Cling is a creative nonfiction piece.  It happened to me.  It is me.  It's what I do.  And it's the best thing I've done. 

I owe you. 

Away Messages 101

Cling

*A Comic Book for Conner (first chapter)

 “The Flash in the Fire”"        “Picture of the Year”

The Day Larry Kicked Cancer's Ass

Attribute of the Strong-  On The Subect...(New)  

Like Father, Like Son(revised)

      " Joey's Heartache "

    Blake's First Break         * The Wedding*        Soul Kiss on the Cheek       

       Answering the Call               For Michelle 

Ode to My Blanket                

Away Messages 101

There are 3 basic types of away messages:


1. The "I'm-out-and-doing-cool-stuff-and-that-makes-me-cool-because-I-have-a-life" away message.

    This message is designed to fool any person into thinking you have a life and to also remind anyone who is at home and reading it, that you have more of a life than them. It can consist of a location (went to the club!), and activity (chilling with the boys/girls) or a combination of both.  It is interesting to note that 30% of all these messages are false to some degree, whether someone is not even "out at the bar" at all but puts it down instead of "Doing nothing because I have no friends and/or life" or just a lame exaggeration...going to Krystal's at 1 am because you were too lazy to go buy groceries does not constitute going "out". 

2. The "I'm-too-afraid-to-reveal-my-inner-self-in-person-so-I-use-quotes-or-song-lyrics-to-tell-the-world-how-I-am-feeling" away message.

    Holy dramatic dumbasses batman! Girls are NOTORIOUS for leaving these, usually in the form of a song lyric which will ALWAYS contain the words "You" or "I", and usually a combination of the two, when people      are too afraid to talk about it and would rather post it up for everyone they know to read. Guys post these too, but usually to a lower degree, unless it's an emo loser or jackass whose only window to the world is the one in the upper right corner of the screen. Statistics (that I have just made up) reveal that 50 % of women's away messages of this type are ones involving the "You hurt me/I'll miss you" implication. The other half are "I'm strong and woman and I'll overcome, blah blah blah"

3. The "One-word-only-because-I'm-too-lazy/tired/etc-to-type-more-than-one" away message.

    Ahh, simple, concise. Easy to read, easy to understand. The most common of these is "sleep/sleeping" because you have to remind the world that you are sleeping, otherwise they would think you were staying up all the time and would start to worry about you. The next is "out" which is similar to #1, except you are being vague on purpose so you can appear to be mysterious or too cool to tell the world what you are doing. Next is "eating", so people can rest easy knowing you are not starving. Some creative folk like to throw in the item they are eating, usually if it is something good and they want to rub it in to the rest of the world, ex: "Eating Outback" Coming up towards the end, "shower" isn't used as much, but when it is to make whoever is reading get a mental picture of you naked; girls tend to do this a little more than guys, but not much. Guys on the other hand, would rather put "gym" instead, because we want you to think of us as wet and smelly rather than clean and naked. Finally, and to no surprise, "Studying" comes in DEAD last. People usually put this up in case mom or dad is online and they don't want talk, or to fool themselves into thinking that if they put "studying" in their away message it means that they really are, so they feel less guilty when they don't.

“Cling”

It was the first time he didn’t care.  It was a magical time, with a feeling of subdued liberation.  It was open-bar; it was tax-free.  He didn’t care.    

            So when his friends nudged him with elbows, winked at him, “She just broke up with her boyfriend and she’s gonna be there tonight,” he just shrugged and smiled, because he didn’t really care.   

             He sits next to her now, and they are watching others. 

“Look at that” he says.  “Do you see that?”  He points across the living room to a small corner, where a foreign exchange student is trying to court an american female. 

“Looks like trouble,” she says. 

It doesn’t take a lip reader to see the student stuttering and stumbling through the conversation.  Even if he speaks English perfectly, he knows too little of the American girl’s language, his words coated with a clunky accent. 

Foreign Exchange Student has no clue.  Because now, the student attempts to touch the hair of American girl.  She recoils with her eyes, a tilt of her head.  She lifts her glass and shakes it, beginning to turn.  The student lifts his hand and offers to refill her but American girl smiles and continues her turning, and walks away. 

Foreign Exchange Student realizes he has done something very unnatural; his hand lingers in the air for a moment, before dropping to the side.  He remains in the corner.  Occasionally he drinks, lifting the cup near his lips, then lowering his lips to the cup, and holding for a moment, as he glances about the room, to make sure no one sees that even his sipping has an accent. 

            But everyone who looks can see his accent.  It is like watching someone try to drink sand. 

            Sitting on the couch across the room, the two of them are looking.

            “Sorry buddy,” she says.    

            “Yeah bro,” he says, raising his drink in a toast to the fallen student.  “That’s unlucky man.  That’s unlucky.”      

He stretches out his arms and breathes a sigh, settling deeper into the sofa.  He doesn’t worry about her language anymore.  If she really wants something she will point it out to him.  And so he no longer has to hold words in his head, prodding and kneading at their meaning.   He can simply hear, as though listening to good music.  He lays back, his head resting, against his clasped hands, content in the knowledge that he can’t be lumped into the same category as Foreign Exchange Student. 

            “Man…” she says.  “My legs are killing me from work.  I’m thinking about going back to my apartment and jumping in the jacuzzi.”

            He realizes he forgot to wear a watch.  What was the point of owning one when he never—

            “Yeah I definitely am gonna jump in,” she says.  “I think I have some old shorts you could borrow, if you want.” 

            A chunk of ice slides against his lips as he empties the drink.

            “Yeah I guess so.  I could probably use it.”

            As he follows her to the door, he sees his friends winking at him.  Thumbs are up.  He winks back, because of his not-caring.  He was proud of it, he wanted to take it over to her place, polish it in the jacuzzi, and wrap it up in her bed.  He wanted to bring it back and show it off to all his friends.  He wanted to tell people back home, “Look, I don’t care!”  But not shout it, not scream it, but share.  Here, he says, beckoning a hand to feel his chest.  Here—this is where the not-caring is. 

            As he walks out he glances to the corner.  Foreign Exchange Student is still there, passing the time with intermittent sips of an empty plastic cup. 

Now he is standing in her bedroom, wearing old swimming trunks.  He sees her standing in the dim light, a cerulean glow on her skin.  He notes the way her body pauses, because she is not used to him seeing her in this light.  He observes the way she covers herself up with a dry towel, as if to warm her skin from the night air.

“Ready to go?” she asks. 

            “Hey…” he says, seeing his pants on her bedroom floor already, and not caring if he is about to spoil a moment, because moments are for those who care, “Hey look…my pants are on your bedroom floor already.”

            And though it’s too dark to see her eyes roll, he does see a smirk emerge in the darkness.    

            “Come on jackass.  Let’s go.” 

            The lights above the spa have an overpowering quality.  The spa is big enough for ten people. With all the space, it seems awkward for them to sit next to one another.  And so they don’t—he sits across from her.  But as their words drift across the surface of the water, how is it their bodies drift as well? 

Because of the not caring—unlike the foreign exchange student, he can slide to her with subtlety, around the concrete lip, and she can scoot to him, legs sliding against the tiles.  With words as cover, a new bathing suit can saunter its way, pausing here, “Yeah I spilled the whole tray.”  Concealed by language, old swimming trunks can shuffle there.  “That’s why I could never be a waiter.”

Here and there, until the distance between them evaporates.  And the old swimming trunks rest against the new bathing suit.  The most natural of actions is never seen. 

The heat of the water draws the sweat out of him.  The drops tumble from his leg, and cascade from hers.  Only his leg is sweating because it is in the water, unlike the rest of him.  He lets it glide against hers.  The caress exists because it was not avoided.        As their legs sway back and forth, water drips offs one, seeps into the pores of another, sweats out, only to be absorbed again and again and again.    The water murmurs and the lights buzz.   

            “I hate these lights man,” she says. 

            “Yeah.”

            “Every time I come out here, they are always on.”

            “You can’t turn them off?”

            She shakes her head.  “No…it always feel like someone is watching me.”

            He might have been able to converse with her further, had it not been for the lights.  He might have been able to, with great subtlety and under the cloak of conversation, overtake the words with his lips; to speak.  He might have been able to swallow her words right at the source had it not been for the lights.  They make subtlety impossible.      

            He couldn’t find a knob or switch to turn them off, nor he did he care to search long enough. 

            “You wanna get out of here?” he asks.

            “Yeah.”

            There is no light in her apartment, nothing to hinder movement.  He lies next to her.  Their towels are still wrapped around them.  Her arms curl around his chest.  He feels her face against the back of his neck, and breathes.

            “You know I used to have a big crush on you,” she says. 

            “When was this?”

            “Last year.”

            He rests on his hands, staring at the ceiling.  “News that would have been useful earlier…”

            “…but you were after that one girl...what’s-her-name…”

 “That’s only because I thought you were out of my league.  I just figured you were with someone.”

She laughs and asks him what he means. 

“Yeah you know… you just had that look to you.”

She nods.  Then she leans over him, and with wetness that rivals water, kisses his neck.  He feels her lips open and close, press down and lock, three distinct times.  They send torrents down his throat and linger on his skin.  

“I’m sorry,” she says.  “…I just had to do that.” 

He can only mumble about it being okay, that it’s fine.  Then he recovers and turns, looking at her.  He reaches but she deflects with the side of her face, so he descends to her neck. 

She moans for a second and then nudges him away.  “Don’t do that,” she says. 

“Why not?”

“Cause the neck’s the gateway.  Don’t you know that?”

“So?”

“So just don’t do that,” she says, rubbing his neck.     

            He plops his face onto the pillow.  Fortunately he still doesn’t care, and because he doesn’t care, he can be honest.  He can be honest because sometimes it takes less work.  It’s easier for him to tell the truth when she asks:  

            “So how long have you wanted to kiss me?”

            And again, the caress is made

“Long enough.”

            He hears the sound of her grin and he smirks into the pillow.  Because he knows he has caressed her again, without even touching her.    

             As the night slides on, he receives sparse, but deep kisses from her.      

            “Don’t tease me,” he whispers. 

            She gets off the bed and stands, towering over him. 

            “I’m trouble…” she declares, shaking her head.  “Don’t come after me…I’m trouble.”

             He doesn’t care to listen to words, useless language, so he pulls ‘trouble’ back into the bed.  And ‘trouble’ wraps her arms around him.  ‘Trouble’ wraps its arms around him and makes contact with his lips, and seeps into his mouth.  It plunges down.      

            “That was good…” he mumbles like a drunken man.    

            “You’ll have to get by on that.”   

            And the trouble starts to swirl. 

“All my family lives up in Ohio,” she says.  “I mean my parents and stuff; we’re here, but all my aunt and uncles and grandparents live there.” 

            “Yeah?”

            “And my grandfather.  We used to visit his farm in the summer.  He smoked cigars and played poker with me.  And every night before bedtime we’d drink chocolate milk.”

            “Heh.”

            “He died awhile ago.”

            “I’m sorry.” 

            “Yeah. It was so neat that he drank chocolate milk, he just…”  She pauses, and he can feel her breathing, until more words escape her lips, “I loved my grandpa.”

            His eyes shift, an eyebrow raises.  Because he sees that she cares.  And all he can say is, “Yeah…my grandfather used to smoke cigars, but only when he was fishing.”  He pauses, glancing at the obscure picture frames on the wall.       “But it’s good though.  It’s good you love that about him.”

            “Yeah…” she says, her voice trailing off, its sound sinking into the hum of the air conditioner. 

            “I like your lion,” she says, trailing the tattoo on his chest. 

            “Yeah?” 

            “Yeah, it’s a good spot too.  On the boob.”  She laughs.  .

            “Boob, woman?” he scoffs, lowering his voice, “These are pecs!  Not boobs.”

            Her laugh gives way to a lull and they sit in the silence.  And then she says:        

“I have a lump in one of mine.”    

The air conditioner shuts off, the last few spouts of cold air hanging near the vent, before falling.  The towels are nearly dry.  

“You probably should get that checked out.  Better safe than sorry,” he says, trying to speak with the detachment of a doctor. 

“Yeah I did.  They said they’re not cancerous or anything.”

“That’s good.”

“They’re gonna have to take them out one day.  But not now at least.”

“Well yeah,” he says, staring at the ceiling, “as long as they aren’t malignant there’s no real hur—“

She stops him and grabs his hand. 

“Here.”

And he, as though he is watching another, watches her grab his hand and place it on her breast.  She prods him to feel.  Gently kneading, his fingers explore the roundness of the lump.  They nudge at its hardness.  They finger the hardness inside the softness.  Her flesh envelops the tips of his fingers.  And, being encased in warmth, they tread with reverence. 

            And in his reverence, he forgets.  He forgets to breathe; a lump in his throat appears.  He forgets that she is watching him.  He forgets the time and forgets himself.  But more importantly, he forgets to hold, and so his fingers do not become a hand that cups, and cherishes, they stay fingers, prodding and kneading and nudging.  They become locked in their motion. 

 “Okay.”  She gives him back his hand.  And with a smile, because she knows he is not a doctor, indifferent to the feel of a woman’s breast.  “That’s enough for now.”

For now, he is not breathing.  His eyes remain locked on the ceiling, head against the pillow.  Eventually he must breathe, and when he breathes the lump in his throat dissipates, resulting in a sigh.  It is a heavy sigh, inexorably deep, painful in its weight.  It is the sigh of caring. 

And the only thing worse than caring, is clinging. 

“You can’t sleep here.”   

            He sits up.  “Why not?”

            “You just can’t.  You can sleep on the couch or you can sleep in here and I’ll sleep on the couch.”

