losing weight, you're going to end up back in the hospital."

Frank didn't say anything.

He tried not to think about the doctors much. There had been so many after the heart attack, doctors testing him, doctors reassuring him, doctors scolding him. Their names and faces blended together in his drug-addled haze, and their words washed over him like lukewarm bathwater, without making an impression. But Peggy had been there, listening to every word, even going so far as to take notes.

“Here,” Peggy said, holding up a spinach wrap. “Are you going to make this? Or am I going to have to do it for you?”

She did treat him like a baby, even though all he wanted was to be left alone. It didn’t matter that he felt loads better since leaving the hospital. The only time he got any peace was when he walked to and from work. Other than that it was constant yapping about health food and other crap for your own good.

He grasped the baseball tight in his hand. He felt like hurling it across the room. Now, of all times, random punk vandals were trying to mess with him…

Wait…

No. Not random.

Walking home.

Frank shot up out of his seat.

"I'm closing the shop early," he said.

"You're... what? Why?"

But Frank was already putting on his coat and fishing through his pocket for his keys. "I think what I need right now is a long walk," he said, scooping the glove under his arm. "I've been sitting here for too long."

"Have you even had any customers today?" Peggy followed him helplessly outside, carrying her food.

"Nope." He locked the door behind her. "Except for that kid."

He started to cross the street toward home.

"What kid?" Peggy yelled. "What the hell are you talking about?" The shock of his quick departure seemed to have left her momentarily frozen on the sidewalk. It took her a moment to come to her senses. "You still haven't eaten yet!"

"Later!" Frank shouted back.

He certainly would hear about it later. He’d get a nice earful from Peggy, who could hold a grudge when she felt like it. He knew for a fact that she stopped speaking to her mother for good when the old woman walked out on Frank almost twenty years ago. And he was pretty sure that many harsh words had come before that. Maybe he was in for a similar treatment. But at the moment, Frank's thoughts were not focused on his daughter.

He kept walking—practically sprinting—toward the old baseball diamond.

He hadn’t realized it at the time—it was the hat that had thrown him off—but Frank had seen the kid before. And he had an idea where to find him. He would wait there all day if he had to.

"Fielder's Choice" (Part 4 of 10)

2011-09-06T11:04:00.000-04:00

Frank woke up in his chair the next morning. His back felt like a slab of broken concrete. All the pill bottles in the world, he thought, and not an aspirin among them.

It was still early. The dawn crept through dusty, half-closed blinds. Frank sat for a while, hoping the pain would subside on its own even though he knew it wouldn’t. He finally struggled to his feet and poured himself a bowl of cereal, praying for an easy day.

About an hour later he trudged to the shop. The lock was jammed and it took him almost fifteen more minutes to wrestle the door open.

Luckily, no customers came in. Outside, Main Street lay in silence only broken by the occasional sound of a passing car.

He would be probably be alone for some time. He left the counter and went to the back corner of the shop, where the glove waited.

It really was beautiful. The oiled color. The crease down the palm. The tightly woven pocket. Had he owned a glove like this once? He couldn’t remember, but it felt so familiar. He slipped it over his left hand. At first it was too tight, but as he wriggled his wrist a bit he could have sworn that the glove expanded to fit him.

It even felt warm…

There was a crash from his left and Frank spun around, holding the glove up to his face. He felt a wallop. The side window in front of him had shattered. Shards of glass bounced and tinkled on the floor, glittering like diamonds in the sunlight.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” he roared.

And then he saw him.

The boy couldn’t have been older than thirteen. He wore a white t-shirt and jeans that were ripped, faded, and splattered with mud. He had a glove on his left hand. Frank couldn’t see his eyes—a baseball cap covered those. But it didn’t cover his smile.

It was the smile that set Frank off. The boy was laughing, he knew it. All at once, the pain in his back melted away. His right hand clenched into a fist. He bolted out the door and around to the side of the shop where the boy stood. He would scare that smile right off his face.

Then he froze. There was nobody there.

“Where are you, you little shit?” he called out. “Come back here and fix my goddamn window!”

But there was no answer, only the breeze blowing dust over the empty sidewalk.

“Damn kids,” he muttered, and went back inside. “They run so goddamn fast.” Then he froze again.

The glass shards were gone. The window was intact, and light spilled through the panes onto a dusty but otherwise clean floor. It was as if nothing had happened. Frank peered closely at the glass. No hole, no fragments, no breaks of any kind. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. Nothing.

Then he realized that he was still wearing the glove. It had an extra weight to it, which had felt so natural that he hadn’t given it any thought. Nestled in the pocket was the dirty but unmistakable baseball that had come through the window.

All Frank could do was stare. I made that catch?

He was still standing in the middle of the shop when the door opened and he heard a familiar voice.

“Dad, what are you doing?”

"Fielder's Choice" (Part 3 of 10)

2011-09-01T14:20:00.000-04:00

Mr. Chase had walked to the shop, and Mrs. O'Toole insisted on giving him a ride home on her way out. Frank managed to get out of it by pretending to have a stack of bills that needed paying.

Once they had gone, he refilled Mr. Chase's box and carried it to the far corner of the shop, where he set it down next to stacks of Steven King paperbacks. Frank had been meaning to sort those for a while now, but kept forgetting. He decided he would do it tomorrow. He took the glove out of the box and set it on top of The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon, where it would be most visible to him in the morning. With so many memories to keep track of, at his age, you had to prioritize what stuck with you and what you lost.

Then Frank fetched his coat and hat from the back closet, turned out the lights, and went outside to lock the front door.

He had been making the long trek to and from his apartment on foot for a while now, leaving his dirty Ford Ranger to rust in its parking spot. Peggy insisted that walking would be good for him, and it was one of the few pieces of her advice he listened to. He hated paying over three bucks for a gallon of gas. These days, unless he had something heavy to haul to the shop, he hardly drove at all.

The afternoon air had gotten mug and oppressive. Overhead, dark clouds piled up, looking ready to burst at any moment. Across the street, a group of women exiting a convenience store took one look up and began to unfurl black umbrellas. Frank pulled his hat tighter over his head and crossed.

"Watch it, asshole!" came a yell to his left. Frank turned just in time to see a black bike speed past, missing him by inches. The rider, a young kid, twisted around and gave him the finger before pedaling off.

"Cheerful," Frank muttered.

It made him feel old when kids acted that way. A couple weeks ago he had been leaving the shop when he found a group of them spray-painting the side wall. Instead of running away, like he expected, they turn around and threw rocks at him. One kid pulled a knife. Frank had to run inside and call the cops before they finally scattered.

When he was that age, he never treated an adult like that. He was sure of it.

Tonight, at least, seemed like it would be quiet. Streetlights started to come on. A few cars passed Frank as he walked, pulling into driveways farther down the road. Front doors were opened, and he could see light, hear people shouting and laughing, and even smell dinner cooking in those brief moments before they were shut again. Then nothing.

Rain began to fall, in big, heavy drops that splattered against the pavement. Frank turned off the road to his left, crossed through someone's side yard, and headed toward the town baseball diamond.

It was a familiar shortcut. The diamond had been in place for as long as Frank could remember. When he was a boy, growing up in his parents’ house just off Main Street, he spent almost every summer day at the field, playing pickup games with the neighborhood boys. He learned how to hit a curveball at this home plate, how to properly slide in front of this second base, how to read a fly ball out in this center field. This place defined his childhood until the very end, in his senior year of high school, when he hit the walk-off home run that ended the last game of their season, a beautiful shot off a 3-2 pitch that soared over the left field wall and into the bushes beyond.

Frank walked up to the pitcher’s mound and stood behind it for a moment. It was slowly crumbling from lack of upkeep. The field didn't get much use anymore. He’d heard that budget cuts had forced the high school team to disband. The adult volunteers that once maintained the space stopped coming. All around, the grass grew long and thick and threatened to encroach upon the eroding base paths.

Frank turned and trudged toward home, feeling sullen.

Over in the fenced-in dugout, a boy sat on the bench, staring at his feet. He looked up when Frank passed, watching him, not taking his eyes off him.

Well, Frank thought as he walked by, at least he isn’t throwing anything at me.

A little while later he reached his apartment, inside the decaying building that was all he could afford to live in. There was a note on the front door. It was from Peggy. DON'T FORGET TO TAKE YOUR PILLS BEFORE YOU EAT, read her blocky handwriting.

The cramped entrance hall barely had enough room for Frank to take off his coat. That led to his tiny sitting room and kitchen—a patch of linoleum tiles that contained a few appliances. He checked the fridge for beer. There wasn't any. He groaned and poured himself a tall glass of water. Then he plopped down on the couch and turned on the television.

The Sox were winning, but it looked like they were blowing their lead fast. Jeter had just hit a two-run homer and was rounding the bases, to the scattered applause of the few Yankee fans at Fenway. Frank had heard someone say once that the Sox were always snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. Of course, there were still a few innings left. Anything could happen.

He thought of the glove again. He hadn’t worn one in years. It would fit him, he was sure of it. First thing tomorrow, he decided he would try it on. Maybe he could find a baseball somewhere in the shop.

But, until then…

Frank glanced down at the small coffee table set between him and the television. It contained a small mountain of pill bottles and a lengthy note from Peggy, explaining what to take and in what quantity. After all this time, he still couldn't identify more than a third of the colorful little capsules and tablets.

With that kind of pharmaceutical dinner, who would have room for a real meal? He started taking the pills, one by one, and then lay back, counting the minutes, then the hours, until he could sleep.