            “But why, I mean I’m not gonna—” He stops himself.  And dives back into the covers, where it is warm.   

            “Come on…” she tugs on him. 

            He won’t budge.  Because he doesn’t… doesn’t want to get up. 

            “It’s too comfortable,” he says.  “I can’t move.”

            She pulls on his leg. 

            “Don’t make me get up,” he pleads, locking his ankles around the blankets. 

            But it is useless.  She turns. 

            “Where are you going?” he asks. 

            “I’m gonna sleep on the couch.” 

            “Look…this is stupid.”  He sits up, looking up at her.  “Come here,” he tugs at her arm.  She rolls onto the bed and he wraps his arms around her. 

            “What are you doing?”

            “Nothing,” he replies.  “I’m just…I’m being romantic see?  I’m holding you.”

            And suddenly he feels her move.  And it is the worst kind of movement, the movement that haunts Foreign Exchange Student, the same movement that teases life itself.  She recoils.   

            “Allright,” he mutters.  But he doesn’t move.  She has to invoke his name and finally, he concedes.  He stands up and she walks him to door.  He leans into her, kisses her, embraces, and walks down the steps.  Then he gets into his car and drives home, confused by how intangible people can be.     

But as he drives, his tires safely sticking to the road and his hands grasping to the steering wheel, he has trouble.  Parts of his fingers are missing, or something of them.  Reaching for something no longer there, the reflex of an amputee.  Because why does he still feel them, still feel them feeling?  He gets home and into bed and feels his arms, curled through the sheets, and has trouble sleeping.

He’s holding fast to his not-caring, as though it were a buoy.  He’s clawing at it, but slipping.  Being fingerless, he paws at it, the wrinkles and cracks in his palms trying find something to hold, some protuberance, no matter how small, but they find nothing but flatness and rubber.     

He loses his not-caring and falls into a sea that is anything but. 

He emerges from his room with his fingers, twiddling them as if to recall the feel of the not-caring.  He tells his friend how he doesn’t care, “Whatever”.  And so he reminds them, more and more, how he doesn’t care.  And the more he reminds them, the more he assures them that, “I’m done with her.  It’s unlucky, but I don’t care,” the more pronounced his accent becomes.  The all-too-familiar draw; the hands stretch out.  And the tighter he grips, the more his not-caring slips away.    

As it slips away, caring takes it place.  Caring seeped from the lump in her flesh, snuck its way through his fingers, up his arms and into his chest.  It made its own lump and pumped through him.  It seized control of his mind and his muscles and his organs, producing a reflex that is both involuntary and immeasurable. 

        "A Comic Book for Connor" 

A Novel

Prologue – “The Convenience of Humble Beginnings”

I am no expert on heroes but I know someone who is.  Allow me to paraphrase Most superheroes, at least, the greatest ones, all had humble beginnings.  What I mean to say is something terrible, horrible, happened to them.  Superman lost Krypton, Spiderman lost his uncle.  Batman was orphaned as well.   To my knowledge I am aware of no heroes whom did not have some great loss…it seems suffering was a requirement. 

I once heard someone comment on how such beginnings were convenient.  “Oh cancer, that’s so convenient.”  There is nothing convenient about tragedy.  But yes, the heroes need something to push them.  You can’t have veterans without a war. 

They made a choice, all of them.  Literally, they looked at the impossible, they looked a “Well, there is nothing we can do” and they said yes.  They made a choice.  They stepped away from the bystanders and said “No…I can do something.” 

They all lost something: a parent, an uncle, a mind, and they fought.  Not giving up, they all would don a costume and find a way to fight. And they made the world better.  Let me tell you about some. 

Prologue –        30 years ago…

            In a perfectly suburban neighbor, in a perfectly American house, the little boy was playing in his room.  With his hands on his waist and his elbows arched out, he stood with all three feet five inches full of stoic pride.  A cheap frame of sunglasses, with one lens missing, rested on his brow.  Lightly dancing in the Central Air current, a cape was securely fastened around his neck.  And on one of his fingers: A ring with a red plastic jewel.  The legendary ring of the even more legendary, Laser Man.   

            “Laser Man” shot his head up, hearing the sound of a garage door opening.  No…not a door--a woman’s scream.  Someone’s in trouble!  “Laserman, charge!”  He bolted out of his room, through the hallway, past the bathroom, into the living room.  His eagle eyes squinted at the door by the kitchen.  He raised the laser ring, braced his wrist with his other hand, and aimed. 

            The boy’s mother smiled as she came through the door, holding two paper grocery bags in her arms. 

            “Hi sweetie.”

            “POW!” shouted the boy, his arm recoiling from the laser blast. 

            She smiled again, looking to her left and right at the would-be assailants, the indoor fern and the garbage can.   

            “It’s okay,” said the boy, blowing on his ring.  “I got them; they were gonna rob ya.”

            “Oh, thank you kind sir,” she said, scanning his costume.  Then she saw the signature ring. 

            “How can I ever repay you… Laser Man?” 

            His hands were on his hips and he seemed to be an inch taller. 

            “Oh, don’t worry fair lady.  No reward is necessary.”

            “Oh really? Well then,” she said, setting down the grocery bags.    “I guess I don’t have to bake these cookies then.” 

            Laser Man’s eyes fell on the unguarded cookie box resting on the kitchen table.  He looked for a second at his ring then at the box of cookies.  Then at his cape.  Then at the cookies. 

            “Well,” he said, sliding off his ring and pulling off his cape, “Even us heroes have to eat once in awhile.” 

            “Indeed,” his mom said, mimicking his lofty voice.  She tussled his hair for a second, then said, “Okay, well go and put your costume in your room and then you can come and help me.  These cookies won’t bake themselves.”

In a flash he was there and back, reminding her how he got the name Laser Man.”

                                                *          *          *

In the history of heroes, there was always some kind of tragedy that pushed the heroes to exceed the average man.  The greatest of these was some of the greatest tragedies…a lost family, a lost world, and a lost mind. 

             Chapter One –  

Present Day

            The man tapped his finger on the desk as he stared at the computer screen.  He massaged his brow, pressing his wedding ring into the skin on his forehead.  Snatching a thesaurus off his desk, he rifled through the pages.  He stopped on a page, drew his finger to a spot and sighed.  He stared off into space for a few moments, then suddenly exhaled a breathe of air, and typed on the computer.  Satisfied with his word choice, he continued typing.

            The next time he got stuck, he rubbed his neck and laid back in the office chair.  His eyes rested on the picture on his desk. The family portrait had three people, standing in a front yard with a bright house in the background.  The man in the picture had cookie-colored hair and his eyes were like bright chocolate chips.  He was smiling and standing next to a woman and a boy.  The woman’s eyes glimmered like blueberries.  Her hair was dark, like the night, but held a million tiny constellations.  

            The boy in the photo beamed a smile.  Despite the obvious encumbrance of a tie around his neck, he seemed have the brightest smile of the three.  He wore a white shirt, dark pants, and some burgundy penny loafers.  But his smile…that was the brightest part of the—   A knock came at the open doorway. 

            “Come in,” the man said, his eyes leaving the photo. 

            “Connor…you got anything for me yet?

            “Yep,” he said, handing a few sheets of paper to his editor.  The man scanned his eyes over the page, nodding occasionally. 

After a minute he said, “Looks good.  I think the part on the discrepancies in foreign policy were the strongest, especially in terms of economic trends from the overseas job market.  That’ll hit the readers home.  Good stuff.” 

Connor nodded politely and sat down. 

His editor smiled, and handed him back the piece.  “Oh yeah…you put ‘the’ in twice here.  ‘...the the best combative measures?” 

“Thanks Jim,” Connor said, rolling his eyes. 

“That’s what they pay me the big bucks for,” Jim replied, as he turned and left. 

                                                *          *          *

“Mom!...you’re not watching,”  the boy yelled from the park swing. 

Mom looked up from the papers she was grading in her lap, “Yes I see you.” 

Satisfied he had a witness, the eight year-old gripped tighter on the chains of the swing and pushed with his legs.  Higher and higher, he kicked his feet and leaned back. Finally he reached the proper height.  His legs disappeared and so did the chains by his hands. The space around his body was immediately replaced by the thick, steel body of a F-16.  The ground was no longer a few feet away, but a few miles. 

He heard a voice buzz from the bag of his fighter’s helmet, “We’ve got enemy fighters coming from behind!” 

The pilot glanced out the side of his jet and then at the radar.  Three green, blinking dots were getting closer.  If he didn’t stop them soon, the Snakes would demolish the school.  With three to one odds, it didn’t look good for Cpt. Petey McCain. 

“They’re almost on you captain!” 

He opened and closed his hand, feeling the leather glove around it stretch.  It was ‘go time.’ Cpt. Petey grabbed the throttle and pulled back with all his might.  As the jet went perfectly vertical, the world flipped upside down.  The afterburners tore through the air at hundreds of miles an hour but Petey could clearly see the confused faces of the enemy pilots as they flew past him, wondering how he pulled off such a move. 

            Michelle was alarmed by the sound of a chain jerking violently. She looked up from her papers, but after seeing her son still move back and forth on the swing, she relaxed and went back to grading. 

            The heroic Cpt. Petey had in one spectacular aerial maneuver, turned the tables on the bad guys.  The crosshairs on his targeting computer fell over one of the enemy fighters and beeped off.  Locked on.   He flipped a plastic safeguard over the missile launch button.  Narrowing his eyes, he fired.    

            The tomahawk missile screamed through the stratosphere and slammed into the back of the enemy jet.  Despite the intense explosion, Petey could clearly see the enemy pilot deploy a parachute and begin his long descent to the ground below, where he would no doubt be arrested by local police. 

            Seeing one of their comrades fall, one of the fighters banked hard to the right, as he if was running away.  Petey kept his focus on the jet that was still heading for the school.  The Snake was still trying to wiggle himself free from Petey’s lock on, but he was no match.  The Captain mirrored his maneuvers perfectly, locked on, and fired.  The plane went up in smoke and the pilot floated down (sometimes Petey would wave as they looked up from their parachutes, waving their fists angrily)    

            Content he had saved the day, Petey began to relax.  No sooner than he had sighed a breath of relief, he heard the siren wail in the cockpit.  Someone’s locked on me!   He realized the fighter that had retreated, had been faking all along.  Never trust a Snake. 

            Reacting with superhuman reflexes, Cpt. Petey barrel rolled and pulled back on the thrusters, but it was too late. He was lucky the Snake’s missile hit him on the wing, and not a direct hit.  Beeps and sirens and buzzers filled the cab, as did smoke.  And he was leaking fuel. 

            This was it.  He had to stop that fighter or the school would be lost.  There was only one way.  Petey carefully gripped the ejection lever, checked his radar and speed.  Finally with a quick tug, he was launched out of his jet.  He was moving higher but he knew soon would begin to fall, as his plane moved away from him.    

            In a flurry of skillful movements, the brave Captain unbuckled his seatbelt, stood up with his arms on the top of his chair, and pulled out his grapple gun.  He aimed at the approaching plane and fired.  His aim was true and the hook caught firmly in the wing of the Snake.  Petey braced his arms as he watched the rope slack wind down.  The rope snapped tight and yanked him off his chair, which now plummeted to the ground below.  As soon as the rope when tight, it yanked him off his seat  

            The Snake smiled to himself, thinking he had actually stopped the legendary Captain Petey McCain.  He was about to proceed to his target when he hard a knock above him. 

            “Hiya,” smiled Captain Petey McCain. 

            “Whhhhaaaat?  How!?”

            Petey pulled out his pilot’s gun and pointed it at the plane’s hull.  He fired five or six bullets.  After a big enough hole was made, he yanked out a few wires.  Pilot controls.  He grinned, holding a set of controls he’s pulled out of the hull. 

            “No!  No! Don’t do it!” the Snake pleaded. 

            Petey just smiled and waved and then pressed his finger on the Ejection Seat Over-Ride switch. The Snake was catapulted from the plane, screaming.  After he managed to open his parachute, he yelled back to Petey.

            “We’ll be baaaaaaaackkkkk…” the voice trailed off.

            And they would, but right now Petey had to get off the enemy jet.  He reached into his flight jacket and pulled out a special emergency parachute.  He started to put it on when suddenly the plane rocked to the side and the parachute flew from his hands.  Petey watched it fall and he knew the only way he’d survive was to jump for the parachute.  He had to jump.  He breathed in and out, ran forward to the edge of the wing and jumped.  As he plummeted, Petey stretched out his arms as far as they could go and grabbed the parachute.  He quickly put it on and deployed it. 

            Floating down, Petey’s eyes caught the vision of the school.  The day was saved and now the children would be able to—

            “Peter Connor McCain!  What did I tell you about jumping from that swing!?”

            Suddenly his flight jacket was gone, so was his helmet, so was his parachute.  All Captain Petey was left with was an open-mouth, as he searched for an explanation.  She must have missed it all.  She said she was watching. 

            “That’s dangerous…you’re gonna break a leg doing that!  I’ve told you a thousand times not to do that!”

            He lowered his head.  “I’m sorry.” 

            Michelle looked at her son, who held his hands behind his back.  His lower lip was sucked in and his teeth were sticking out, pressing into his skin.  His left foot was sliding behind his right.  She sighed.

            She grabbed a handful of his yellow hair and gave it a gentle tug.

            “I just don’t want you to get hurt sweetie.  Think how sad you would be if you broke your leg and couldn’t go out and play.  You understand?” 

            “I guess so…” he said, trying to imagine what it would be like to have a broken leg, with a cast strapped onto it, kind of like Iron Man, except his leg wouldn’t be iron, something really tough but not metal.  Maybe a rock or something. He could use it to break down big-- 

            “Petey!” 

            He looked up to his mom, who was holding her papers in one arm and the car keys in another.  “I said come on…we’re going home.”

            “Okay mom,” said Petey, shaking off his rock-leg as he ran after her. 

                                                 *          *          *

             Connor sighed when he saw the number blinking on his telephone.  He couldn’t recall any time when Petey’s school would call him to give good news. 

            “Hello…Yes, I’m his father…oh there was?...What did he do? 

            A voice chattered through the phone. 

            “I see…well I’m sorry, I’ll have talk with him tonight, make sure it’s sorted out…yes, thank you again.  Allright…bye bye.” 

            He hung up the phone, glanced at the phone on his desk. He grabbed the phone again and dialed a number.

            “…Hey.  Guess what our eight-year-old-angel did today?” 

            “What?” asked Michelle.

            “It appears he got in a fight today while defending a kid in his class.  Seems our little vigilante stuck up for another kid who was being picked on…”

            “Again?!”

            “Yes…and he was reading comic books again in class.  His teacher thinks he was imitating them.  Apparently there was a similar scene in one of the books he had.  I thought he wasn’t reading those anymore. 

            “Well I guess he was…” she said, trailing off. 

            “You didn’t…???”

            “I didn’t see any harm to it.  Besides, how many kids can claim to be reading a comic book written by their father?  He looks up to you so much because of—‘

            “I don’t want him reading those things.  They get him riled up and this kind of shit is what happens.  What if he does it to some kid who has a lawyer for a dad.  You know we can be held accountable! 

            “I know but Connor—“

            “We agreed on this Michelle…it’s gonna warp all his moral schemes.  The world doesn’t work that way and it’s not fair for him to grow up thinking it’s one thing it’s not.  I won’t let that happen to him.

            “They’re just comic books, you just have to show him the difference between them,” she tried again.

            He bit his lip and closed his eyes.  Slightly moving his chin back left and right, he said, “No comic books.  You know why.”

He heard a sigh through the earpiece, then silence. 

“…well,” he began. “I’ll see you home in an hour, ok?” ….”I love you too…bye.” 

            The picture caught his attention and after staring at it for a few moments, he grabbed his coat and left.  He’d done enough work for the day. 

*          *          *

            After all her students had left, Michelle got into her car and headed towards Petey’s school.  Scanning through the radios stations, she stopped on one station…

“ …falls on the schools to do it.” 

 “No, these children don’t know right from wrong and the parents are to blame’  ‘I understand that—parents obviously play an important role, a crucial role, but

I think we aren’t giving any credence to the idea that we live in a tough world.  It’s hard to raise a perfect kid, especially when we ourselves aren’t perfect.’ 

            ‘ So you are saying these parents shouldn’t be held accountable for this kid? You go and tell victim’s parents that <bleep> and see what they say!’

            ‘Don’t pull that card on me, I think they should be accountable.  But we are overestimating the power of any punishment.  You raise penalties for crimes like rape and robbery—you steal a watch they cut your arm off—and people will steal less.  You put penalties for leaving a gun unguarded or having an unlocked set of kitchen knives, that’s not going to do anything because every parent is going to look at their kid and think, that could never happen.  And if it did happen, they couldn’t care less what you did to them.” 

            ‘Wait lemme get this straight? What should be done in this scenario?’

            ‘You can’t just say, oh, if your kid does this, you get x many years in jail.  You think parents are going to say to their kids,’hey Johnny, they just raised the penalty for any violent acts you commit to twenty years, so don’t go killing people in school now.’ No, that’s BS.  These scenarios need to be studied and find out WHY the kid feels they have to resort to violence, even to such a degree.’

‘They got <bleep> parents man!  That’s the problem.’

‘So, we are just suppose to replace parents who we think *might* be a liability? No, I say again, it falls on the schools to help teach kids right and wrong.  I’m not sure ethical behavior is going to…’ ”

            Michelle changed the station, settling for another’s commercial break.  She listened for a few minutes, apparently someone thought she wasn’t happy with her weight or car.  “I’m not happy with my car’s stupid radio stations, can you fix that?” she thought, rolling her eyes.  Turning off the radio, she rolled down the window, and listened to the wind. 

            Petey’s school came into view and the sound of children’s voices floated through the windows.  She drove next to the sidewalk where her son would always stand, waiting.  He was there, with his neon green backpack on and red lunch box, whose cover was splattered with a smorgasbord of super heroes.  Normally Petey would be standing as tall as they did, but today, he was cowering the way he did every time he got in trouble. 

            The first couple of times she smirked or giggled at this.  He looked so cute, his head shrunk between his shoulders like some baby turtle.  But he knew how stick his big eyes out—he got in trouble for playing super hero in school and he got out it the same way.  With the power of cuteness.  But its effect was diminishing.  When a teacher calls you up and asks how things are at home, well, that’s just it.      

            Petey slowly opened the door, encumbered by his belongings on his small body.  No doubt his backpack was filled with comic books, too many to read in a day at school.

            “Hi Mom,” he said, not too quiet and not too excited.  He was learning.  If you said it too quiet, it meant you were really guilty and you knew that would only make things worse, admitting so quickly.  If you said it too excited, it would seem like you didn’t think you did anything wrong and you didn’t want to be caught smirking after what you did…mister.  

            “Hi Sweetie,” she said, watching him buckle his seatbelt.  The car then moved forward and the ruckus of the school faded behind them. 

            “So what happened in school today Petey?” she asked, careful not to be too accusing but not too care-free.  

            He chewed on his lower lip for a second. 

            “I got in a fight with this kid Eddie...but I didn’t start it!” he quickly added on. 

            “So Eddie started it.  What did he do?” 

            “He was making fun of this girl who just got on braces and she hasta wear the head gear stuff for awhile.”

            “Don’t you think the teacher can take care that?  Doesn’t this girl tell—

            “No, ‘cos he never does it when she’s looking or around and plus Miss Kartle just tells her sticks and stones may break bones but words can’t hurt ya…” said Petey, looking at her anxiously. 

            “Well did you ever think about that?  Maybe this girl needs to learn that words don’t mean anything.  If she ignores Eddie then he’ll stop pestering her.  That would be the mature thing to do.” 

            “I know but he’s not spose’ to be calling people names.  That’s mean.  Why does she have to change when it’s not her fault she’s got ta wear those big things?” 

            “Well you know we don’t solve anything with violence…why not just point it out to Miss Kartle when Eddie is making fun of this girl?”

            “Mom…no one likes a tattletale,” he said, a little annoyed. 

            “Besides, I didn’t use violence.  I used glue.”

            She nearly burst out laughing, but suppressed it just enough to make a funny choking sound.  She couldn’t hide her smile and Petey’s eyes perked up

            “Now Petey…”she said, staring straight ahead with her hands on the steering wheel, “your father is going to talk to you about this when he gets home.  You can’t keep doing this sort of thing.” She stifled another laugh.  “…and this isn’t funny, so wipe that grin off your face.” 

            He dropped the smile and lowers his head, trying to look as ashamed as possible.  Most times you could never get in trouble when you made mom and dad laugh. 

   Short Fiction                                 

“The Flash in the Fire”

            The crashed managed to drown out the sound of the smoke and fire.  It managed to overshadow the heavy rush of air inside of Connor’s mask.  It even flooded the crying of the girl gripping on his turnout gear.  The doorway he had just walked through had vanished, swallowed by smoke and fire.  They could not go back. 

           His eyes darted around the apartment.  Burning sofa.  Smashed plates.  Melted crayons in carpet.  Get to a window. 

            Holding her still in his arms, he moved down the wall, towards the only natural light.  The hot wall burned in his back.  He kept moving.  His earpiece crackled something, only as coherent as the flames or the darkness. 

            Get to a window.  Get outside. 

            The ceiling was coming down.        

            A sudden pain seared on his back; an ember from the ceiling had burned through his suit.  The piece bit into his skin like a million claws.  Setting the girl down in the corner, he slammed his back against the wall, trying to smother the ember between his skin and the drywall.  Smash.  Sizzle.  Slam.  Sizzle.  A melted picture frame crashed to the floor in the process.  Finally the pain became ambient.   

            He scooped up the girl and continued.  Light shot through the smoke as they reached a window.  Setting the girl down, Connor quickly opened it.  Then he scooped her up again.  His eyes scanned the road below.  Seven stories up.  Seven stories down.  Concrete.  He whirled around and looked back into the furnace.  Furious. 

            The girl’s screamed tore into his ear.

            “It’s okay, it’s okay.” he quickly lied, patting her hair. 

            He looked outside again.  Then back in again.  Then outside.  Waving his arms he managed to get the attention of the other firemen below.  His earpiece crackled.  He motioned.  Can’t hear you.  He motioned again.  Bring ladder.  Then men below decisively scrambled, pulling the fire truck below them.  One man was already on the ladder, frantically turning a wheel and extending it. 

            Connor began to relax as the ladder neared.  It was almost below them, reaching out like some steel smile.  And then it stopped.  The fireman on it, ah, that’s Stafford, slammed his hand on the controls.  Feverishly pounding, he looked up to Connor and motioned.  Jammed.  He motioned to another fire fighter.  Bring up wrench.  The fireman whipped around, reached into the truck, and tossed the wrench up to Stafford. 

            Suddenly Connor felt a tremble in the wall he was against.  There was the incisive sound of a stud cracking.  One down.  Three more.  He looked down and still saw the ladder, out of reach, with Stafford and the wrench. 

            Crack.  The stud closest to Connor snapped.  Two more.  The bricks on the outside shuddered.  He motioned down below.  No time.  Wall coming down.

            Seven stories.  Men have survived falls before.  He couldn’t see the girls face, buried in his oxygen mask.  He looked down again.  Stafford could catch her...right?  He could lunge…seven stories. 

            No.  It was simply too far away.  The ladder, the truck.  At least a 10 foot jump across.  No. 

            A sudden pain seared on his neck, wait…a subtle pain.  The girl had her arms locked around his neck, her tiny hands clutching his hair.  The familiar touch made him stop.  He pulled her away and looked at her face.  My God.  She looks like my daughter. 

            He looked down on the road and then at the girl. Then he looked at his daughter.  His eyes stung.  Amidst the thickness, he sighed. 

  His brain was already calculating the fall and the maneuvers his muscles would have to make.  He had to make sure he did not flip.  He would have to fall straight.  His arms would have to hold tight.  He’d have to keep her head buried in his chest. He’d have to make sure the impact would not slam his skull against hers.  A chest bone cannot break from the inside.   

 He saw his daughter again.  Then he saw Michelle again.  Thirty-five…that’s not too old.  Six…that’s not too young.  He looked down to the road again.  Seven stories.

He shouldn’t have even been there.  Someone had screwed up.  You’re not supposed to go in.

Snap.  A gnashing sound of splinters as another stud broke.  Connor could feel the whole wall groaning like a coffin door.  The salt and smoke nipped at his eyes again. 

He sat the girl down and kneeled, looking at her. 

“Listen sweetie…”

She looked at him.  God, she looked just like his daughter.  Those kiddie pool eyes. They owned him. 

“…sweetheart…we are going to go for a ride.  Just like Disneyworld.  You like Disneyworld don’t you.” 

The last stud held while the girl sheepishly nodded. 

            Connor forced a smile and continued, “I want you to hold real tight and shut your eyes, okay?”

            The little girl nodded.  Immediately the five year old’s vice was locked.  Connor pointed to his chest. 

            “Put your head right there.  Keep it there.”

            The little girl didn’t say anything but she could hear his heart beat faster and harder.  She felt his chest heave in and out.  Faster.  Connor stepped up on the ledge of the window.  He looked at his daughter.  He looked at his wife.  Sorry Marie.  Sorry Michelle.  I’m so sorry girls.  God I am so sorry.

            He looked at the sky and tightening his grip around the girl, around his daughter, around his wife, around…  With his back facing the road, he fell. 

            The sky was replaced by the wall crumbling.  The wall crumbling was replaced by his wife.  She was smiling and saying “Well done.”  She had finally finished that painting she’d been working on for years.  “Look what I did Connor. Look what I did.”  I see Michelle, I see.  A rush of a kiss exploded in his ears and then he saw his daughter.  She was seventeen and driving with the windows down.  And singing their favorite oldie. 

            Then a pleasant tear, like a present opening.  His daughter in a white dress grinning like an unbreakable ladder.  The sound of applause and then she was twenty-seven and exhausted in a hospital bed, holding a baby.  Connor heard her say, “Look what I did Daddy!  Look what I did!”  I see Marie, I see. 

Then he saw his Michelle and Marie in their backyard.  Smoke was pleasantly rising from the barbecue.  Children ran around, chasing each other in the grass.  And laughing.  Michelle was trying to get everyone in a picture.  Marie was struggling with a little boy, who was squirming under her napkin.  “You get more on your face than you do in your stomach,” she pleasantly scolded. 

            Half of the people Connor didn’t recognize.  Three of the children Connor didn’t recognize.  They weren’t Marie’s.  Another man too.  He wasn’t Marie’s.  Then he saw the girl.  There was an older man behind her.  There were three children in front of her.

            There were all lined up, perfectly.  They were looking into the camera as the timer ticked down.  Michelle rushed into the picture.  And as they were all smiling, they were looking at him.  Then he heard someone say, “Look what you did Connor.  Look what you did.” 

            And right before the flash, Connor answered.

            “I see…God, I see.”

Short Fiction 

 “Attribute of the Strong”

He struck her, once.    

            He stood at the door.  Nothing was said.  He stopped as he entered, and looked at her.  His face was grim and his eyes were hollow.  She looked at him and saw him, and when he saw her seeing him, it multiplied something.  He wanted to look away so bad, from her face, her eyes, her eye.  He wanted to turn around and go back, but he couldn’t.  He couldn’t go back. 