"Fielder's Choice" (Part 2 of 10)

2011-08-29T16:09:00.002-04:00

“Oh, Frank, look who I found hovering around the back,” Mrs. O’Toole said, practically shaking the man from excitement. “This young man looks like he’s new in town. Say hello to Mr…”

“Chase,” said the man, breaking out of Mrs. O’Toole’s grip to shake Frank’s hand. “Don Chase. And yes, I'm new in town. My wife and I just moved here, up on Highland Avenue. We're both from California, originally, but she's got lots of family out here.”

Mrs. O'Toole looked positively ecstatic at the news. "We're almost neighbors!" she said, beaming. "I live just up the road. I didn't realize anyone was moving in—I usually keep an eye on those things. If I had, I would have brought over some kind of house-warming gift. Oh, I have to introduce myself to your wife today! I’m sure Frank wants to come too, right Frank?” She turned to Frank expectantly. "It's the first impressions that always count the most."

Frank had no intention of going to anyone’s place for Mrs. O’Toole’s idea of “house-warming,” which typically involved store-bought cupcakes and endless cooing over wallpaper choices. "Whatcha got in that box, Mr. Chase?" he asked, hoping to change the subject.

There was something about the way the man held it, Frank noticed. The box didn't look particularly heavy under his right arm, but Mr. Chase stood awkwardly, leaning his weight away from it as if he couldn't wait to put it down. And yet, he hadn't. In fact, his knuckles were white where he grasped it.

"Well... I just had some things I wanted to bring down here. Books, old games, stuff like that." He paused. "They all used to belong to my son."

Frank nodded. People had all sorts of reasons why they brought things to him. There was the extra money, of course; but for some people it was more than that. Pawn shops have always been a quick, easy way to part with objects that are simply too painful to leave lying around the house. Mr. Chase didn't look old enough to have a boy who just moved out of the house to go to college or start a career. His hair was jet black and his face was mostly wrinkle free. So the boy had been young, then.

Best not to ask too many questions, Frank thought. He had learned long ago that it was often best for business to make the transaction and leave uncomfortable topics be.

"Pawn or sell?" he asked.

“Sell,” said Mr. Chase, finally placing the box on the counter. “I don’t expect any of it to be worth much. It’s just that it would be easier to… well, to get some of this stuff out of the house. For our sakes. At least, I think so.”

“Oh, I know exactly what you mean, dear,” said Mrs. O’Toole. “I remember when my Richard passed. Seven years ago, this August. I couldn’t bear to look at any of his things—I was having dreadful panic attacks—so one morning, out they went with the rubbish. It felt strange for a while, but my therapist says I’m much better now.” A look appeared on Mr. Chase’s face that made Frank doubly glad he hadn’t opened his own mouth, but Mrs. O’Toole seemed to ignore it. “Oh my…” She pointed inside the box. “Those have certainly been through the mill.”

Frank started unpacking the box, item by item. They did look old, or, rather, used. Book titles jumped out at him: Robin Hood. Baseball In America. Calvin And Hobbes: Sunday Pages. A stack of The Ultimate Spiderman comic books, topped with a particularly battered copy of The Star Wars Trilogy.

Below that sat a checkers set and a Battleship game board, and a few other games Frank did not recognize. They in turn covered a series of plastic action figures and a pile of tiny green army men. Some were covered in what looked like dried mud.

“Again, it’s probably not worth much,” said Mr. Chase.

“No, it’s not,” said Frank. “Books are pretty popular, but they go for about a dime a dozen in this condition.” He started digging through the box’s remaining contents. “I can’t promise much for the rest, either. Wait…” His hand stopped. “Hang on, what’s this?”

His fingers had brushed against something else: smooth leather with a tenderness that was altogether familiar. He pulled the baseball glove out by its fingers.

“Look at that,” said Mrs. O’Toole. Turning to Mr. Chase and whispering like she was about to reveal a deep secret, she said, “Frank used to be quite a player, when he was younger.”

The glove was larger than Frank would have expected, almost adult-sized. The dark brown leather was well worn and the glove opened and closed with ease. Someone had taken good care of it. Frank could see young hands carefully rubbing the soft leather with oil, fitting a baseball in the pocket and storing the glove in a shoebox during the long off-season.

And as he held the glove up to the light, Frank felt something that he hadn’t felt in years. The dusty insides of the shop seemed to swirl away, taking all of its contents with it, and for a moment he could see mid-day sunshine and smell freshly mown grass in the air. He closed his eyes and took a deep, slow breath.

“So, do you want to make a deal?”

Mr. Chase’s voice caused Frank to blink. They were both looking at him. Mrs. O’Toole’s wide-eyed gaze shifted back and forth between him and the glove.

“Yeah,” said Frank, not taking his eyes off the glove. “I think I do.”

Schedule Changes

2011-08-26T11:32:00.001-04:00

Starting next week I'm going to end the M-W-F schedule and instead post fiction on Mondays and Thursdays. This will make it easier for me to spread out my work and keep up with my writing schedule. There will be no more Friday posts.

Instead of doing weekly updates about how certain stories are coming or what's scheduled to come next, I'm going to leave all that stuff in the comments. That way, it'll be less in your face unless you're actually curious about it.

I will still write non-fiction posts from time to time, talking about what I'm reading or any other interesting news in the literary world. But these will be more sporadic, if only because I don't always have something interesting to write and I don't want to be half-assing these posts just to adhere to a schedule.

So, that's that.

Apparently, a hurricane is moving up the East Coast this weekend. I happen to have plans that take me much closer to the coast than I would otherwise be. This ought to be fun.

"Fielder's Choice" (Part 1 of 10)

2011-08-24T12:12:00.003-04:00

At four o'clock on Monday afternoon, Frank Hart stood behind the counter of his pawn shop, drumming his fingers on the unfinished wood top and trying his best to look engaged while Mrs. Susan O'Toole tried to decide on the best dusty vase for her sitting room table.

"Of course, this one would go nicely with my curtains," said Mrs. O'Toole while examining one vase, two inches away from her oversized bifocals. "It has the same pretty floral prints, you see. But this one," she held up the second vase—a nasty, yellow-green thing with a chipped rim—and balanced the two, one in each hand. "This one reminds me of early spring. Don't you think so, Frank? You're the expert, after all."

Mrs. O'Toole was a regular. She had an eye for old and forgotten objects, things most people would dismiss as junk—usually for good reason. Frank thought about telling her that the vases used to belong to Chad Flaherty, who snatched them off his mother for drug money, and that they were hardly worth their weight in packing peanuts. But what would be the point? It would probably just encourage her.

Instead, he sighed and said: "Well, Susan, they both have quite a look to them. It's whichever one you like the best," and then leaned back and watched her reaction.

Mrs. O'Toole pursed her lips. Frank could almost picture the cogs in her head spinning on overdrive to process this. The vases made hollow clunks as she plopped them on the counter. Then she jabbed an accusing finger at him and declared, "Primary colors!"

She rushed behind the shelves to the back of the shop and began rummaging through what sounded like more vases, yelling back to him something about proper mood lighting.

Mrs. O'Toole meant well, Frank thought, but he was glad the shelves were there to help muffle some of her ranting. The woman could talk for hours straight if she set her mind to it.

Most days, before Mrs. O'Toole got in, Frank would grow accustomed to the silence that pervaded the shop. It was usually empty. The corner—his corner—of Shelton's main street, where the neighboring shop that hadn’t already shuttered were slowly on their way out of business, was not the best place to pick up customers. Every once in a while he'd get lucky: Some chubby rich boys from the city would pull off the highway by accident and end up driving by. They'd be the folks to walk in on a whim and buy one of Frank's finer pieces—golden watches and silver cufflinks, sometimes a diamond necklace for their wife or, he assumed, their mistress.

These visits kept Frank in business. He used to think that if his luck held out he'd hold off on collecting Social Security until he hit seventy, and squeeze some extra cash out of Uncle Sam. But that was still a couple years away, and lately he hadn't been so sure if it was a good idea. Things were bad out there. People were getting desperate, more so than Frank had seen in a long time. They were pawning more and reclaiming less. And the stuff they brought in was getting worse, too. Frank never pretended to run a high-class establishment, but there was a big difference between your ordinary, everyday junk and the real bottom-of-the-barrel stuff people brought in when they needed a few bucks and had nowhere else to turn.

Mrs. O'Toole was lucky. At least she had her late husband's pension to keep her going.

It was quarter past four and Frank's stomach grumbled. His right hand automatically searched under the counter for his afternoon snack before he remembered he was reaching for empty air—his daughter had seen to that. Peggy had been on his ass for weeks about his snacking, and a few days ago she finally got so sick of lecturing him that she started confiscating his supply.

"Do you want to end up in the hospital from eating all this crap?" she had said, nostrils flaring. Then he watched, helplessly, as she threw half his food away.

Frank eased back into his chair with a groan that the old wooden joints returned in kind. He wondered if he still had some beer waiting at home.

The thought of closing up early began to cross his mind when Mrs. O'Toole reappeared. He had nearly forgotten about her, even though when he thought about it, he was pretty sure she had been talking across the room at him the whole time. Standing next to her—actually, it looked like she had dragged him across the room—was a frazzled-looking man with a cardboard box under one arm. Frank hadn’t seen him enter the shop.

"Creaking"

2011-08-22T11:59:00.004-04:00

Listen:

Across a hardwood floor imprinted with the scars of time, her rocking chair stirs.

Creak…creak…

She remembers the war. On V-J Day, in the midst of celebration, a young sailor took her aside and kissed her full on the lips. When they parted, she saw that he was blushing.