He sighed, wandered over and collapsed on the bed.  His powerful arms pulled at the coverlet.  He curled up and buried his face into the blanket. 

She heard light, quick breaths from him.  She sighed and lied next to him.  She ran her hand over the back of his head.  The hair slipped through her fingers and he tightened his grip on the blanket.  She watched the blanket retract and tightened her grip on his hair.  This cycle continued until they each did not want to cause pain to the other.    Occasionally, sniffing could be heard through the covers. 

For a while, the only movement was the sliding of her hand.  Finally he stretched out an arm and tugged on her summer dress.  She half smiled, barely drawing her lips up, widening her eyes slightly.  Reaching around his body, she pulled herself close in an embrace.  She felt his chest heave as he drew in air. 

They lay together.  His mind teetered on sleep; only by the solace she gave.  And the air was the only sound; they could feel its density.  He turned his face from the blanket, now wet, and looked at her.  He opened his mouth to speak but didn’t.  Then he succumbed to the indulgent gravity.

*          *          *

A baby was murmuring in a mother’s arms, nurses mulled about.  It was late though, so it was not too busy.  There was a teenager who was pale and with pink eyes, coughing in the corner, and sweating.  There were magazines and a television but most people were too preoccupied.  One person was reading a book about Gandhi.    

She sat in a chair, waiting for the nurse.  She didn’t seem to notice the blood on her shoulder.  Later he apologized for it, but for now he rested his head against her.  The makeshift bandage on his forehead helped, a good deal perhaps, but it would still drip onto her shoulder.  And he didn’t scratch the itch.

They were both staring off, resting in something like quietude.  Motionless too, except she still kept her fingers moving over his bruised hand. 

No one understood.  Not the nurses or the doctor or the staring people in the waiting room or the security guard.  Not her friends or his friends nor her parents, not her father or her mother or big sister.  Not his mother or great aunt.  No one understood, but them.  She heard the thoughts, you can’t change him, leave before he kills you.  No, no one else understood a goddamn thing.  It wasn't rejection or esteem.  One is always less than more than once.  But no one would ever understand.    

She knew why he wasn’t speaking, what he might be thinking about.  And she could take credit for most of it.  She knew he knew.  Finally.  He understood. 

So she spoke for him, and herself, saying little, mostly shaking her head and, no, that will not be necessary. 

*          *          *

            He sat up.  She was not in the room.  And he knew she wasn’t home.  Probably just at work.  He got up from the bed and his hand hurt.  The purple hurt him even more. 

            The desire to wash his face hit him and he went to the bathroom.  Turning the water on, he washed, mashing his palms into his cheeks and eyes he scrubbed.  The tips of his fingers pressing into his forehead.  He grabbed a towel and dried his face.  Up and down he worked it, and when he pulled the towel down he caught himself looking at the mirror.  Half his face was covered, all he could see were his eyes in the mirror. 

            He didn’t see his face, only hers.  She was putting on makeup, something she never really had to do except for certain occasions.  She had sad eyes, and he could tell; they weren’t selfish.  There was more makeup on one side.  He saw her glancing to the bedroom door and glance back to the mirror and fighting back tears.  He could no longer fight his.

            “WHY???”  He blubbered and pressed his face into his arm.  Slumped over on the sink, his nose made half-drowning sounds.  His arm gripped his head tighter but could not block out the fluorescence. 

            He looked up again at the mirror.  He saw the trails and her.  How could she stay?    He was a monster and she stayed. Why hadn’t she left him for someone else?  Why didn’t she fight back or put him in his place?  Why?   He wasn’t rich or handsome or anything.  Why?  He wasn’t a model or genius  and was only a half decent lover—pathetically average.  Why doesn’t she just betray me and get it over with?  That’s the problem!

            And then there was the look.  When he came in afterwards and saw her on the bed.  Of course her eye made him feel guilty; but the look.  That made him feel infinitely worse.  How could she just sit there and forgive him? That look was so unforgiving and infuriating.  It disgusted him, or rather, made him feel disgusted.  He wanted to smash that look, wipe it off completely. 

He looked up again at the mirror and at last understood why.  He was staring back.  And the fact that he could never go back to the man he was before, was the worst.  His eyes changed in the mirror and the surface boiled with rage.  His teeth bit into his chin.   He threw his fist into the mirror.  It shattered and sliced his hand and spilt everywhere. 

            He quaked and saw the fragments and the tiny images of himself.  They were so small and puny.  Screaming again, he slammed his head into the wall.  It cracked more and more as he pounded his reddening forehead into it.  He stopped for a moment his head swam around itself.  Regaining his composure, he smashed his forehead into the wall with a clear intention. 

            The room flipped over and suddenly the floor was the ceiling.  Warmth spilt over his eyes.  Before he passed out he began to realize something, something about himself, and he smiled.  He mumbled something about hitting the right person finally. 

*          *          *

The house was dark when she came home.  She called out his name but he didn’t answer.  She made her way to the bedroom, passed the unmade sheets and into the bathroom.   

Her mouth slowly opened and stayed for a second before she rushed to him.  “Baby!”

For the first time she was afraid. She grabbed his shoulders and pulled him towards her. 

            “Baby wake up!”

She saw the shattered tiles and the wall. 

“Aww… why’d you do that?”

            He began to rouse and she put a washcloth on his forehead.  She glanced over at the broken wall and the broken mirror and blood everywhere and then at him.  Then she was sad again. 

            “Your hand…” she said, grabbing the bruised flesh and fingers.  He let out a few sounds.

            “Come on, we need to go to the emergency room.”  “Can you stand?” 

            He grinned slightly and nodded, wincing when he moved his head and then grinning when he winced.  She put his arm around her neck and over her shoulder and helped him up. 

            He laughed softly as he stood up, still putting most of his weight on her. 

            “Oh baby…I think you have a concussion.  You’re delirious,” she said, tilting her head. 

            He shook his head, wincing but still grinning.     

            She helped him into the car.  While she drove he just laid back on the chair, bleeding, his mouth slightly open.

            As she checked the right lane to turn, she caught him looking at her.  Something about it was sobering.  That wet washcloth and those open eyes.  That bloody shirt and those knuckles.  And that look.  She stared for a moment at that look, wondering. 

            He was looking at her, and for the first time in so long time she saw him.  Nothing else matter—he was back.  There was no emotion in his face, not sadness or anger or gratitude.  Simply him.  She suddenly was justified and felt invincibly alive.   

            She smiled and thought about stopping the car.  She wanted to kiss him and kiss him all over and not stop.   

            She stopped the car.  His look faded to curiosity.    It didn’t matter, because she remembered what it was.  He didn’t even have time to ask, “What?” before she was kissing him. 

            She kissed him and kissed him all over in one big flurry.  The wet sound of her smile moved about in a frenzy.  She kept kissing him and all he could do was slightly embrace her and she kissed him so hard and so fast and so much that he couldn’t kiss back.  She wanted to do all the kissing.  And all he could do was sit there wide-eyed, bandaged and be kissed.  She covered him all over with those kisses, smearing herself into him.  She grazed his stubble with her lips and smashed his face with her lashes.    When she finally stopped, you couldn’t tell her lipstick from blood nor tears from saliva.  It was all smeared together. 

*          *          *

He said nothing while the doctor treated him.  He did smile though, when the doctor asked, “Is this lipstick?”   She blushed and shrugged and the doctor found himself less concerned.  He finished wiping off the man’s face and started mending the wound.  Forty stitches and a few hours later, they could leave. 

It was getting light out.  As they drove back they did some small-talk, how’s your head, it’s better now, because they wanted the feeling to stay. 

They came home and got into a beautiful, soft argument about who would clean up the bathroom.  She let him win and he thanked her for it.  He picked up the pieces of the broken mirror, careful not to cut him.  Then he wiped away the blood and wondered how much it would cost to fix the wall.  He was turned to leave but then saw one last piece of the mirror.  Holding it in his hands, he looked at it and all suddenly it fit. 

“I hit the right person,” he said, softly, looking at the mirror.  “I should have hit you so long ago; you were the problem all along.”      

He threw the last piece of the mirror in the trash.  She came up behind him and embraced him and the both stood there in the bathroom looking at the broken wall. 

“Y’know, I think I could fix it.  Just get some tile and…”

“Honey,” she said, interrupting him.  “No-just, just call someone.” 

Three hours, two trips to the hardware store, and five attempts later, he stood with his arms crossed.  The new tile was just a little bit askew, but was firmly in it’s place. 

She stood behind him, waiting for him to speak.

  “Man…I am one shitty handyman,” he declared. 

“Eh…” she murmured and put wrapped her arms around him. “You’re good enough.”

            He tilted his head slightly at these words and squeezed one of her hands gently. 

            “I’ll go start on dinner,”  she said, leaving the room. 

            “Okay.”

            Time passed for him.

It wasn’t until a few minutes later she saw him, heading towards the door. 

            “Hey I’m going to the hardware store again,” he announced. 

            “What for?” she asked.  “The wall’s fine—you already fixed good enough.”

            He shook his head and smiled.  And seriousness, he offered it up to her.  So transient and yet so earnest; a moment not seen but felt between two souls that had finally learned to see one another. 

            “I’m gonna make sure it’s like new, I’ll fix it perfect…even it I can’t.” he said.  “I’ll be back in a half an hour.”

            “Okay.”

            He closed the door.  While he was gone she still saw and felt that look.  It stayed in the room like vapor after a shower.   And it made her want to sit down at the kitchen table and cry.  She wanted to, but shouldn’t could cry.  All she could do was breathe little smiles, smiles that face down, and are almost made of laughter. 

He struck her, once, twice, many, many times.

End

Short Fiction - The Day Larry Kicked Cancer’s Ass

            Of course I felt awkward.  Some things are hard to talk about it, some words you can’t show the light of day.  Or night.  You can’t let them touch air because then they will breathe and permeate.  And your fears will come alive.  You can’t ask, “So, how long did the doctors say?”  You just can’t.  At least, I couldn’t.

 I wanted my fears gone; I hated being afraid.  And Larry knew it and he knew what I was doing when I’d try to be clever. 

“So I was thinking, next year, spring break…we can do the Cancun thing, but Scotland sounds awesome too.” 

He’d just smile and nod, because he knew.

“Yeah man, lotta babes in Cancun though.  ‘Course there’s a lot of beer in Scotland.  Well, let’s do both!” We laughed.  He had the charisma of a master liar.  Hospital bed or a bike—he could lie on anything. 

He wouldn’t talk much about it and, I, charged with writing this, had only questions and no answers.  But see, Larry found a way to beat it all.  I promise.  Whether he looked at it and devised a plan, or was due for a miracle, he found a way to win.  That old chip on his shoulder had somehow become a mountain, and now he stood on it. 

He told me to always remember how he puked.  He thought it was funny, and the way he went about it, well, it was like laughing at a miniature bulldog, whose unabashed ugliness made you smile. 

“Take pictures man, we’ll start some vomit exhibitionist fetish website.  Get paid and spring break for a year.” 

I always laughed with him. 

He said chemo was not bad and wouldn’t give in because he didn’t want to give it satisfaction.  Cancer wanted him to get chemo.  It wanted him bald, in areas where baldness was foreign.  It wanted his eyes to bulge over the toilet seat and it wanted to keep him down.  It wanted him to fear, choke, swallow, and die. 

After he had gotten used to throwing up, which, he told me, was the worst thing to do, he made a game of it.  Fun of it.   

            “Batter up,” was his favorite line as he rushed to the toilet.  He never played baseball—he never even liked baseball.  But somehow it seemed to fit.

            He was the leader of his own, one-man band.  At first he tried humming through the bitter orangeness, but it was too hard and harsh to sound good.  “Cancel my appointment with Philharmonic.”  He mused about whistling while did it, for obvious humor.  Finally he resorted to keeping a beat with his hands on the sides of the porcelain.  He’d alternate from that to the tile floor and back.  “Dude, watch this shit, this is crazy man!”  And the faster it came out of him, the faster he hit, the harder he retched, the harder he beat.  The first time he did it, the nurses thought he was having a seizure.  It was hard to argue when he said, “I’m the first to do this man, I’m a pioneer.”  Neil Armstrong would have been proud.      

            And he’d crack jokes to the nurses and I always wondered what went through their heads when he did.  They’d bring him food and he’s say, “Ah Ha!  This is what’s been making me sick!” He would always say it with a smile, so they knew he was joking.  Another game he liked to play, was rich man.  He got his some of his lifesavings put into dollar bills and anytime they’d wheel him back from this place or that, he’d reach into his gown and hand them a few dollar bills. “Thank you sweetheart, buy yourself some pearls.  Don’t worry, I’m rich.”  At first they argued about hospital policy, but Larry, oh man, he could play them like a toilet drum.  “Oh please, take it, you’ll hurt my feelings and I’ll waste away.”  He’d put the back of his hand to his forehead “…away I tell ya!”    Eventually the nurses just put the money in a jar somewhere.  I never did figure out where he hid the money while wearing a gown. 

            I suppose the doctors might have considered a different kind of hospital if it weren’t for the cancer.  Because the pranks he would play on them.  He knew they were trying to help him, that’s what he told me, and he was trying to help them too.  “Dude, I’m helping them help me.  Think about it.”  First off, when he was talking to them about treatments or his condition, he would have about half a medical dictionary memorized.  He’d sit there, all quiet and nodding his head.  “Yes, I see, go on.”  Then he would ask, in a total straight face and professional manner, the most asinine, ridiculous question  “Yes Doctor I see, but have you considered the effects of the Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy?” And he kept a straight face, as though he had asked the most natural question.  Even I had to admit it was funny when you had a John Hopkins Professor going, “Huh?...um.  Ah.  I…don’t see what Mad Cow Disease has to do with your health condition…” Then Larry would just nod his head, look at the floor for a second, then wipe his forehead, “Well, whew doctor!  That’s sure is a relief.  No Mad Cow Disease.” 