Two years later he carried her over the threshold of a home that was barely large enough for the two of them, and he blushed again. This time she gave him a kiss. She was three months pregnant, and glowing.

Creak…creak…

She remembers her son. He was born premature and the doctors were amazed that something so tiny and frail could so fiercely cling to life. He came home for the first time after weeks in the hospital, wrapped in a soft blue blanket. She still keeps it.

He came home to her for the last time on his twentieth birthday, wrapped in a flag. She buried that in the yard with his combat medals and never spoke of them again.

Creak…creak…

She remembers the hospital bed where her husband lay. He was hooked up to a breathing machine. Between gasps, all he could talk about was paying utility bills, and how he hadn’t finished painting the side wall.

Soon their money drained anyway. The day they were finally forced to move out, she had to carry him. The banker seemed sad that day.

Creak…creak…

In her tiny ground-floor apartment she sits alone. Black-and-white pictures dot the mantelpiece over a false fireplace. Old eyes stare.

She remembers her father’s strong hands and her mother’s warm embrace, and the sweet scent of her grandfather’s pipe.

She remembers summertime. Soldiers marching in parade. Cool orange slices and strawberries, ice cream and bittersweet chocolate.

Creak...creak…

Outside an open window, children from down the road play tag on the grass. Their shrieks fill the afternoon air. Somewhere upstairs, a game show plays on television.

The clock ticks.

Tick…

Tick…

Creak…creak…

These are the sounds of stories unheard.

In Which StumbleUpon Leads Me To Fun New Sites

2011-08-19T11:15:00.004-04:00

I'm always happy to find blogs that are similar to mine. Enter Elisa Michelle, a self-described "fantasy/science fiction novelist-in-training" who posts her flash fiction pieces and excerpts of her work-in-progress novels on her blog, Elisa Michelle's Writing. I've been following the blog ever since I found it (thanks, StumbleUpon) and I've really enjoyed reading her work. And, no, we have never met, and she is not paying me to say that.

This is cool. If you're familiar with the movie review site Rotten Tomatoes, you might want to check out something similar, only for books. It's still in its beta version, but Critics & Writers is a great site that collects book reviews and ranks the books based on them. I've only been looking through it for a little while and already I've found a good potential new book (How To Live Safely In A Science Fictional Universe by Charles Yu—check it out) Screw Amazon—from now on, when I link to pages about the books I mention, I'm going to use this site.

My one gripe, which, for all I know, will be addressed in the final version, is that there doesn't seem to be an easy way to scroll through their list of books to find something without knowing the title or author. Sure, the site lists its "notable" books, which refresh at random, but those only make up a small fraction of what I imagine is a large and ever-growing database. Then again, maybe I haven't spent enough time with the site, or maybe there is a way to do it, but I'm just bad at the Internet.

* * *

As Wednesday's post indicated, I'm going to be taking a break from "Brush Strokes" for a while. What started as a simple writing exercise that was originally meant to take up a single post quickly ballooned into a nearly 5000 word monstrosity. It reads like a prologue, because it is, and while the protagonist has a lot more story to tell, I figured Wednesday's stopping point would be a good place to end it.

I will eventually continue the story, once I do some more writing and get a better sense of where it's going. Meanwhile, I've got some more ideas that I'd like to post. I realized everything I've written here so far has been in first-person, and I'd like to change that. That's what the next, say, two weeks are going to be all about.

Lately, I've also been thinking about changing this blog's schedule. Adding two fiction posts a week seems to be working so far, but I'm not sure about the Friday post. It's purpose, so far, has been to update you on what I've been working on, to share links to cool reading/writing related sites I find, and the occasional long post. But I'm starting to wonder if that's necessary, seeing as some weeks I have more to say than others. Plus, I can always update you about my progress in the comments if you're interested in that sort of thing.

So, I'm considering a new schedule: posting fiction on Mondays and Thursdays, and possibly posting my usual links and other non-fiction stuff over the weekend.

I'll work on it. It's important for me to have a good schedule that works, not only to make it easier for people to follow me, but also so that I learn to stick with it. Any ideas?

"Brush Strokes" (Part 5 of 5)

2011-08-17T11:10:00.001-04:00

The sound of my voice, however faint, did something to him. He seemed to snap out of a trance. He stared blankly at me for a moment, and then the corners of his mouth turned up and he began to laugh—a deep, full-throated laugh that filled the room.

A magician? he said. With a top hat and a white rabbit? And for my next trick, I will take this rabbit and—poof! It’s a bird! Round of applause!

He kept chuckling, bouncing around the room giddily. Something was odd. He did not look like himself.

I ought to be insulted, boy…but what brings you here on this fine evening to watch my—what would you call it? Magic show?

I came to get my drawings, I said, still whispering. The gardener’s enthusiasm was off-putting, and I was not sure if I wanted to stay.

Speak up? Ah, this! he said, picking up my drawing pad and waving it in front of his face. He handed it back to me and said: I like a man who shows dedication to his work. Tonight’s sunset was particularly inspiring, no? You would be astounded by the number of people who fail to notice a beautiful sunset. An artist’s dream, from which so many have chosen to wake.

He started chuckling again. He sat—or rather, collapsed—on one of the wooden chairs that had been pushed aside to make room for the easel. I began to wonder if he had been drinking, but could not see a bottle or glass anywhere. He gave a sigh and motioned for me to sit in another chair. After a few moments, I did, never taking my eyes off him.

My apologies, my boy, he said. My apologies. I cannot help it; the energy is utterly intoxicating. Can you feel it?

Indeed I could, fainter than before, but it was there: the buzzing, reverberating off the walls. He continued:

It seems I owe you an explanation. I have for a while, ever since I first approached you—but time…oh, time is of the essence with this sort of thing.

What sort of thing? I asked. He waved a hand at me, silencing me. The smile was gone, replaced by a stern look. It felt like half the energy had been drained from the room and replaced by the evening chill. I could practically see him mentally parsing his own words before deciding to speak. When he did, the words came slowly, deliberately.

You were always meant to see what you saw tonight, he said. Do not ask me how. I do not know. My family, you know, we are a family of painters. Were a family of painters. My father and his father and his father before that, so on and so forth for as far back as we can measure. Some things simply are, and that is one of them. I made this garden, not with the strength of my back but with the twist of my brush. I think I made it well. It will outlast me, I hope.

He coughed. His voice sounded strained: But look at me, alone and childless, the last of my line with no one to receive my final testament. Oh, don’t look so grave!—my eyes had gone wide with shock—I am not old, but my family dies young. Again, some things simply are. I used to think, before you came along, that by doing nothing I could break the cy—

The gardener burst into a coughing fit, louder and more forceful. Now that I was close I saw how haggard he looked. Was he ill? Had all that life really gone out of him in such short a span? Or was the reverse true: Had it only been that energy—the buzzing and crackling, the glow—that kept him going?

No more wasting time, he said, leaning forward. This is yours now, yours to learn and keep. I will teach you.

He took my hand and stood, but I remained seated.

Now? I asked.

So many thoughts rushed through my head. But I’m not an artist, I wanted to scream at him. I’m still learning! And then there was that unmistakable nag: that part of me that could not believe any of this was real, that all of this was a dream and that soon I would find myself awake by the windowsill.

Da mihi castitatem et continentiam, sed noli modo, he muttered, and pulled me up. Yes, my boy, now is the time. It chooses when to pass on, you see. Did the same for me. You surprised me tonight. I was not prepared, but it most certainly was. I apologize again. I should have told you this before, to ease you into it. But I thought…

His voice choked, but this time there was no cough. He smiled at me.

I enjoyed teaching you, he said. You are good company. Time got away from me after all.

The second the words left his lips I knew what my answer would be. Those eyes staring into mine, sad and hopeful at the same time. That face, seemingly aging before me. In many ways, it was not a conscious decision. I still had almost no idea what I had seen. Everything had happened so quickly. But at the same time I felt the invisible tug, a force beyond both our control, drawing me in.

What do I do? I asked.

The gardener put his brush in my hand, closing my fingers tight around the handle. He then stretched a fresh canvas over the easel, so clean and white and pure.

I will tell you two things, he said. The first is that you, and you alone, are the only person apart from me who can feel the energy here, who can see the light where none shines. You have felt it for some time, and I believe it is no longer strange to you. Feel it now, in your fingers and your hand, all the way up your arm. Let it overtake you as it seeks to do.

As he spoke the hairs on my arms stood. Something was traveling through me, indeed. I saw, or I thought I saw, tiny points of light float lazily in front of me, making the air between myself and the canvas sparkle. The whole room seemed to grow brighter.

And the second thing, he said, backing away from me now, is to make your brush strokes be. The rest, you already know…

His voice faded. I don’t know when it happened, not exactly. But at one point, as I stared into the now brilliant white canvas, I felt myself floating, without having moved. The double vision returned, but it was different now: I saw my canvas and I saw the earth, all one and the same, brown and green and white, and as I picked up my brush hand I felt a surge of electricity and heard the rush of strong storm winds.

Euphoric—there was no other way to describe it. Everything that had plagued my previous artwork—a shaky hand, lack of perspective—vanished like pebbles beneath the waves. I held my arm rock-steady, making each deliberate stroke. I was perspective: all angles at once were at my command. I dove into it with enthusiasm. A stem. Leaves. Petals.

I heard a voice—the gardener’s voice—behind me. Or was it all around me? Away from my painting, no other point of view mattered, no direction made sense.

Now I’ve cursed you, my boy.

Even in my state I wanted to laugh. I had just put the finishing touches on the top of my flower: a white rose, to go next to his black one. I was already easing out, finding my feet, settling onto the ground, again seeing forward and backward and side to side. I wanted to turn around and tell the gardener that he was a fool, that he could have given me nothing greater; how I had never seen things this way before. Never had I felt such an urge to speak.