 To say Larry never went through any grief  would be wrong.  To say he faced it with stark resolution and courage wouldn’t be right either.  Larry said people always had a private spot to them.  A territory.  Only they knew it and only they understood it.  It made sense to me; it fit.  But how lonely was his territory?  How long could he resist despair?  How many times despite the sickness lurking inside him, could he say, “No.”    What then?  Was anger his blanket?  Was it as hot as his everyday-bile?  Did it keep his paleness warm in that gown?  Were his bones breaking from rage, or the other thing? 

And the coldness of it.  The metal floors.  The absence of good socks.  Did it break him?  Did he weep for it, curled into a ball in bed?  Was his mom uncalled--because he knew she could nothing for him, “No Mom, I’m fine.” She couldn’t help him throw up at five, what about twenty?   Did he tie up all the lose ends from such a short string? Had the ink mixed with tears for an early will? 

Stop being so melodramitic dude.  Seriously you're as bad as the food.  That's what'd he say if he had read those last few paragraphs.   

            One time he showed a doctor a few drawings and when the doctor asked what it was, he calmly replied, “These are plans to combine my body with that of a shark.  Since sharks don’t get cancer, not only will my survival been ensured, but I’ll also be Sharkman.”  He raised his eyebrows and calmly nodded.  “Sharkman doctor.  Sharkman.”  God only knows the stuff I did miss. 

One doctor told Larry he needed to approach his treatment seriously.  Sometimes Larry would shrug, other times offer a quick appeasement, “Sure thing doc.”  One time Doctor Hudson got particularly adamant about Larry’s behavior.  Larry just looked at him quietly, right through the doctor’s glasses, and told him, “I am."   If the Dr. Hudson was unsure of Larry’s earnestness, after that, he didn’t mention it. 

 He asked me once too, if he was being insensitive to the nurses and the doctors, who were just trying to help.  I responded by saying, no, I’m sure they’re fine, although you might want to consider not making prank calls on the over intercom, no more, “Paging Dr. Quack, we need help on that circumcision in room 112.  Yes Doctor, we slipped.”      

            That’s just how he was.  His way.  That was his saving grace I suppose.  You are friends with someone long enough, they can say anything, but you still know when they’re joking.  I remember one doctor gave me a look, like, “How can you laugh at that?”…until he realized Larry was joking.

           Towards the end, he talked to me more about it all.  Whether they were doubts or just him checking on the rest of us, I don’t know.  He asked me what I thought of him, what he was doing, would he be missed, and I said what anyone said.  And then I asked him what he thought, and he told me.

            “Dude, I have more shit to do.  But right now.  It sounds weird but,” he got silent for a bit, which is how I knew he was really serious,“ … this is my career man.  This is my life.  This is my dream.  I can do it better than anyone else.  I’m the best at it.  I am at the top.”  What could I say?  He was.   

He asked me to do a couple things, but he only commanded me to do one, because he knew how stories went and he said there was nothing worse than a shitty ending.  Of course, he would have rewritten the endings to Casablanca, Terminator 2, and Titantic (Jaws showed up) but that’s Larry for you.  He said, “Keep it open dude.  Whether I make it or not, keep it open” 

  So you want me to tell you if Larry died or not?  He knew you would.  He told me early on, before we were too sure of anything, that regardless what happened, I had to tell it a certain way.  That’s was my job, and then I could have his DVD collection and video games, and half the money from his car if he sold it.  If he died. 

He said, the world is so sad, we hate happy endings.  We don’t buy em.  They can’t exist anymore, not in this world.  No, that doesn’t happen in the real world.  Sadness makes us happy.  It’s sufficient.  It’s believable.  Larry said, “fuck sadness.” It’s funny because that’s what he did, he fucked sadness right up the ass and sent it whining and running home to mommy.  He made sure I put that part in...the assfucking of sadness thing.     

So I won’t tell you.  I won’t tell you he beat all the odds and how his inner strength somehow overcame the medical facts.  Because that’s not fair for the rest of the odds and it’s not buyable.  And I won’t tell you he succumbed, how he accepted and was thankful for his life, because the world is not all death and death’s too easy.  I won’t tell you about the day he walked out of the hospital and the day he maxed out at 300 bench press, his lifetime goal.  Because that’s a lot to lift.  And I won’t tell you the day I and his friends carried him out and laid him on a hill and how he inspired so many others, because a boy shouldn't' have to die to inspire people. 

I’ll tell you this:  Larry almost made you want to get cancer. Either way you look at it, Larry wins.    It was like he had hoisted a huge rock on his shoulders and yelled proudly, like a child on a swing calling to his mother as he got higher and higher, faster and faster,  “Look at me!”

And we did. 

Short Fiction -

    “Picture of the Year”

formerly clusterfuck (this was omitted to the publisher)

      “So Dino, how is my brother doing?” asked the plump man. 

            “He’s good Mistah Rizzato.  He wishes to speak with you very much,” answered Dino, taking a nervous swig of wine. 

            “That’s good; I was hoping we could finally sort this whole mess out.  You want that don’t you, Dino?”

            “Yes sir, very much so.” 

            Dino felt the sweat beading down the back of his neck.  It was itchy.  The reason of his ‘mission’ flashed in his eyes.  Kill my brother, or I kill yours.   Dino had believed Ralph when he heard the muffled cries from his younger brother through the telephone.  He’d considered some vain rescue, but really, his brother could have been stashed anywhere in the city.  The more he pondered, the more he perspired, as though his fears were seeping out his mind and collecting on his skin.   It was starting on his forehead.  Was it showing?  Better think of something before Anthony noticed. 

            “Where did you get that statue of the Holy Mother?”  asked Dino, extending his hand out.  While Anthony turned, Dino quickly wiped the sweat off his forehead.  Anthony looked at the ornate sculpture across the room, and then smiled. 

            “Oh you like it?   I believe my wife got it on one of her vacations.”

“Yes it’s beautiful,” replied Dino, now more relaxed.  Pretty clever, he thought. 

            One of Anthony’s bodyguards was still standing next to the door.  The other was probably still in the car.  Dino tried to casually frisk the man with his eyes, looking for a gun.  Probably the shoulder or between pants—as long as it wasn’t in his hand.   

            As his target continued to ramble on, Dino let his eye stop for a split-second on his watch.  Then back to Anthony’s smiling face.  Then back to his watch again.  He was nearly out of time.  No time to run into the bathroom to vomit, wash his face, look at the mirror and wash his face again.  No time to ‘pull it together man.’    He was going to have to pull out his gun, shoot Anthony, shoot the bodyguard, run out into Anthony’s driveway, shoot the other bodyguard, and make his getaway.  The history and trust of Anthony gave him little reassurance.    

            He took another gulp of the wine.          

*          *          *         

The rest of the firemen rolled their eyes at Hardy.  The stodgy (he would say stocky) fireman held the video game controller in the fiercest manner possible.  He plopped down on the couch, arched his shoulders up and lowered his head, peering intently at the TV. 

            “Watch out guys, Hardy’s been practicing,” quipped one of the men. 

            “Haha, yeah, Hardy—didn’t you ground your kids so you could play the game more?” asked Scott. 

            “Laugh it up,” said Hardy, “Because one day you’ll notice a resemblance in your kids to mine, and not because anything you did.” 

            “You gonna take that Scott?” chimed in another firefighter. 

            “Nah man, I’m not worried.  My wife doesn’t play pool with spaghetti.” 

            “Ohhhhh” laughed the crew. 

            To which Hardy responded, “Yeah but she don’t use a pool cue, she uses a baseball bat.”

            Another, slightly less enthusiastic, “Ohhhhh” 

            Scott looked at Hardy’s belly and said, “How can you talk about things you haven’t seen in years? “

            Hardy shrugged off the resulting chuckles, rolled his eyes, and declared: “All right fuckcrank, let’s get this game on”

            “All right then,” said Scott. 

Two hours later, the football video game was tied. In the department, it was customary for the two opposing forces to name each other’s team.   Jacksonville Jagoffs were tied against the Orlando Cockgobblers, twenty-one, twenty-one.     After numerous taunts, including “and what bitch?” and the popular “you like that shit?” there were more than a hundred dollars laid out between the six firemen…two of whom weren’t even playing. 

The pixilated pigskin rested on the 47 yard line.  The Jagoffs had possession.  Fourth down, seven yards to go, three seconds left.  Only a decisive field goal would win the game.  And Hardy O’Hardy had a controller.   

*          *          *

Patrick Sanchez walked down the sidewalk, his tongue protruding out slightly as he held his camera.  He fiddled with the knobs and dials on the camera, often with his head down and so he had a habit of tripping over the slightest of cracks.  “Keep yer head up, Sancho!” his elders used to say.  The nickname he kept and often attributed to a likeliness of a famous baseball player.  Really though, he was more of a jackass than baseball player, photographer, and many other professions. 

Though he poked the plastic buttons of the camera with such haste and seeming confidence, his understanding of them was as clear as the camera’s view with the lens cap on.  Which accidentally happened so much one would think he did it on purpose.  Through the world’s lens, he was no photographer.  Just a dumb kid with a cheap camera. 

But all that would change today.  Sancho was sure of it.  The fate of a photographer can be changed at the speed of light and in the blink of an eye, and all it took was one perfect picture.  He was no longer content to work stockboy at the local   TV Tent, a job consisting of moving from here to there, and bring something heavy along the way. 

Walking down the street, his eyes caught site of stray dog poking its head in some trash.  “This could be it—I’ll appeal to the hearts of animal lovers everywhere and I’ll be rich,” he said to himself.  And being rich, one could afford luxuries, like being able use a bar of soap only once and then use a new one.  Sancho enjoyed the look of new soap, delighting in the contours of its maker’s name imprinted in its ivory.    

And so he came close to the tramp, pointed his camera at it, and aimed.  He quickly unscrewed the obvious lens cap, and aimed again.                            

*          *          *

Ralph Rizzato sat in his leather office seat, smoking.  The smugness he gave off was  thicker than the smoke and the chief reason for anyone to hate him.  He looked over to the blindfolded and gagged teenager across from him.  Then he looked back at the clock on the wall. By now, if he knew what was good for him, Dino would be taking care of a little family business.  Ralph smiled, and put it attention back to the football game on TV and smiled again when he saw his team was winning.  Easy money. 

*          *          *           

            Hardy gripped the controller firmly, his teeth pressed on his tongue.  Silence.    The fate of the hundred and twenty dollars, which he could spend or divide and bathe in, rested on this play.  Glorious bragging rights, which he could bask in anytime they played, rested on this play.  As he envisioned his victory, Hardy thought for a split second the ignorance of McCallister on B shift, who thought the games were silly.  What an idiot.     

Timing had to be just perfect even though he couldn’t lose unless a catastrophe occurred.  This was it.  His heavy finger came down on the button, which seemed to echo a minute plastic sound, Caaalick…lick ick ick ick.  Then a catastrophe occurred.  The exact moment his finger was about to kick the ball, the station siren blared off, jarring him.  The sudden shock annihilated any accuracy, and with it, victory. 

            “Shit!” 

            Not only had his kick missed the mark, the digital attempt had somehow been fumbled and recovered by the other team.  Hardy watched in horror, tapping his controller furiously, as Scott’s players ran down the field in the opposite direction.  To win.

            “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”   

            “Yo Hardy, we gotta go man, we’ll settle it later!”

            Hardy threw down the controller and headed to the bay towards the engine and rescue.  On his way, he noted Scott’s face.

 “Don’t drive angry…partnah!” 

            The chief later asked where the skid marks on the driveway came from, but everyone said they didn’t know.

*          *          *

            “Shit!  Are they coming?” said Dino frantically. 

            “Yeah, yeah!  How’s he doing?” asked one of the bodyguards. 

            “He’s having a fucking heart attack!”

            They knelt down by Anthony—who was clutching his chest and sweating profusely. 

            Dino’s eyes paced back and forth.  Paramedics were on their way and he would have a tricky time killing Anthony in the back of an ambulance, with two firefighters.  Then again, maybe if he was lucky, Anthony’s heart would give him a break. 

            An ambulance pulled up and some firemen rushed inside.  They each knelt down and started attaching various devices to Anthony, who was cringing.  One firefighter cut through his shirt and attached some electrodes on his chest. 

            “Allright, we gotta go,” one said, as they loaded the mobster up on a stretcher. 

            Shit, Dino thought.  What was he supposed to do now?

            “Wait…” said Anthony weakly, extending an arm out to Dino.  “I want him to come”

            “Okay,” said the fireman, and looking at Dino, “but if you want to help your friend, don’t get in the way.” 

            Dino bit his lip and nodded.   

*          *          *         

            By now, Ralph should’ve had news of his brother’s health, or lack thereof.  He impatiently fumbled with his lighter to start another cigarette.  The TV caught his attention and heswore as the opposing team tied the game up.   Peering out the blinds of his second story window, he swore again, which could have made the holiest of virgins blush.  Where the hell was Dino?      

*          *          *

            After putting his eye to the viewerfinder, Sancho removed the lens cap.  He aimed the camera and pressed the button.  When nothing happened, he glanced to see if anyone saw and then he switched it “on” and aimed a third time.  However, by this time, the mutt has lost his interested in being

“Hey…wait!” pleaded Sancho.  “Come er’ boy.  Come er’ boy.  Good dog.” 