The cottage. The floor. The lamp. The gleaming, finished canvas. The window. My new flower, swaying, as if to greet me.

And behind me, in his chair, the gardener. Eyes wide open. Not moving. Not breathing.

***

"Brush Strokes" (Part 4 of 5)

2011-08-15T12:48:00.002-04:00

It was quiet in the house when I got back. None of the house workers were bustling about, which meant they had already finished most of their work for the day. So my father was home, then.

I pictured him hunched over his desk, answering a mounting pile of correspondence, peering through eyeglasses that barely hung on to the bridge of his nose. Still in his business suit, tie straightened, shoes finely polished form earlier that day. It would be hours, perhaps, before he got around to changing clothes.

I could hear his pen scratching as I crept down the hallway that led to my bedroom. I could not go there without passing his study. As always, the door was open. I think he liked to know what went on around him, even while he remained engrossed in his work.

Saul?

He did not make eye contact. He did not even look up from what he was writing. But the slight shift in his hand as he laid down his pen, the cock of his head, the even tone in his voice all made me pause outside the doorway. My gaze fell at the floor by his feet.

Yes, father?

What are you doing?

I was out by the garden.

He was silent for a moment, as if he expected a different answer and was unsure how to respond.

What were you doing there? he asked.

My mind flailed for a quick, safe answer.

I was reading.

Have you been keeping up with your studies?

Yes, father.

You ought to. Your tutors are expecting you to work hard. A man who does not work hard will never be a true man. Do you understand that?

I understand.

He looked up then, eyes searching me. Looking for a book under my arm, perhaps, a sign of my honesty. I kept my hands folded behind my back and stood still.

I will not be at supper tonight, he said finally, with a small sigh. There is much here for me to do.

Then he resumed writing, and for all I knew I may as well not have been standing there at all. He had nothing more to say.

The scratching followed me all the way down the hall.

I spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening sitting beside my bedroom window. My room had a high ceiling and the window stretched all the way to the top, several times my own height. I had a perfect view of the garden. The storm had subsided, and shafts of light pierced through gaps in the clouds as the sun fell lower on the horizon, illuminating patches of flowers while they soaked in the day’s last dying gasps.

When the light changed from gold to bronze to blood-orange, I saw it: the glow. It was happening again, just like it had with the first sunflowers the gardener showed me. Only this time it was more than that. All the flowers joined in, getting brighter, shining stronger than before, like a collection of multicolored lights. It looked oddly inviting, for all its strangeness. Even from my far-away vantage point, I felt its warmth. And then a new, inexplicable feeling: What if the flowers were somehow communicating with the setting sun?

I had a desperate urge to capture the image in front of me, knowing that with my skills I would fail miserably to do it justice. I could still hear the gardener’s words: Don’t try to draw it as you see it. Draw it as it is. I wanted to, more than anything.

I reached for my drawing pad, but grasped only empty air. Then I realized I had left it in the gardener’s cottage.

It was getting late and for a brief moment the idea of waiting until morning had its appeal, but I pushed the thought out of my head. There was no chance of sleep with these images in my head, begging to be expressed. I had to get it now.

My father’s door was still open down the hall. I walked past as nonchalantly as I could, hoping that if he saw me he would forget the time and assume I was only going to have my supper. I tried not to think about what he would say if he knew I had spent the last several hours staring out of a window instead of studying. But I heard not a sound from him, nor any indication that he saw me.

It was almost fully dark outside when I eased out the front door. Only the thinnest light remained over the horizon, and the flowers had begun to dim. I shivered. The storm had cooled the air significantly, and the breeze made the hairs on the back of my neck to stand up. I never considered myself to be afraid of the dark by any means, but that night I sprinted toward the cottage. A strange energy hung over the land, buzzing and crackling like electricity. It propelled me forward.

As I approached I saw a small light emanating from the gardener’s window: a pleasant, orange glow that illuminated the flowers that grew along the wall. Then his dark silhouette appeared, casting a thin shadow. The gardener was doing something in the window; I could not tell what.

A crack, like a whip. I spun on my heels toward the sound and wound up facing the empty patch of land I had noticed earlier that day. In the window light, I saw movement. Another crack, then three more in rapid staccato. Then the sound of dirt crumbling, pulling itself apart.

The fissure grew, stretching wider, and out of this gaping maw it appeared, long and dark, stretching from the surface like a hand clawing its way out of a dead man’s tomb.

I ran.

I nearly plowed into the cottage door. My fingers trembled as I tried to turn the knob. Finally, I forced it open like a shot. Here is what I saw:

Standing in the middle of the room was the gardener, bathed in flickering orange light from an oil lamp. He had an easel propped by the window with a canvas stretched over it. He was painting, in broad strokes followed by little flicks of his wrist.

I inched closer to get a better look. He was painting a flower. That is when things began to blur.

Out the window I saw the thing poking from the earth: It was a stem, shooting steadily upward. And there it was again on the gardener’s canvas, growing with each brush stroke. And then rustling leaves. Thorns. A head, petals unfurling. To look at both was to see two objects that remained one and the same, like a case of double vision that just would not quit. I felt dizzy trying to focus.

Then he finished, resting his brush by his side, and the sight settled. The easel held an immaculate painting of a black rose, curved slightly at the top. Out the window, standing in perfect unison with its oil paint likeness, was a real black rose that had not been there moments before.

I exhaled. I realized I had been holding my breath. Suddenly, he turned toward me. His eyes had an orange glow to them. Was it the reflection from the lamplight? Or was it something more?

For a moment, there was only silence between us. Then I whispered:

Are…are you a magician?

TGIF Update: Overrated And Underrated

2011-08-12T10:05:00.003-04:00

It can be really refreshing to take a classic, highly regarded work of literature and (figuratively) tear it apart. It’s not like panning that current bestseller all your friends are reading. Those often come and go and are never seen again. But classics have walls built around them. Generations of critics have hailed them as masterpieces, and as praise builds upon praise it sometimes becomes difficult to read with a critical eye.

Still, the handful of authors quoted in this article do a pretty good job of that, and manage to whip out some interesting titles that they simply couldn’t stand. (Hint: Click on the Finnegans Wake link and try, try to read the first page on the Amazon preview. If you can understand it, you win a medal).

Personally, I’ve always despised Hemingway’s famous The Old Man and the Sea, which has to be the longest and most boring fishing tale your senile grandfather never told you. And while I didn’t dislike The Catcher in The Rye the first time I read it, I’ve found it harder to take seriously over the years.

Let’s hear it: What are some of your least favorite classics?

And now for a book that will (hopefully) be highly regarded—and deservedly so at that—when it comes out in October: I’m With the Bears. This collection of fiction stories, edited by Mark Martin, appears to deal with climate change and its effects.

Which is not to say that climate change itself is fiction—it obviously isn’t. And that’s why it’s good to see this topic get a boost. If writers are going to write about apocalyptic/dystopian futures, they might as well focus on the one we’re facing—but which we can still prevent, or at least slow down, if we get our act together.

Featured here is award-winning Canadian author Margaret Atwood, who was last seen standing up for Toronto libraries facing closure (guess everyone’s been cutting budgets these days, even those socialist Canadians). I’ll admit, I don’t know much about the rest of the authors involved, but I expect to soon.

(Oh, fun fact: Apparently royalties from the book will go to 350.org, which founded the international grassroots movement to reduce atmospheric carbon dioxide to below 350 ppm—the safe upper level for carbon dioxide.)

* * *

So, writing the latest bits of “Brush Strokes” has been interesting. For a while, I hated it. Now I feel like I’m at least getting the hang of it, and maybe it will turn out okay. But more important (to me) than the quality of the story is the fact that I’m finally getting the hang of a set writing schedule. I’m trying to do a certain number of words every night, instead of sporadically writing when I feel like it. It actually helps keep a consistent flow going. Some nights the words come slower than others, but what can you do?

I still don’t know when “Brush Strokes” will end. In my head, it started out as a tiny short story that kind of exploded when I tried to write it. I will say that the next few installments are going to take an interesting turn, so at the very least you should stick around to see more of the strange things that occur inside my imagination.

I’ve been learning a lot about my own writing style lately. First, I think I’ve finally convinced myself that no matter how many times I try to write longhand, I do a better job on the computer. For some reason, I’ve developed a habit of writing all the sentences I want in a particular paragraph, just not always in the correct order. Maybe it’s how I think. Anyway, it’s much easier to fix the order in Word than the keep making cramped notes in the margins.

Second, I think I’ve finally found that “window” where I do my best writing. Later at night my mind tends to race a little bit less and I’m better able to ignore all my wonderful electronic distractions and focus on getting words on the page. This only lasts for about an hour so, at which time I start getting tired and focus becomes difficult again. Hey, I never said it was a large window. I’m working on it.

Have a good weekend.

"Brush Strokes" (Part 3 of 5)

2011-08-10T10:57:00.002-04:00

After some weeks with the gardener, I began to feel a change coming on. Not just in my artwork—although that was showing marked improvement as I broadened from sketching to painting. I felt myself changing. After having spent so much time alone and in silence, I felt a new, unfamiliar urge to speak out loud. And the gardener listened. For the first time in my life, I had a friend.

I eventually became comfortable enough to ask him questions about his time in the Army, which was the one aspect of his past that seemed to pain him. He was only seventeen when he lied about his age and joined General Pershing’s army before it shipped off to France. There, he was promoted to a General’s aide and served Pershing personally until the Armistice.