After the canine ignored his requests, Sancho chased after him, trying to run as fast as he could but casually. 

*          *          *

 “Dino?” groaned Anthony.

.  Dino, sitting on the seat directly behind the stretcher, patted the old man’s head. 

“I’m here, Anthony.  I’m here.” Wouldn’t hurt to be nice if the man was going out, would it? 

“Listen…if I don’t make it…I want you to have that statue.  It was my wife’s… but she’ll understand.  You hear that Mr. Fireman?”

Mr. Fireman just nodded. 

They were flying down the road, and while the sirens screamed it occurred to Dino the heart attack might not do the job for him and give him complications.  The paramedic went to work on his target.  Pressing some buttons, a piece of paper came out of a machine. 

“Yeah, it’s a heart attack,” he said, holding the strip of paper up. 

They were suddenly rocked to the side as the ambulance took a wide turn too fast, its left tires lifting off the ground.  The paramedic slammed his palms into the wall of the ambulance to avoid kissing it. 

“Yo, Hardy?  You mind?”

“Oh…sorry there Scotty,” he said, snickering softly, but loud enough so Scott could hear.

Dino had had enough.  He’d explained to the fireman the reasons for the murder, and pray it didn’t come back to haunt him.  He started to reach around for his gun, when the monitor began beeping louder, and more frequently. 

 “What?” yelled Dino, pausing.

His inquiry was answered when Anthony retracted and seized up.  The machine let out a long, continuous beep. 

“Shit,” said Scott. 

The paramedic snatched some paddles up and then handed some bag-like device to Dino.  The plastic had some tubing that came out of some valve. 

“Listen, I need you to squeeze this every five seconds…no more no less.  We need to get more oxygen to his heart if I’m gonna revive him” said the paramedic.  Stunned, Dino started pumping the bag, his eyes on the ceiling as he counted to five.  One two three four five, squeeze…one two three four five, squeeze.   

Scott spread some clear jelly on the paddles and rubbed them together, and pressed a button on the machine.  A loud whine came out. 

“Clear!” 

The body thumped. 

“Clear!”

It thumped again, but the machine still was beeping chaotically.

            Now the paramedic was rummaging through some drug box trying to revive his patient.  Though they were doing ninety-five down 95, and the sirens were wailing, Dino could have propped his feet up and put his hands behind his head to lay back.  Hell, he could take credit for this; just tell Ralph he dropped something in Anthony’s wine.  Things were starting to look up.      

            But now Scott was at it again.  He charged the machine and yelled “clear” again, sending a shock through the body.

It thumped again, and now the monitor was beeping regularly.

“Whew…we got him back.”

Got him back? thought Dino.  I don’t want him back!…and why the hell am I squeezing this bag?

The paramedic had his back turned, fumbling an IV.  Shit, now was as good a time as any, Dino determined.  He stopped squeezing and started reaching for his gun. 

The monitor blared off as Anthony died again.

“Damnit!” They both looked at each other for a moment. 

“Okay, come on man…come on” the paramedic urged while he rubbed the paddles again.  Okay, come on man…come on,” thought Dino.  “Stay dead…come on…”   

“Clear!” 

Thump.

“Clear!”

Thump. 

Beep, beep, beep. 

Goddamnit.  Dino sighed, holding his chin in one hand. He lowered his head and rubbed his face with both palms.  Goddamnit.  He was still rubbing his forehead while he started reaching for the gun with the other hand.  

“Hey!  Keep squeezing man!” ordered the paramedic, who had noticed the bag in Dino’s lap.

Dino resolved to squeeze only one thing and began to reach for it…

*          *          *

            Sancho panted as he chased after the dog, which, when aware of its photographic pursuer, ran faster.  Sancho then decided perhaps a shift in priorities, instead of a still, heart-felt photo; he would have an exciting motion and unique perspective on the dog.  As he hastened his pace, his thoughts on fame and unlimited new soap, made him oblivious to his flopping shoelace.   

*          *          *

Hardy looked down the road.  The light was green and it was clear.  He pressed his foot back on the gas. In the back, Dino had his gun in his hand, still behind him.  He slowly drew it out, it resting into his side, preparing to shoot…

*          *          *

This was fucking ridiculous, thought Ralph.  He hung up the phone, wondering and cursing as to why Dino wasn’t answering his phone.  Perhaps in the adrenaline of Anthony’s demise, he had forgotten to turn it on…

*          *          *

            As the dog turned the corner, Sancho increased his speed out of fear of losing his subject.  This whole time he had been running with the camera up to his eye, aiming in case the Dog began to lose him.  So, through the viewfinder, his eyes and body followed the canine as it dashed from the sidewalk of the corner into the street. 

            Suddenly, as Hardy was passing an intersection, a dog came by the corner and dashed out into the street.  It was all he could do to avoid hitting it and the kid following, so the fireman, without thinking, swerved off the road, right into, or onto, a parked car. 

            The incline of the road coupled with the speed of the vehicle and corresponding angle of the parked vehicle, is what police determined enabled the following chaos to ensue.  As soon as the ambulance came in contact with the parked car, it was sent into the air, pushed by all its momentum. 

            With these factors, as well as just plain dumb luck, Time Magazine attributed to success and unique perspective of its annual, Photo of the Year, in which a young, unpublished photographer, managed to trip over his shoelaces, and somehow take five motion shots of the debacle, from his perspective of being under the ambulance.  Though the youth didn’t mention in his interview, the camera had flown out of his hands has he fell, bounced off the ground, and some how managed to capture the picture of the ambulance, in context with the air and ground below and where it was heading. 

            Excluding some provisionary clauses, Good Faith Life Insurance Company deemed the factors involved in the accident, although freakish and entirely coincidental, were still tainted by the illegality of aforementioned details, in which case, the family of Ralph Rizzato would receive no compensation, resulting in his death when he, impatiently, had walked over to the second-story window and demanded, “Where the fuck are they?” and immediately was answered by the grill of a Ford 350 Ambulance, crashing through it. 

            Of its occupants, the ambulance treated considerably better than Ralph.  Dino lost grip on his gun as soon as the tires lost theirs on the ground, later to be found in the rubble of the second story office.  Scott was thrown across the cab, slamming into the wall while Hardy was tossed up and down between the floor and ceiling.  Anthony had been quite secure, being strapped snuggly into the stretcher, which was locked in place. 

            Those not in the ambulance, excluding the late (unlike his brother) Ralph, fared even better despite the carnage.  Though he would need knew pants, Dino’s brother was otherwise uninjured.  Sancho, with a few scrape marks, was more worried about his camera, which he retired.  The Dog, who was later nicknamed “Lucky”, short for Lucky S.O.B, fared the best out of all those involved, so much so that he wasn’t aware he had caused a wreck, merely, dodged a car.      

*          *          * 

            Police, with the deluge of evidence, cleared Dino of any possible charges, who was reunited with his rattled, but unscathed brother.  Anthony assured Dino, his brother, and police, and even swore to the Virgin Mary, that he held no grudge against Dino and would have done the same in his shoes.   His oath seemed to have credibility, has he believed it was a miracle that one moment he was dying of a heart attack, thrust in a vehicle through a second-story window, and emerge without a scratch on him. 

And so, the two brothers, the surviving brother, the Insurance Company, the kid with camera, and the dog, had nothing to worry in regards to Ralph.  Though the fire department thought of him, since it was weeks later and the mechanics were still finding teeth in the engine during the repairs. 

            Hardy and Scott spent a brief vacation in the hospital, during which “someone” smuggled in some video games.  Despite it being best thirty-six out of seventy-three, Hardy ended up winning the “game to decide all games.”  His glory was made sweeter by his neck brace, which, he deemed, was much more severe of a handicap than Scott’s full arm cast, since it was on the left and Scott was right-handed.  This was later to be remanded by popular opinion, since playing video games, liking anything precise thing, takes two hands. 

               Finally, Sancho, though he had left his another atm card in the machine, still had the means to make his purchases.  He just smiled, as if he were posing, when the clerk raised her eyebrows slightly at the plentiful bounty of soap bleeping over the checkout.  When she gave him a separate but similar look for the assortment of dog food, he simply said, “Fer my dog.”  

The End               

 Poem

“On the Subject of My Unmitigated Brillyance in Writing”

Just because you can see it,

Doesn’t mean it’s there.

Just because it’s you,

Doesn’t mean they’ll care.

Just because it’s correct,

Doesn’t mean you’re right.

Just because you put down words,

Doesn't mean you can write.

Just because you’ve written much,

Doesn’t mean you’ve said a thing.

Just because you have a voice,

Doesn't mean you can sing.

Just because the extra words,

Happen to be ample.

Doesn’t mean that they should stay,

That’s a perfect example.

Just because it’s perfect,

Exactly when it’s done.

Doesn’t mean it’s perfect,

A quarter after one.

Just because it’s poetry,

Does NOT mean you’ll get laid,

Just because it rhymes a lot,

Does not mean you’ll get paid.

Just because it rhymes,

Doesn’t mean it fits.

Your reader will probably say:

“This guy is full of shit.”

                                           Short Fiction   

“Like Father, Like Son”    

 Most people avoid empathy, because it hurts. 

            The crying had ended and the man came through the door.  Standing at the doorway, he said nothing.  He just stood there, looking at his wife and she looked at him.  He was exhausted.  And she knew why.  It’s just a spanking, get over it.  But looking at him, she knew it was more.

            She looked at him, wishing to lighten the load, or at least direct it elsewhere.  But men never ask for directions, especially when the trip is short.  A day, a sleep, and it would be gone, with only the knowledge of the act.  The trouble was falling asleep.    

He sighed, dropped the belt in his hand, and collapsed on the bed.  Weakly pulling at the coverlet, he curled up and buried his face into the blanket. 

She heard light, quick breaths from her husband.  She lowered her gaze onto him, smiling only in her eyes.  Lying next to him, she ran her hand over the back of his head.  His hair slipped through her fingers, when he felt it, he tightened his grip.  She watched the blanket retract as though his heart was pulling, pulling at the world.    

For a while, the only movement was the sliding of her hand.  Finally he stretched out an arm and tugged on her summer dress.  She smiled, barely drawing her lips up, barely widening her eyes.  Reaching around his chest, she pulled herself closer.  She felt his whole body heave.  He had a habit of shuddering when he felt her.   

They lay together.  Two sounds:  breathing and a ceiling fan on low.  He turned his face from the blanket, now wet, and looked at his wife.  He opened his mouth to speak but didn’t, preferring to succumb to some indulgent isolation. 

Later, he rolled over to see her lying beside him.  The wrinkles on the sheets had stayed the same. He looked at her and the rest of the world was almost peripheral. 

And while empathy is a faint salve at best, doing little, still, it does. 

“How long have I been asleep?” he asked. 

“About an hour” she replied. 

He was silent, and then breathed though his nose and out. 

 “Did I do the right thing?”

She didn’t answer at first.  Then she said, “Well….I don’t know.”  It sounded like a sigh.  “We looked into this…this has the best chance.  I mean, it know it’s hard, but maybe you won’t have to do it a lot.  You know…rule by intimidation.”  She instantly regretted the word.

He regretted it too.  Because now he wanted to hit something, now he wanted to scream.  I don’t want to intimidate my son!  I don’t want him to be afraid of me!  I don’t him to listen carefully for my heavy feet.  So what if you give yourself a haircut?!  So what if you paint mom a picture…on the surface of the refrigerator?! Hell, set the carpet on fire!  Just be a kid, be who you are. 

But he held this inside, because he knew this wasn’t a cute child thing—involving spilled milk or baseball-colored windows.  This was putting pain on someone else; his son knew better.  And he knew better.  But knowing and believe…it’s hard to teach someone how to believe. 

He sighed, “I know…but there’s got to be another way.”  He’d almost said easier.  “Let’s buy some child books or take a workshop or something.” 

“I know you aren’t serious,” she said.

“I know.”

The memory was still fresh, like a skinned knee.  

*          *          *

            He motioned for the five year-old to turn around.  And it was for his protection.  The boy made tiny fearful noises.  Being angry would have helped.  He wasn’t. 

            What to say?  Hide behind cliché’s?  It’s true—this is going to hurt me.  A lot. Something else perhaps—This is the only way you’ll learn?  Not good enough. 

            Come on, he’s waiting.  Say something.  You know I love you?  Better.  Why didn’t he think of something to say before—he had years to decide!  Decades!  Find the words.  Why couldn’t he remember? 

            Let’s let him go.  Yeah.  We’ll ask him if he knows what he did was wrong—look at him he’s crying.  Of course he knows.  Yes, we’ll let him go and do it for real if it happens again.  No backing down next time.  Next time. 

            Stop stalling.  What had his dad said?  Love was in there somewhere.  Goddamn it was-but where?   

            The father looked at the tiny body of his son, curled over the office chair and his knee.  Jesus help me; we’re both quaking.  Send me help here; tell me what to say and how to say it and how to do it.  I don’t have the strength to forge a man.

            If the heavens opened up and sent an army of angels to rally in support, he didn’t see it.  If divine wisdom shot out of his lips he didn’t realize it.  He didn’t feel anything was helping.  He said something the best he could think of, but it still felt lame inside. 

            “Never forget that I love you.”  It didn’t sound gold or perfect or original but it was said.  Now came the harder part.

            His hands weakly reached for his belt..  He watched as it slid through the loops.  He hated the noise of it.  Three more loops…now two.  Hurry up and get stuck in one.  But it didn’t—the belt slid out like a goddamn guillotine.            

He doubled the snake in his hands.  They wouldn’t stop shaking so he squeezed them hard.  Then harder.  Hold.