What did you do there? I asked, as we sat together at his table. I had been working on a sketch while the gardener looked on.

He was silent, at first.

Bad business, he said after a time. War is all bad business, once the marching is done. Stay out of it, may you be so fortunate.

Then he was silent again and sat still, staring at nothing in particular. If he was remembering a war story, some moment of horror that had stayed with him for all those years, he said nothing.

Thinking I would hear no more, I turned back to my sketch. Then the gardener spoke again.

It was gray, he said slowly. Gray and brown, just smoke and earth. There used to be forest, long before we got there. That’s what the locals told us, on the way to the front, when they would reach into the streets, handing us flowers and cigarettes. You’re going to the old forest, they would say, and they looked at us with such pity that we all felt chills run down our spines. But it all became clear when we arrived. Not a tree in sight. Nothing but shell holes for miles. Holes filled with bodies. Limbs. Just a great gray, colorless mass. The fires of Hell would have been a blessing. And then the General, he saw where I was looking, and he took me aside and pointed at the enemy line—you could see them dug in, with their barbed wire and machine gun nests, all those soldiers—and he told me… he told me to…

His mouth stayed open, but no more words came out. I went over to him and put my hand on his shoulder.

It’s so much better here, he continued, suddenly looking up at me. There’s color, there’s life. It’s safe here. And better yet, he said with a small grin, nobody ever bothers a competent gardener. I don’t like taking orders.

He patted my hand.

You’re a good boy, Saul, to listen to this. Why don’t you go back up to the house for today? Leave a man to his dark thoughts for a little while. Perhaps we can do some more painting tomorrow.

He was still smiling when I walked out, smiling with his mouth but not his eyes, which looked oddly distant. I can still picture it.

Outside, a storm brewed. The wind blew the flowers violently. From my angle, walking down the path away from the cottage, it looked for a moment like they were all turning to face me, the way a crowd of people might turn toward a stranger. The effect reminded me of seeing the sunflowers dance the first time, but now the noise was louder, and much less comforting.

Except… one patch of land had no flowers at all, only a few square feet of freshly tilled soil. It crossed my mind that I had never seen the gardener actually plant anything. All of his time so far had been spent observing and taking notes and sketches. Perhaps when the storm passed he would add something new.

"Brush Strokes" (Part 2 of 5)

2011-08-08T13:09:00.005-04:00

Looking back, I've often wondered what would have become of me if I had simply gone inside. Turned around and walked down the path, out of the garden and up to the house, away from the gardener forever.

Could I have avoided all this? Would I have turned out any better? I don't know.

The gardener chose me. That much is clear. He planned to meet me that day. He must have known I would not turn around.

Curiosity drove me to him, I'll admit. He was not like the other workers, not at all. For one thing, he did not treat me like an obstacle, the way the others did when they shooed me away from their workspace. He seemed to genuinely enjoy having me around. And he loved to talk. I learned a lot about him just by listening.

He was an artist. A painter, from a long line of painters—that's what he said while excitedly showing me his collection. He had them all stored in his cottage. His own paintings hung on the walls, where there was space, but many more were rolled up in the corners of his sitting room, or stacked in the cramped closet with the door that refused to close. Most of those works were done by his father; a few by his grandfather.

I do not remember if his forebears' work contained any overarching themes, but the gardener's subjects of choice were his flowers. He told me that flowers were the first things he learned to paint, and he always felt that he was best at them.

To examine one of his paintings was the equivalent of peering through a magnifying glass at an actual flower. The colors matched perfectly: When viewed in the correct lighting, it was like looking out a window. The thing may as well have been there in front of you. It was remarkable, really, how thoroughly and painstakingly he must have worked. His paintings represented each flower as it actually appeared, down to every petal, every leaf, every thorn. Only upon the closest inspection did it become possible to see how he did—the paint arranged just so, in perfect swirls and shapes, as if by a brush the size of a pin. How the gardener did this, I could not fathom. Compared to my own sketches, with their rough, unfinished lines and mismatched colors more suited to abstract expression, his work was—how can I put it?—real.

But, for some reason, the gardener had taken an interest in my drawing. He never explicitly offered to teach me, but one particularly hot afternoon, as we sat at his small, unpolished table, he reached over to the page I had open on my drawing pad, ripped out a drawing of a single tulip, and told me to do it over again.

But this time, he said, don't try to draw it as you see it. Draw it as it is.

So we went to the spot in the garden where the tulips grew, and thus began my first lesson.

TGIF Update: There Isn't Much To See Here, But Since You Decided To Stop By...

2011-08-05T11:12:00.003-04:00

Note: Not much of a post today. I've got lots of job-search related things to do and a busy weekend ahead, so right now I'm focusing on getting the more substantive posts for next week done.

***

A couple weeks ago I wrote a post about Borders' demise. Going along that vein, I recently found an utterly depressing article written by a former Borders employee about how the stores changed over the years. It wasn't for the better.

***

So ... Wednesday's post was kind of strange. Bear with me, because it looks like the story is going to take some even stranger turns in the next few installments. I think this one will be in four, maybe five parts in all.

I've now reached the point where my backlog of stories has been exhausted. From here on, I'm writing new material. It's a little nerve-racking. As I've mentioned before, my motivation for starting this blog had less to do with me wanting to show off what I've written and more to do with me trying to stick to a fixed writing schedule. If I manage to do it, there should be more stories up here for weeks to come.

Time to go work on that. Have a good weekend, everyone.

"Brush Strokes" (Part 1 of 5)

2011-08-03T12:23:00.005-04:00

I never knew my mother. She died giving birth to me. My father once said that she loved flowers. It was the only time he ever spoke to me about her.

We had a garden at the house in Newport, by the sea, where I grew up. I think my father had it all planted as a memorial to her.

I always liked those flowers. Mostly I liked to draw them. They spanned most of our property, arranged around paths that spidered out from the cottage where the gardener lived. Their colors were so vivid and varied, so unlike anything else I had seen grow along the coast that drawing them was like capturing a slice of a fantasy world, like something I would read about but could never fully grasp until I saw it. My pastels alone could not do it; sometimes, I would hunt for berries or steal flower petals (for in mind taking any part of the garden was stealing) and rub them on paper to form new colors.

That was how I spent my time, during those summer days when it was too hot to stay inside and miss the ocean breeze. I was a shy boy, and in any case we never had a lot of company. The families who lived in the mansions nearby did not care to bother with us. Those in passing would sneer at the house. Sometimes, I could hear them talk: My father did not come from money, they said. He made his fortune all himself. He was new money. Then they would laugh and continue on their way.

My father, for his part, spent most of his time working at his brand new office building in Manhattan, so I saw very little of him growing up. When he did come home, he said little. He asked me a few questions about my behavior, my schoolwork. Then it was off to his study for the night, and by next morning the rumble of his Cadillac would again signal his departure. I assume he left the housekeepers standing orders regarding my care when he was gone, but I cannot be sure. They never seemed to bother with me much either.

Except for the gardener.

I would see him every day, when I sat outside on a stone bench by the garden and worked on my drawings. He did not look like a man who worked with his hands. His skin was tanned bronze form the sun, yes, but he was portly, with thin arms that dangled by his sides. They looked like they had never lifted a spade. And yet, all the flowers were his. My father only paid the bills.

I do not know how long it took for him to notice me.

But when he finally did speak it happened suddenly, without warning. One day, the gardener emerged from behind a patch of sunflowers and called out:

Come here, he said. He pointed at one of the flowers.

Come look.

Startled, I caught myself turning around to see who he was addressing. Of course, we were the only people there.

He was grinning now, still pointing.

Are you coming?

So I did. As I got near to him, he put his hand on my shoulder, as if to still me. Then he whispered:

Watch.

The sunflower was so tall I had to crane my neck to get a look at it. The head rocked easily in the wind, back and forth, in an oval-shaped orbit around its base in the ground.

Then I stepped back and looked at the others. There must have been thirty of them in that patch alone, all spinning along in total unison. It was like watching a dance. The wind picked up, slowly, with a low whistle, and they spun faster and faster. They rumbled. It was faint at first, but then the sounds of the crackling stalks and rustling leaves combined and grew louder.

And the petals!

There has never been a doubt in my mind that what I saw was real, and not imagined: The petals glowed. It was not the glow of reflecting sunlight. Something emanated from deep within the flowers themselves, from a place that I could only sense peripherally.

I was frozen. In all my time sitting by that garden I had never seen anything like it.

The gardener chuckled.

Do you like flowers?

I nodded. As I did, the sunflowers dimmed and fell still, and the wind subsided.

Can’t you speak? What’s your name, boy?

I looked up, and just like with the sunflower, realized how much taller he was than me.

S-Saul.

Do you fancy yourself an artist there, Saul?

He was looking at the drawing pad that I held loosely under my arm. Then he grabbed it and started thumbing through the pages. I felt a sudden urge to say something, but the gardener shushed me before I could open my mouth. He was smiling again. He thrust the pad back at me.

Would you like to see more?

Then, without another word, he bounded down the path. I followed.

"The Grandmother's Tale" (Part 5 of 5)

2011-08-01T11:28:00.003-04:00

I know much about this forest—more, perhaps, than any other living creature. It was not difficult to slip unseen, in wolf-form, to the path where I had last met the hunter. Most hunters I have known keep favorite spots, and he was likely to be there again.

Voices reached out to me. I heard a man’s voice—the hunter’s, I was sure of it—but as I poised to leap in that direction I heard something else: high-pitched laughter.