One more thing, he had to make the flesh visible; that was almost as important as the belt.  His fingers tiptoed around his son, as pensively if he were adjusting ramparts on a sandcastle.  There was a cowboy on the label—he loved cowboys; he only wore the jeans because of the cowboy.  Cowboy Joe. 

            He grasped the edge of the pants.  He removed them like a morgue sheet.  His son winced and so did he.  There it was—a bottom is entirely a thing of child.  Cute.

            He had given it enough time; the roof wasn’t going to collapse on him nor was a riot about to happen nearby.  The only thing that could have made it worse was for the Icecream Man to come creeping along the cul-de-sac.  Mocking him.  He realized he was nothing without his anger; it had left him the moment he walked through the door.

 He raised his arm and held it.  He sighed deeply, drew in a breath, and held it. 

 There was no final decision because his hand had already begun falling

Contact.  A piercing cry, in all sense of both words.  Instant redness.  Keep going.  He slammed down the belt more and more.  There was that shriek; stop retaliating!  The faster you do it the quicker it will be done.  Was he doing it hard enough—too hard?  Now the cries were getting harsher.  Keep going.  The red rectangles started to blend in together.  Leather is unbearably incisive.

The father gritted his teeth so hard they hurt.  He gritted more.  The tears still swelled but he just strained them back.  He was glad he had the boy turned around. 

Finally he stopped and quickly wiped his eyes.  How many hits was it—ten?  Twenty?  A million?  Zero would have been too many.        

“You can go now,” he muttered.  His son got up, pulled his pants up, and left. 

The father collapsed into the chair.  Now he had to wait for the child to be consoled by mommy.  By now the boy was wrapped around her leg.  And he had to wait.      

*          *          *

            He grew tired of going over the details.   

            They sat in silence for a few moments.  Finally she said:            

            “He’s like you.” 

“No…not like me.  He’s better than me.  He’s smarter and he notices things.  I mean, he’s only five and he knows what compassion is.  You know last month when I brought him back from getting his stitches out? He said it hurt when they took them out but he didn’t say anything because he didn’t want to hurt the lady’s feelings!” 

            His eyes shimmered with new wetness.  “I mean, Jesus Christ!  What a GOOD     kid.”  He pressed his palms against his face as he sighed, and moved them up to his hair, squeezing tight.  “How can I protect him from the world?  He’s perfect.” 

            She looked at her husband for a moment and for the first time they both encountered the one big problem.  How can love cause pain? 

 Finally she said, “You know…he came in here while you were asleep.  He looked up slightly.

“He came in and said ‘Is Daddy still mad at me?’ I mean, he actually felt bad because you looked so sad to him.”

“I thought he would have been mad at me or afraid,” he mused..

“No…he wasn’t.  And you’re right.  He is a good kid.” 

“Yeah…but sometimes I think he’s smarter than a five year old,” he confessed. “Like he manipulates me into getting things for him.  Remember when I bought that stupid hippo game at the mall.  Forty bucks. and he never played it.”

She smiled and let out a small chuckle.  “Well…as I remember it, those store clerks manipulated you…telling you it was a great way to bond with him.  You can’t blame him for that…that’s not fair.”

He nodded…when someone’s right, they’re right. 

“…and then he looked at you while you were sleeping.”  She paused, with a fond look. 

“I wish you had seen it.   That look…he…he learned something.  Something even better than you intended…. it was like he understood.   God I wish you could’ve seen it!  I….I…” 

            Her beautiful stammering was interrupted by the boy walking in.  He stood at the foot of the bed, jumped on it, and simply asked, “What’s for dinner.” 

How can he be asking ‘what’s for dinner’ after what I just did to him?  How can he even look me in the face? 

The boy waited for an answer.  Mom looked over to Dad, waiting for him to respond.  After becoming impatient, the boy suggested, “well, can we have pizza?”

“Sure,” the father mumbled, a bit confused. 

“All right!” the boy shouted, jumping off the bed and running down the hallway. 

He laid back on the pillow and said nothing.  His wife noticed this, reached over and kissed him on the top of his head.  “I’ll go start dinner.”

There was no way it had all been in his head.  Right?  His fingers had been white from gripping so hard.  Sure, maybe it was five or ten times, maybe it was a tap.  Who could tell with that shriek?  Who could tell with that convulsing?  That trembling! 

He thought about how it was for him growing up.  He didn’t remember any of the beatings themselves…ha, beatings…yeah right—his sister hit harder.    He wasn’t even sure how many “beatings”…maybe two?  He didn’t even remember what those rare occasions were for.

But he did remember one thing.  One distinct, horrible feeling.  He remembered his father.  No, not that far-away word. Dad.  Daddy.  He remembered how his Dad looked afterwards; it was the sorriest sadness expression he had ever seen on any human face.  You don’t know how bad doing that makes me feel.  His dad would say that, with his eyes down or head down.  His dad would look slumped, even though he had the biggest shoulders in the world.  They would sink so low.  What a beating. Some scars, despite any miracle, won’t heal.  They are important.  

Christ—how had he pulled that off?  He couldn’t remember any other kids growing up or anyone else talking about that experience.  Which meant, his dad was braver than everyone else’s.  Sure he was still human and he wasn’t very mechanically minded.  But…right then he felt his dad was better than everyone else’s dad.  He didn’t make more money than all of them and though he was always pretty big he never beat anyone up, and he wasn’t a cop.  But he was braver than everyone else.  Not afraid to do the right, hard thing.  Not afraid to look a child in the face and say Watch pain.  See it.  Learn from it.  Move through your life and never turn your head from it.  Sometimes you can’t stop it. It will always be there.  But if you feel it, if you sense it in the eyes of every human being, well, the world will be better.  That will be the best thing about you.       

He had forgiven his father instantly afterwards, because there was nothing to forgive.  Now his son had done the same.  And they were having pizza for dinner. 

 "Joey's heartache"   

“I’ve got nothing….Joey…hey Joey can you hear me?”

   Joseph Mackenoy hadn’t been called by that name in many years.  The name flew through his mind and his memories back to his childhood.  He donned the name as it fit is personality; it seemed to sound like him.  The days when he was Joey were long ago; but not anymore.  Suddenly his friend Jeremy was calling his name.  “Joey! Joey!”

            “Joey, toss me the ball!”  Imitating spectacular football catches in spectacular fashions, the boys would dive into the deep end of the pool.  Emerging from the water with a hand held high in triumph, his friend grinned as he swam towards the pool wall.  Swimming was one of the things that passed the boys through summer. 

            When the sun and heat sunk away behind the horizon, the boys left the water and its finger-wrinkling effects, and went to other activities.  Video games were always on the menu, the electronic beeps that kept the kids occupied hours on end.  But as much as Joey would play, and be called an addict by his parents, his favorite game was Manhunt. 

            Since Hide and Seek was too childish to play for an eleven year old, Man Hunt was born.  Since the house was too small, the neighborhood was used.  Aside from a general boundary known as Cambridge Road, any place was used.  Trees, bushes, sewers, it was all fair game.  The boys never played the game enough for Joey; he loved it.  The problem was it was so hard to organize.  You needed twelve guys, six to a team of hunters and hiders.  With summer camp and family vacations in Virginia, it was no small feet to organize enough people to play. 

            He was never organized going through school.  His mother would always lecture on it.  Joey would just smile and remind her of his honor student status and state scholarships to university.  Joey never took the time to imagine how good his grades would be if he was organized, though his mother constantly “nagged” him about it.  He just didn’t see the point of it though; filing papers into folders was a monumentally laborious task.  It almost hurt to have to open a binder and organize it.  

            Sandy used to call him Joey too.  But he hadn’t seen her in years, even though he had gotten over the pain of that.  He had forgiven her, then unforgave her, then finally forgave her…again.  He had changed more in those two years than in the last twenty, really.  Joey rationalized that sometimes you needed to feel pain; it told you were alive and made you prepared for events that would otherwise kill you. 

            Maybe that was why he didn’t cry at his wife’s funeral.  Oh sure, he bawled later that night in the shower, of all places.  But he had promised himself he wouldn’t cry at the funeral; he would be strong.  He kept the promise too, but now he had another one to keep.  Watch what you eat.  She had always scolded him for not taking care of his body, for clogging arteries with junk.  Now that she was gone, who would nag him? 

All in all it was a good life.                 

Blake’s First Break

 In the summer of 2002 I began martial arts training.  When I was a younger I had done a few years of Taekwando, but it was mainly kiddy stuff.  I heard about this guy who was taking students from a coworker at circuit city.  I always liked martial arts, the lifestyle, the fire within, discipline, all that stuff.  So I meet this guy Ryan, who is this guy with long hair, a few years older than me.  But very hardcore into his work.  He had been doing Capoiera for like fifteen years, Brazilian Ju Jitsu, and a whole bunch of other stuff.    For those of you that don’t know what Capoiera, let me enlighten you on to its origins. 

In the times where the Spanish/Portuguese had enslaved the people of Brazil and its surrounding nations, the people were not allowed to train with weapons or martial arts lest they rebel against their captors.  So they practice a “dance”, which itself was a fight.  Very interesting stuff.

I had been training with Ryan for about a month and a half.  It was pretty intense.  We would train on a tennis court, and I remember all the skin on the bottom of my foot becoming one giant blister.  “Pain is an illusion” Ryan always likes to say.  I certainly had a lot of illusions during this time.  There’s nothing worse to feel so stiff and sore and then have to go train.    We would do drills for kicking and punching that would leave me gasping for air, only to find out I was one-third the way done.  Ryan would have me lift up my arms to take body shots from his roundhouse, which would feel like a baseball bat colliding with your rib cage.  Then I would turn and he would work on the abs some more.  To finish up the whole body, we would do shin blocks, which were very painful.  My friend who was training with me at the time ended up with a stress fracture.  (I attribute my tough shins to fourteen years of soccer)

Despite the “illusion” of pain, I was thoroughly enjoying myself.  I was learning grappling (wrestling), how to disarm weapons, how to break bones, various knockout strikes, and a limited use of some weapons.  My body was becoming a lean mean fighting machine, and pain didn’t seem to bother me as much.  Finally one day Ryan told me it was time to learn palm strikes and for my first break.  He told me to stop by the store for two cinderblocks, and to go pick up some marble slabs from a rock/tile place.

So I show up in my classic ninja Adidas pants (from soccer) and bring out about five slabs and the cinder blocks.  I went through my stretching routine, focusing on the arms/wrist area.  Ryan showed me the proper form for the break, how to drive my arm down and propel a great deal of force using my hips.  We set up the first “practice” break, a flimsy one-inch thick piece of sandstone.  I drove right through it easily, since it was so brittle. 

Next we set up a 1-inch slab of marble.  It was black, and was already hot from the Florida afternoon heat.  I could barely make out my reflection on its glossy surface.  I breathed in and out, focusing all my energy into one quick strike.  Finally, after I had felt I reach the proper timing and stance, I slammed my hand down onto the piece of marble, breaking it into two pieces.  Ryan congratulated me and asked me if I wanted to do another one.  Since I was pretty stoked from being able to use my bare hand to break a piece of marble, I agreed wholeheartedly. 

I broke a few more with my hand, noticing in between the tiny cuts that were bleeding on my hand.  It looked like someone had used a razor on the palms of my hands.  They stung from sweat dripping in them, but I was too amped up to let it bother me.  There was one more piece of material to break…a two-inch slab of granite.  It might have been marble, I will have to check with Ryan, but it was hard.  I tried to break it three times, and I couldn’t.  Ryan tried once, and on the second time he broke it.  It was a particularly long piece, so we used on of the other halves for me.  “Just kick it this time,” instructed Ryan. Breathing in and out, I slammed my foot down with all the force I could emit, and consequently broke the hard slab. 

My technique was perfect except for one crucial detail: one is suppose to move their foot out of the way so the granite doesn’t fall on their foot.  And it fell on mine.  The corner of one of the broken pieces fell right on top of my left foot.  I noticed a little blood, following by a lot of blood.  I quickly set my foot up on a bench, and examined the wound.  “Holy shit” I exclaimed, as I noticed the blood spurting out in quick bursts.  My fingers were bright red as were immediately covered with blood.  The slab corner had sliced open an artery on my foot.  Since blood was pouring everywhere, on the sand, on the grass, on the pieces of marble and granite, I took of my shirt and tightly tied it around the wound.  Ryan ran into the house to get an Ace bandage, and I quickly bandaged it up after pouring a little water through the wound.  I noticed the bandage becoming red, so I used some rubber bands to slow down the bleeding.  We called it a day, and I took my bloody foot home and showed it to my dad, who was pretty pissed and said we needed to go to the hospital.  I refused, and assured him I would take excellent care of the wound.  Which I did.

There is still a pink scar about an inch long on my foot to this very day.  Ryan told me I would get “battlescars” from training with him, but I didn’t take it too literal.  But I had felt like I had accomplished something.  Ryan signed the first slab, and dated it.  I take it with me where I live, and put it on the window sill or coffee table.  It has my signature, next to the date 7/29/02….”Blake’s first break.”   It was suppose to make a good conversation piece.  I just liked it because it might impress women.    

  "Soul Kiss on the Cheek" 

I came back home this summer.  For the past two years, I have noticed that for me, time slows down in the summer.  My thinking gets sharper, and I can reflect on the past with much greater clarity.  I keep more to myself than I am used to doing, and I’ve been writing a lot.  Some of the things I write are memories.  Some of the memories I want to forget, some of them make me smile.  A few of them I want to hold on to, like I’m grasping on to some little child’s doll during a hurricane of time.