They were in the forest together, my granddaughter and he. How it was allowed, I do not know. Her parents must not have known. Had her father been away trading? Surely, he would not have let this strange man accompany his daughter into the woods at night. And my own daughter? Was she curled up on her comfortable rug, a tame wolf neglecting her duties?

She should have been the one seeking out a proper match, if the time had come for that; and if not her, than I would have gladly done it instead. But this was … wrong. Against tradition. Dangerous. Who knew what kind of man he was?

Anger flared up in me, and I had to suppress the growl rumbling in my throat. I moved closer. He had built a fire (What hunter would scare away his prey with light and heat?) and they were sitting on the ground by it. She nestled against him, and in the flickering light I could see that she was wearing his red hood. So, he had given it to her, then, as a token of favor. I could hear him loudly telling her of the time he tracked and killed a bear deep in the forest. She laid her head on his shoulder, listening with rapt attention.

And then my heart sank, for as he spun his tale I saw what she did not, what no young girl could have seen: his expression, drunk not only with desire but with ale and spirit.

I could not hold it in any longer. I howled loudly, causing them to jump in alarm—he had not been expecting me. I watched him from the shadows, reaching for his bow, then his ax, but he could not find them, for it was dark and the drunken fool had not kept them close. Instead, he doused the fire and made to pull my granddaughter by the hand away from the clearing.

But first she turned around, and I know she saw me; my wolf eyes glow bright in the night. And yet, in that moment I wished I could not see her. She did not look ashamed.

For many nights afterward I dreamt only of her—walking with the hunter at night, letting him touch her, letting him have his way with her, and still oblivious to the drink that corrupted his thoughts. If he misused her, the Mother would surely never forgive her. He foolishly risked her Gift, her honor.

I waited. I have been waiting patiently for a full month.

The Mother will shine tonight. My granddaughter is meant to visit me; she is old enough now that the Change will soon be upon her. Surely her mother will not teach her—she will send her to me, to save herself the trouble.

Perhaps the hunter will be bold enough to accompany her. Perhaps he will even make his intentions clear to those around them, though I doubt it. I know things that others do not. My years may have weakened me, but they have taught me well. They have given me big eyes and big ears.

And big teeth.

I will wait for him. I will do what I should have done before.

I have tried to be a good daughter. I will bring the Mother’s blessing upon my granddaughter’s head.

***

TGIF Update: Quick Hits

2011-07-29T10:39:00.002-04:00

Some interesting bits of news for writers and readers alike...

As if we didn't have enough problems with overly protective parents and school officials trying to ban books from the classroom, the folks in Republic, MO have added another tale to the mix. At a school board meeting on Monday, members voted to ban Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut and Twenty Boy Summer by Sarah Ockler in a 4-0 vote (with three members not present). Wesley Scroggins, the Republic resident who apparently filed the original complaint, objected to what he saw as the books teaching principles contrary to the Bible.

It seems like this is a first for Twenty Boy Summer, which only came out in 2009. That book is about a girl who is forced to move on when her boyfriend dies a sudden, tragic death. It apparently gets sexually explicit at times, which the Republic school board did not seem to like any more than they liked Vonnegut's description of the Dresden firebombings of World War II. Not that I'm surprised to see Slaughterhouse Five on the list, since this could very well be the thousandth time a group has tried to ban the book (it was listed as one of the 100 most frequently challenged books of 1990-1999). It was even considered as part of the 1982 Supreme Court case Island Trees School District v. Pico, in which the Court held that the First Amendment limits the power of school boards to remove library books from junior high and high schools. So, yeah, nothing new there.

Despite my strong urge to point out the irony of comparing these books to the Bible (which is far from PG in places), or of banning books about war and sex when teenagers can join the military with parental consent at 17, and sometimes start having sex earlier than that, there really isn't a lot to say about this case that hasn't been said a thousand times before. All we have here is one more argument for paying attention to your local school board, and voting for members who are better than this.

(Although, apparently there was a third book up for consideration that was not banned: Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson, which is about a high school rape victim's struggle to come to terms with what happened to her. The school superintendent said that the rape itself was described "tastefully, not graphically." Interesting place to draw the line. I suppose it's better than banning all three books but, still, a .333 average is only good if you're playing baseball.)

By the way, I should point out that only one of the four voting school board members in Republic actually read all the books up for consideration. Nice.

On a more positive note, those of you who actually want to read books instead of ban them may be in luck. I just found a site (or, rather, a collection of sites) that offers FREE BOOKS. Specifically, free copies of audiobooks, eBooks, and other digital texts. I haven't looked at most of the links yet and can't vouch for all of them, but the ones I've seen so far look pretty legit. Check it out.

If you're one of those people who still prefers to buy physical books, but doesn't want to shell out for a hardcover, there's good news. Apparently, the rise of eBooks is forcing the publishing industry to release paperbacks quicker than they usual.

And finally, the results of the 2011 Bulwer-Lytton contest are in! Sponsored by the English Department at San Jose State University, the contest asks entrants to submit "the opening sentence of the worst of all possible novels." It's named after English novelist Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, who is most well known for the line "It was a dark and stormy night" from the 1830 novel Paul Clifford. Though it's worth pointing out that the whole line actually reads like this:

"It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness."

Not quite as ... punchy, that way. Question: If you enter a "bad writing" contest and fail to win, is that a good thing or a bad thing?

***

So earlier this week I screwed around with the site design a bit, and I hope it looks better now. Or at least, no worse than before.

On Monday, I'm finally going to post the final portion of "The Grandmother's Tale." I hope you've liked it so far. On Wednesday I will (hopefully) post the first portion of a yet-to-be-titled story that I haven't even finished yet. There isn't much to say about it right now, but so far it's similar to "The Grandmother's Tale," in that it involves another character telling the story of his life. Just the way it worked out, I guess.

Maybe later the two characters will head to the bar, down a few rounds, and swap stories.

"The Grandmother's Tale" (Part 4 of 5)

2011-07-27T11:16:00.005-04:00

She grew up quickly; she had to, for there was no one to provide for us but ourselves. And early in her twelfth year our Mother brought the Change to her, and we went on our first hunt, my daughter racing ahead of me, panting, moonlight in her eyes.

Tradition dictated that she soon find a suitable husband. Cautiously, I spent many days and nights—as a wolf and as a woman—in the nearby town on the edge of our forest. The people there were different from those I had known in the village—they were traders who received much of their food from the barges that regularly sailed up the river flowing through the town, and they had little use for wolf-women. But some families who lived closer to the forest still respected our kind, and told legends of our deeds by their hearths and campfires. I revealed my daughter and myself to them during a midsummer’s full moon with an offering of a freshly caught stag, and the people came forward, unafraid, to greet us.

Soon afterward, as is often the case, several suitors came forward. I knew them already—their work, their habits—being well aware of my den-mother’s failings in matchmaking. One suitor stood out: the young son of a local trader who had just begun to take over parts of his father’s business. Unlike many of his neighbors, he was a good Northern man, hardworking and wise in his field, able to tell quickly if he was being cheated in a trade; and he neither drank nor gambled.

When he asked me for my daughter’s hand, he offered me a room in the house he planned to build and all the luxuries he though I would desire. It was a common offer from the mouth of a successful Northern man who wished to marry, but I declined. I told him that I wished only to remain in my forest cottage and hunt with my daughter from time to time.

They were married in a joyous ceremony on the edge of the forest. I watched my daughter smile as she danced, and I felt relieved.

She went to live with her new husband in town, and as his trading business grew so too did her belly. Soon she gave birth to a daughter with a tuft of silver hair and eyes that shone like the Mother at night.

I would visit my granddaughter from time to time as she grew—not as much, perhaps, as a den-mother should, but I had grown to detest the town, with its noise and filth and tall buildings pressing unbearably from all sides of the street. She lived a happy childhood, with everything a young girl could wish for—certainly more than what I was used to. Her silver hair grew long as she grew tall, and it flowed behind her as she ran to greet me with outstretched arms.

“She is quick,” I remarked to my daughter once during a visit. “It makes sense. She was born quickly, if I recall. She will make a good hunter when her time comes. You should be glad of that.”

My daughter only frowned at me. “I am not as concerned about that as you are.”

In some ways, I had seen this coming. Like the distance between our own homes, I had felt a growing distance between myself and my daughter. She had quickly adjusted to married life, keeping house and even taking part in business affairs when her husband was away. She did not hunt with me as often as she once did during the full moon, and on those rare occasions when she did join she seemed to do so half-willingly, as if it mattered not whether we caught our quarry.

“Women in the town do not hunt,” she said. “We have great bounty there, and many other things to which we must attend.”

“So what do you do on those nights when your Mother calls you?” I asked angrily. “Sleep by the fire like a dog? Hunting is your Gift by birth, and your daughter’s. You cannot avoid it.” But my daughter did not answer.

As years passed, it became more difficult to make the journey to her home. Age took its toll on me as it does all wolf-women, and the trip through the forest seemed longer and more difficult with each attempt. Eventually, I stopped traveling all together. From time to time my granddaughter would visit me, though I often wondered if she only did so at the behest of my daughter, who had finally made clear that she no longer wished to leave town herself. For several years, as the girl approached womanhood, she was the only one to enter my part of the forest. Until the hunter.

I first laid eyes upon him as a wolf, during a particularly bright full moon. I had been chasing rabbits when I spotted him. He was not dressed like any hunter I had seen before; he wore a fine coat and shiny leather boots, and carried himself more like a sportsman than a man hunting to eat. He held a bow at the ready, arrow nocked. I approached him, slowly, not to frighten him but to greet him, so that he would be able to pay his respects and, if he wished, seek my aid in his hunt.

He shot at me instead.

The arrow struck my shoulder and blood spurted to the ground. Not since my husband had beaten me did I feel such surprise; I did not cry out, nor even run at first, until I saw him string a second arrow and take aim at my heart. This time he had adopted an open shooting stance.

I did not see his face, only his eyes, which were struck with fear. His hood was red—I remember that.

The wound was bad, worse for someone of my age, and I felt ill for days. The wound still has not fully healed, and I can feel it even now.

The next month came, and I sought revenge.

"The Grandmother's Tale" (Part 3 of 5)

2011-07-25T12:15:00.010-04:00

I fled into the forest that night.

Behind me I could hear shouts. Had the villagers discovered what had happened at the manor? Yes, there were the tiny pinpricks of light in the distance. Torches were being lit and search parties were being sent out—searching for the killer, though perhaps they did not yet know it was me they sought.

As a wolf, I ran faster than any man. I went deep into the woods until I came across a small cottage by a stream. An old man lay dead at his dinner table, his half-eaten food still warm on his plate. I dragged him outside and into the stream. He looked oddly peaceful, floating slowly into the dark. But it did not put me at ease.

From then on that cottage became mine. I could not go home, could not return to my den-mother with the news of what I had done. No doubt she would disown me for breaking my marriage vows. Marriage was sacred. It was unheard of for a wolf-woman to leave her husband, once bound to him. And to kill him? Surely she would call upon the Mother to curse me for my sin.

"Deep in the night," went the tale my sisters would tell me, on my first hunts, "there can always be found Doubt. He hides in the shadows behind Assurance, with a smirk on his face, waiting for his unwitting companion to finish his work and move on. When he does, and when the air around him is silent and still—that is when cackling Doubt strikes."

I spent the rest of the night curled up on the floor beside the old man’s smoldering fireplace. As day broke through the dusty, cobwebbed windows and my wolf form left me, I looked up at the fading form of the Mother for guidance, but none came. Was I indeed cursed? Had I been misled by my own feelings, and tricked into thinking that I was acting under orders? I could live with being a killer, after what my husband had done to me, but I could not live with my Mother’s scorn.

Some months later, a bump in my belly appeared. And several months after that, when I gave birth, alone, panting and sweating, to a baby girl whose eyes shone silver like the Mother, I knew the answer.

"Doubt is swift, but he is small and weak."

TGIF Update: R.I.P. Borders (WARNING: Includes ranting and raving, but not for the reasons you might think.)

2011-07-22T12:19:00.002-04:00

So Borders is gone, and thus ends (or begins?) another chapter in the long saga entitled “eBooks and Their Impact on the Reading World.”

Borders president Mike Edwards, in a statement this week, said “[T]he headwinds we have been facing for quite some time, including the rapidly changing book industry, eReader revolution and turbulent economy, have brought us to where we are now.” If you want to take the final statement of one who is essentially the captain of a sinking ship with a grain of salt, be my guest. I don’t blame you. But there can be no doubt that the eBook, at the very least, drove the final nail into Borders’ big-box coffin.

Click to read more »

"The Grandmother's Tale" (Part 2 of 5)

2011-07-20T10:26:00.004-04:00

In those days, the people of the Northern villages had great respect for wolf-women, for though our bodies transformed into beasts in the moonlight our minds remained human, and no man could match our hunting prowess. In times of bad winter and great famine, we alone could succeed where mere hunters failed.

Though few will admit it, many men alive today owe their current fortune to the long-forgotten actions of my kind.

It was considered a great honor for a man to be allowed to marry a wolf-woman, for he secured not only a source of extra income for his family, but also high status for his future children. My den-mother knew this well, and with my father more than ten years dead it was left to her to find matches for her daughters. Though she loved us and wished for us to be happy in married life, she also chose shrewdly, ultimately selecting the well-bred sons of wealthy landowners. In return for the hands of her daughters, they promised my den-mother many acres of local forest land for her use alone.

When it was finally my turn to marry (as the youngest, it was only proper to wait for my sisters to wear rings first) I was offered to the son of the Baron of the largest nearby village. His father had only recently died, and he had inherited the manor, which sat on a little hill above the village.

We were married on that hill the day after that month’s full moon, in front of all the villagers, with my new husband clad in his finest coat and I wearing a sparkling silver dress (in traditional deference to the Mother). After the priest bound our hands and blessed us the hill erupted into song, and I was thrilled to dance with my husband before sitting to enjoy a feast of wild boar—caught, only the night before, by my den-mother.

That night, after the festivities ended and we had returned to his chamber, my husband asked me to Change for him.

“I wish to see the full extent of my Lady’s abilities,” he said.

I told him that it was impossible, and though I dearly wished to please him, the moon was no longer full, and the Mother only grants her Gift once every month.

He became sullen at that, and suggested that, if I would not perform my main function, that I at least go and fetch him some wine. I did so, and he drank it rapidly before turning and having his way with me with equal speed.

He fell promptly asleep, while I lay awake next to him, listening to his rough snores, feeling surprised and confused.

Tradition dictated that any woman—even a wolf-woman—follow the decrees of her husband, and for a short while I did as I was told, hoping to adjust to my new life. There was much to be done around the manor: Though it had once housed hundreds of servants, the late Baron had managed his coffers poorly, and my husband seemed to think little more of money than as something good for spending. I spent my days helping the remaining handful of servants tend to the gardens, working the kitchens, and keeping the countless manor rooms in something resembling a state of repair. My husband roamed his favorite village taverns, drinking fine ale and engaging in games of chance.

He lost a great deal of money this way—something he mumbled about on those nights when he would stumble home drunk and defeated—but, still knowing little about married life, I remained patient.

Then, only three weeks after our wedding, his dwindling luck left him entirely. In one unfortunate game of cards he lost not only his money, but also all his animals and food stores. It took several hours for the carts to take everything—the pigs, the cows, the horses, dried root vegetables and salted meats—and an hour or so more for the remaining servants to quietly leave.

My husband sat in silence in his sitting room, already very drunk, the walls bare, the furniture gone, save for a single chair.

He called me as I attempted to strengthen the dying fire.

“It is getting colder,” he said. “We must have food. You must transform for me, and hunt, as is the duty of your kind.”

“You speak the truth,” I replied. “But, as I said before, only the full moon can Change me, and she will not shine for several days. If food is what you want, you must wait, or hunt for it yourself.”

He paused at that, and then, in the blink of an eye, flew into a rage I had never before seen. He pummeled me with his fists and I fell, screaming, trying to fend him off, but in my woman form my body is thin and weak and he easily overpowered me.

As quickly as it began, it was over. I lay on the floor, my head pounding as if it were trying to strike back at him. A blow to the mouth had left my lip torn and dark blood ran down my chin, but I did not move. I could not move, fearing that I would only provoke him further.

My husband stared at me and said nothing, his face contorted with disgust. He downed one more drink and stormed off to his chamber.

I lay there for some time.

In the days that followed I did not see my husband—he had gone, I presumed, to visit friends and beg for money to pay his debts.

When he finally returned it was on the evening of the full moon. The sun was low on the horizon but it had not set yet, and I when I saw that he was empty-handed I expected him to round on me and demand that I hunt for him. But he was drunk again and instead brushed past me, without speaking, toward his chamber where he collapsed upon the bed. I followed.

I waited. I watched him, looking so weak as he lay sprawled in a heap. I don’t remember how long I stood there, nor how long it took for the sky outside to go from orange to purple and then to black. My Mother, arising from her slumber, came to my village in search of me, found me in my husband’s chamber, and peering through the window shone upon me, her full figure casting light over my bruised body.

I Changed.

Perhaps it was my Mother’s healing rays, but I no longer felt afraid. I was strong, and angry, and my patience had been pushed aside by something new, something unfamiliar. My Mother encouraged me: she told me—how, I cannot say—that it would be the right thing to do. The only thing to do.

As my husband snored, I bent down and with my powerful jaw ripped out his throat whole.

I felt no remorse, with my Mother as my guide. He had not earned me.

"The Grandmother's Tale" (Part 1 of 5)

2011-07-18T09:54:00.005-04:00

Women of my kind are born under the light of the full moon. The moon is our Mother; we have other mothers, our den-mothers, who bear us and bathe us and nurse us when our appetites grow, but it is the moon who watches over us and grants us our most precious Gift.

She is a good Mother.

I have tried to be a good daughter.

I was almost fifteen when the Change came upon me. It was late in coming—my older sisters worried that I had been passed over, that our Mother had not chosen me as she had chosen them. But my den-mother knew better, for she too had been slow to Change, and when on the night of the last full moon of my fourteenth year I noticed blood trickling down my thigh—the sign—my den-mother kissed me on the forehead and led my sisters and me out into the garden, where snow had fallen thick but where our view of the night sky was clear.

“Our Mother knows that you are patient, child,” she said to me. “And now, she will reward you for your patience.”

And as I looked to the sky and into the face of our Mother I felt her light hit me, not as a blow but as a smooth caress. Our Mother smiled upon me. As I smiled in return I felt a tickling sensation as soft, silver fur sprouted on my cheeks and along my arms and down my back. I fell, unexpectedly, forward onto my hands and knees, but what landed in the snow were four paws tipped with razor-sharp claws. My jaw ached. I felt my gums with my tongue, which was longer, stronger, and touched the tips of knife-sharp teeth.

I hunted with my sisters for the first time that night, and after racing through the forest after a strong buck I stopped, for a moment, to call out to my Mother the moon, thanking her for this Gift.

TGIF Update: Throwback Sci-Fi Edition

2011-07-15T11:01:00.011-04:00

I don't always plan to use this space for book reviews, but lately I've been thinking about Isaac Asimov's The Gods Themselves.

This won't be the most current of book reviews. Gods is an older book (first published in 1972), and on top of that, my copy had been sitting on my shelf gathering dust for about four years before I finally got around to reading it last week. You know how it is with reading lists—you plan to read a good book, and then a bunch of other good books get in the way.

I'll try not to spoil too much if you haven't read it yet, but here's the premise: In the twenty-second century an egotistic but only marginally competent scientist named Frederick Hallam accidentally discovers a way to generate limitless energy via a matter exchange with an alien species occupying an alternate universe. The aliens, as it turns out, do most of the work, and literally leave the results on Hallam's desk for him to find. This doesn't stop Hallam from taking all the credit and using his newfound prominence to shame and effectively blacklist his rivals from future scientific discussion.

Small problem: A few scientists who remain skeptical of the whole free energy thing do a little digging and discover that mixing the physical laws of two universes could result in, among other things, the Sun exploding within a few years. Whoops. Bigger problem: Hallam has so much influence that he stifles all opposing research, and the people of Earth have come to depend on free energy so much that they wouldn't listen to his critics in any case.

Sound familiar?

To me it seems a bit like life imitating art, since you can draw a lot of parallels between the book and our current fossil fuel/climate change problem. Of course, I'm not sure how much traction climate change stories were getting in 1972, and I suspect that Asimov was referring other potentially dangerous sources of energy—perhaps nuclear power. Regardless, the main point is the same: When something makes people's lives more comfortable, it's difficult to convince them that it's dangerous.

The book itself is broken up into three sections, with varying degrees of quality. The first section, focusing on Hallam, his discovery, and it's implications, is classic Asimov: lots of talking, not a lot of action. It's a bit heavy on the science jargon, but, to be fair, that's kind of the point, and it ultimately sets up the plot well enough.

Once you get past the first section, the second section is where I think the book really shines. Here, Asimov sends readers on a trip through a literary wormhole to the aforementioned parallel universe, where the aliens are also trying to exploit free energy. But the actual aliens Asimov chooses to focus on—Odeen, Dua, and Tritt, three members of a mating triad—know fairly little about this process (at least at first). So, instead of more jargon, readers get to see an engaging portrait of strange beings that are completely unlike us, yet also relatable at the same time. This is world-building at its finest, and, more to the point, a welcome breath of fresh air blown in the face of traditional sci-fi rules, which often dictate that the "aliens" know more about what's going on than those hapless humans. Here, it becomes clear that everyone is equally confused and equally in danger.

The third and last section brings the story back to Earth—or rather, the Moon. Humans have set up a successful colony that attracts many immigrants looking for a fresh start. One of those immigrants is a scientist named Denison. Though Hallam had destroyed his career, Denison spots the problems with the free energy transfer, and tries to come up with a solution far away from Earth's bureaucracy.

Though the self-sufficient Moon colony is interesting, this last section does return to some of the jargon-heavy dialogue of the first. It's also a bit rushed, and the ending—yes, I promised I wouldn't give away—does come across as a bit too convenient. In a way, though, this reflects Asimov's overall philosophy: that smart people, free from control of their less-intelligent masters, can solve any problem. Which is probably why the books dedication reads as follows:

"To mankind, and the hope that the war against folly may someday be won after all."

I'm not sure whether that should make us feel more or less optimistic about our current problems.

All in all, while the book isn't for everyone, any science fiction fan who has never read it should at least give it a try.

***

So starting Monday I'm going to try posting my first multi-part story. It will probably take the next two weeks to get the whole thing up (which is great for me, because I need more time to get some new material ready). The story itself is a take on adaptations I've read of the classic Little Red Riding Hood story, told from the grandmother's perspective. Hope it works.

"On the Edge of the Clear-Cut"

2011-07-13T09:19:00.001-04:00

Author's note: I don't usually write poetry and have never considered it to be my strong suit, but I always liked how this particular poem came out. It was also the only piece I ever got published in a college literary magazine back at school, so I decided to share it here.

Sway, dancer—

Lift your arms

To the sky and swing

To the low whistling

Of the cold Northern wind.

Sway, mourner—

You stand rooted to ruined ground

Alone, but for a raven,

Pecking the broken limbs of

Your fallen brothers.

Sway, brother—

And I will sway with you

In your lonely shadow,

Though it was not I

Who made this emptiness.

"Working Man"

2011-07-11T10:37:00.001-04:00

There is a man who works on my building. I have only begun seeing him recently, though the problems of my building are countless and seem to have plagued the old brick monolith since, if not the beginning of time, then at least the beginning of buildings. I see him on my way home from the office, on days when I manage to leave before the sky becomes completely dark; I turn my key to open the door and he is there, in the corner of my eye, hunched over some task, a dented, brown metal toolbox agape at his feet.

It is cold this time of year, but I never see him wear anything heavier than a sweatshirt, the hood hanging loosely, only barely hiding his face. His skin is worn and cracked, though I cannot tell if it is from age or from work and weather.

The man does not appear to have a specialty but works on everything: he replaces broken window panes, repairs faulty locks, clears the gutters that become clogged with leaves and grime in autumn. Garbage cans that once rolled over and spilled their putrid contents are now upright against the side of the building, neat and tidy.

Some days the man works inside. He patches holes in the walls and replaces the threadbare carpet that covers the floor. For almost an hour one evening I hear him tapping on the pipes in the basement, until finally the noise stops and my normally chilly apartment feels warmer.

The man is quick—or perhaps I am slow. Though I often spot him working, it is always from a distance. By the time I get close enough to see his face he is gone.

I tell myself he is simply moving on to another project.

But as days go by and these near-encounters become more frequent, I become more curious. One day I go to my landlord’s office on the bottom floor and ask, as nonchalantly as I can, why it had taken him so long to hire a handyman. I assume, as anyone would, that this is his doing.

My landlord is confused. He asks me what I’m talking about. I reply by reciting the mental list that every resident of this building must have, tucked away in some corner of their mind: leaking faucets, sporadic hot water, broken heaters, peeling plaster, drafty walls … I mean to go on but my landlord gives me a funny look and tells me he hasn't hired anyone. Everything is fine here, he says. I ask if the man was sent from the city. My landlord just laughs and goes back to his little office to type up some overdue rent notices.

I call City Hall. A woman who sounds like my grandmother tells me that the city doesn’t have the budget to fund that kind of work. I must be mistaken, she says.

I ask if she could do me a favor and check the records anyway, just to be sure. She promises to call me back within the hour. She never does.

I do not see the man for the next few days.

Then, one afternoon I arrive home early and find him kneeling on my building’s front steps. This time the man does not immediately retreat, and as I approach I see why. He is tightening bolts at the base of the steps’ metal railing to keep it from popping loose. The bolts are giving him trouble; they are rusty and don't respond well to his tools.

As the man works, the front door opens and my burly, balding neighbor (Peter—that's his name) comes racing out. He bumps into the man, who stumbles down a step. Peter doesn't stop to apologize, or even look back, though he does nod his head to me as he passes.

I walk over and ask the man if he is alright. He says nothing. He glances at me for a moment before finally smiling, faintly. Then he gets back to work as if nothing has happened. I can see his face clearly now—stoic and still—and I can tell that this expression requires a great deal of practice.

***

Before the Fun Starts...

2011-07-09T11:28:00.005-04:00

So... Here's how I think this posting schedule is going to go:

The site will be updated three times a week (MWF). On Monday and Wednesday I'll post fiction. Sometimes this will come in the form of single, short stories. Other times I'll take longer short stories, split them up into sections, and post them in order until I've posted the whole thing. Sort of like a serial novel, minus the novel part.

On Fridays, I won't post any fiction (though any ongoing stories will continue on the next Monday). I'll use those posts to talk about ... well, I'm not sure yet. Things I've read, maybe, or the process of writing. My goal is not simply to post my material and wait for people to read it; as a beginning writer, I'm hoping to reach out to other beginners as well and begin a discussion about the process.

Oh, and I'll also use those Friday posts to update you on what's coming up in the next two posting days.

Two stories (or sections of stories) per week isn't a lot, I know, but I made this schedule so that I would have some semblance of regular posting while also giving me time to write and edit new material. And I will try to stick to it. If things change, I may be able to post more often (which might be preferable, if I find that I'm taking the better part of a month to post a single story in its entirety.)

Bear with me. And I encourage and welcome any comments about formatting (how you think the site should look, etc.) And, of course, I want to hear your feedback about thee stories themselves.

Ok, that's enough chit-chat for now. I'll post my first story on Monday: A short piece that should only require one post. Wednesday will be a surprise. And no, these updates won't always be this vague, once I get things started. Have a sense of adventure, will you?

First Post: Breaking the Champagne Bottle

2011-07-08T23:24:00.001-04:00

Hi everyone,

Or anyone, really, since I'd be surprised if you've stumbled upon this blog mere hours after I've created it.

What is this place, you ask?

Well, right now, not much. I haven't even gotten the formatting down yet.

What will it be, you ask?

That's a bit tougher....

I'm a writer. Or, at least, I try to be. I created this blog so I would have a space to share my stories and other things, hopefully with people who will be interested in reading them. Maybe even commenting on them. Critiquing them. Anything to keep them from gathering dust in the far corners of my hard drive.

Primarily, this will be a fiction blog, as this is the area I am most trying to improve in. Although I'm sure I'll find plenty of room for my non-fiction thoughts as well.

This is just a quick introductory message, so I'll stop here. I promise to have something good soon. Hopefully, you'll be back.