   Some memories are not memories, but seasons of a life.  Whole timelines of changing moods, shifting friendships, unexpected becomings.  Then there is one or two that are quick, beautiful flashes in your life, that happen so fast that if you don’t remember to remember, they vanish. 

This is about one of those quick, transient memories.  What is interesting and amusing to me is how small, and insignificant it is.    But it’s special, because I am the only one who remembers it, so it is mine.  I doubt the person who is responsible for it even remembers, even if she read this.  I had totally forgotten it, through the scurrying away making plans.

It was that golden summer after senior year of high school.  We were all done with high school, most of us having survived our bouts with senioritis.  But we hadn’t left for college, so the groups and cliques still were preserved.  As for me, I was in that odd position on being on the edge of all the groups.  People knew me and I knew them, but I didn’t have one group of people I hung out with.  But I would make my appearances and cameos at the parties, since I had my reasons for doing so. 

  And there were still high school parties to go to.  On this occasion there was a surprise birthday party for one girl, party meaning kegs and some assorted liquor.  This was a afternoon party, rare for highschool kegger, but birthdays were an exception to the rule.  I remember fragments of that day; I think I brought over a watermelon for them to make Hunch Punch.  I remember doing my first beer bong there; which surprised a few people since I was new to the drinking world, having let go of my noble convictions of staying completely sober. 

But there is one thing that stands out from that day.  One person.  One kiss.  The girl who threw the party.  We knew each other from school and sports and the social realm.  I had a small crush on her; she had something about her that I found very attractive yet to this day I still can’t describe.  Something of beauty seemed to resonate from her.  I think she was fond of me, in that I was a strong-hearted guy, and a nice guy.  I guess she would describe me as “a good guy.”

I was sitting on a chair, quietly observing everyone.  I did that a lot at parties, occasionally chiming in some comment or helping with some “chant”.  She had gotten out of the pool, for a few of the people had gotten involved with pushing matches near the edge of the pool.  I remember catching her eyes as she walked up to me, and calmly wrung out her wet shirt over me, soaking me in the process.  What is funny about having a small crush or a big one in either case, is that how their presence makes you speechless.  I smiled at her, as I looked my wet clothes over.  The front portion of my shorts and shirt were drenched.   And she smiled back.  I like to think she was fond of me and my easy smile, how non-threatening and genuinely safe I was. 

Then she did something I didn’t expect.  She leaned over and smacked a kiss on my right cheek.  I still remember the wet sound of it.  It was quick; I don’t think anyone in the party even noticed it.  But it was sensual, at least to me.  It was a possession.    Her lips pressed softly against my skin, wet from the water and full of life.  She always had nice, full lips. 

  I don’t remember what I did after that—probably just grinned like a goddamn idiot—failing miserably at trying to play it cool.  She might have been a little friendly from the alcohol; you know how girls can get in kissy moods from drinking.  Being an optimist, I prefer to believe it was because she saw something good in me, something of value.  And it probably never would have worked between us; people are different.  Just because two people have good hearts doesn’t mean they are meant.  And that’s okay too.  But it is nice to think that a girl like her thought something of me.

I don’t know why I have thought so much about it.  It was such a small thing.  Think of how many pecks go by unrecorded.  I guess I remember it because it felt like her lips passed through my skin and kissed my soul.  It must just be the summer night—in these quiet, late nights when no one else in the world is awake but me. 

I think I owe her a kiss.  

"The Wedding"   * 2nd Place Winner of 2002 University of North Florida Annual Writing Contest

(Can you believe someone beat this?  haha)

I had always figured this day would come. However, I did not quite expect it to be so soon. I suppose this is the natural thing though, but I couldn’t help but feel weird inside. I put on my suit, which always brought compliments my way. Going down to the grandparents for Easter Sunday I would always find people telling me of how "handsome" I looked.  Only, today wasn't Easter; it was an idle Saturday in July.

I pensively walked through the arched doors. I have always been fond of churches, even though I wasn't as religious as my Baptist roots would have me be. Churches seemed safe to me, even though on this particular day my idea of sanctuary would be going back to my hotel room and watching some free HBO.  

 There were white flowers everywhere.  It almost made me unafraid.  Stained glass windows let in some sunlight into the room.  I glanced around and saw one of my favorite biblical pictures, Jesus sitting with some children.  The aisle was some pearlish fabric and shiny oak pews to the right and left.   They looked polished even, and so did the smiles that greeted me. I nodded and waved to familiar faces although I couldn’t help feeling weird to see some of them here. They didn’t expect me to be there.

I finally took my place. I knew I would feel uncomfortable doing this, but damn. I fell down on my own slippery thoughts and memories. How did I get here from there? Somehow I had ended up in this Church.  But I folded my hands together and tried to breathe all right. I could already feel the sweat welling up on my back and neck. I wished I knew all the people around me though; I couldn't see a true friend around.       

 The crowd suddenly rises and so do my spirits as I see her at the door.  She was clothed in such beauty. I'd rather tell the truth than be original: she looked like an angel. Her calm hands held more white flowers, which seemed to bloom in her presence—just like I had. She seemed nervous, but her smile shone throughout the church. I was immediately reminded of how much of a sucker I was for that smile. There was a time when I would have done anything for that. I openly sighed when I realized that I wouldn’t anymore. No one heard me, thankfully.

As she started to walk down the giant ribbon that lay between the pews, my eyes turned, somehow, to him. He was wearing a proper suit, something I might have liked to pick out. I never really disliked him, which improved my situation dramatically. However, I was envious of his situation.  People always told me things work out and to just be patient.  What always scared me was the uncertainty of the future.  I returned my gaze back to her. She walked with grace that fit her; I had never seen it before. She finally discovered me, and made my trip there worthwhile when she grinned wide to see me there.
        The smile I returned back is difficult to explain. I felt peace in my eyes and a little sadness in them. But I forced the smile, much like I had forced myself to be there that day. She finished her, and my, long walk. An awe-filled hush emanated over the crowd.   The priest began to talk, with his little book in his hand and white collar around his neck.

I carefully let out another hushed sigh. This was the last test for me. I had fought the good fight, but now could I shake the hand of my opponent? I looked up, trying to see God. I had stopped blaming him, and now my questions weren’t riddled with anger, just slight insecurity. With my eyes looking up, I eked a flat declaration, “Gonna need your help today.”

The “I do’s” and kisses weren’t as painful as I thought. I just accepted them.  The priest pronunciations were almost like a eulogy.  But then I saw her. She was so happy; I had never seen her so happy. Something washed over me, and I had tears in my eyes. I found myself applauding along with everyone else, I didn’t care if someone saw me crying and wondered. She was crying too, because she was so happy. They walked down, and the rest of us rose to applaud once more. The crowd began to trickle out of the doors towards the reception party, and I, being the one few knew, meandered to follow them.

I found myself sitting quietly at the reception. I wasn’t overly fond of weddings. They reminded me of demons I had thought were dead but just brooded in the darkness. I felt them shuffling about but I didn’t fear them—anymore. I pushed myself to get up and mingle. It wasn’t so bad, though. She had good family, and I respected them all. Her mom had always been so nice to me; she would definitely make a good in-law. I think she knew about me before I did, but it wasn’t the time to ask that now, or ever, I suppose. I chatted with people I hadn’t spoken with in years and told my plans when asked. Of course, salt was thrown in my proverbial wound in the form of the question, “So when are you going to tie the knot.” I shrugged and just gave them some of the old charm.

I saw her standing there, in front of him. I had met him a couple times, and he seemed a good guy. For the longest time the only fault I could find that made him unworthy of her, was that he wasn’t me. But, how could I love her and not wish her happiness? That was why I was there really, to prove to myself that I really knew how to love, that I had loved her and hadn’t wasted years- on nothing.  I guess this whole day was just the last rites of my devotion.

The day faded and I made my goodbyes. Finally I approached her. I guess our whole friendship was dying in a sense, because it flashed before my eyes. Now I struggled to say the wise last words, but had trouble. My words didn’t fail me but were overrun with my memories.  I did not know what to say.  Thankfully, she took care of it for me. She embraced me and grabbed the back of my head and pulled me in close to listen. She whispered in my ear, “Thank you.” We embraced for a long while, and, in a metaphor for our relationship, after I had held on for so long, I finally let go. My eyes went to him, and we shook hands firmly and friendly. “Take good care of her,” I said.

I got in my rental car and drove back to my hotel room. I was alone with my thoughts, and for the last time, again, I went over the whole thing. I suppose I could have been bitter, angry, or justified. I accepted the fact that she wasn’t the one. But, it would be interesting to know how close she was to it. What would the relationship barometer say about that? Was she ninety-five percent “the one”?

I was sad, but in a new way. Something inside me was dying, or leaving. That little boy inside, who was naïve, who couldn’t accept defeat or advice about moving on, was finally departing.  I imagined him saying farewell to me, and I wondered why it had taken so long to do this. I guess he had finally gotten the goodbye he wanted; now he could rest in peace. He had done a lot for me.  We both had crumpled on a driveway staring at the silent stars demanding why. We had found the kiss that I would measure all others against.  In a sense, he made me alive.  I think I am going to miss him more than her.

I pulled out my journal and turned to a blank page.  For years, I had been chronicling everything I had felt in regards to her.  There were descriptions of her face or a three-page summary of a kiss.  I had written down in all states of emotion, from teary-eyed depression to maniacal frenzy.     I sat there, on the floral-printed bed, wondering how to record what had happened. For what seemed to be a long time, I could think of nothing to write. Suddenly, it hit me, and I began to move the pen across the page.

“It’s really over.  I can think of nothing more to write about it.” 
        I looked up at the mirror. Slightly perplexed, I realized that the subject was now a little boring to me. I couldn’t help but laugh as I began to leaf through the hotel’s TV guide.

“Answering the Call”

 There’s Mom,

Dusting her days away.

In a clean house, with polished picture frames,

And old, put-up toys.

The carpet is missing dirty footprints,

And apologetic juice. 

Every day she goes to war,

Promptly at two o’clock. 

With a faceless enemy in an envelope,

Stamped with government glue,

Attached to a uniform.

So far it has not come to claim

What is rightfully hers. 

But today she hears gunfire,

Echoing in her proper sub-urban doorbell.

The noose around her stomach grows tight,

Like a bullet of rope. 

Fear is falling off her quick, unsteady breaths as she

Makes her way to the door and unwittingly ponders,

At how useless a goddamn flag is.

The house grows longer,

As she navigates pensively through a maze of pictures,

Birthday photos, team snapshots, and well-placed

Tassel boxes.      

The glint of a trophy catches the corner of her eye

When she passes by an open door.

Normally she would stop, turn, and enter,

And sit on a bed for hours.

But today, someone was at the door.

And she thinks:

Please let it be a Jehovah’s Witness,

Not for my salvation,

But for my salvation.

Or a Solicitor,  

Because I would pay all the money in the world,

For a product I couldn’t live without.    

“For Michelle”  *

Name was change to protect the innocent

            When I went to high school there was this girl named Michelle.  She had blue eyes, golden hair, and a cute face.  Quality girl as my coach would put it.  A little history on Michelle, from the little I do know.  Michelle’s dad split I think when she was younger, left or died or I don’t know.  Her mom would have been better of dead in my opinion, although I bet Michelle would violently disagree with me.  Her mom was addicted to drugs, hard stuff, and was in and out of jail.  Michelle would bounce from her mom’s house and aunt’s house.  Her aunt was successful and helped her out a lot, but still.  I heard towards the end of senior year Michelle was staying with some other girl.

            Michelle was one of those people I never thought really had a fair deal.  The guy she was dating was a dick, in that he didn’t appreciate her.  I guess at seventeen or eighteen you don’t really care that much.  I think they broke up around the end of senior year, but I can’t really remember.

            As for me, I knew of her and she likewise.  She was friends and teammates with my best friend at the time.  She was a smart girl, college bound, the whole deal.  She might have been able to play soccer in college too; she was on a two-time state winning team. 

 I always had a feeling that it was my place to step in, and help her.  She was a sweet girl who needed a hand, something positive in her life.  But I never did anything.  I think people would have mistook my desire to help her out as feelings for her, which wasn’t the case, which is ironic if you know me.  Oh, she was a cute girl and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t attracted to her.  However, this time I just wanted her to get some justice, some happiness.

A year after graduation I came back home.  Coming home always brings old communications together.  You find out whose doing what, whose pregnant, whose flunking out, the “new” news about the old gossip.  Her name was mentioned, which sparked my interest, for I had always wanted her to do well.  To my dismay that was not the case.  Apparently she had been involved with an unsavory fellow, to whom my friend had labeled “Ugly as Shit.”  That wasn’t the worst of it; she had gained some weight and had reportedly been using cocaine and perhaps other drugs.  

 That was a year ago.  I come back this summer, not sure of what has happened amidst my hometown.  I know little of its yearly comings and goings, since I had been away for the majority of the year.  Yet every so often my thoughts fall to Michelle; for I always wonder what she is doing, and hope she gets what she deserves.  It really doesn’t seem fair considering her past.   

This is an odd regret.  It is not the regret of guilt or cowardice; it is the regret of “watching” something dire unfold.  This wasn’t an immature regret—“I wish I had asked the girl to dance” regret.  It was a regret of substance.  I’m still not sure if I should, or could have done something.  I suppose no one would think it my place to “interfere” or be a hero.  But I’m afraid if we all thought that helping something was “interfering,” well, nothing good would ever get done.

I briefly wonder at why I wrote this; what was my purpose.  I am making justice for her.  Someone, even if it is me or the person who may read this, should know about her.  The idea of her.  They should know and remember that it wasn’t fair for her.  She deserved more.  Anyone who knows me would immediately accuse me of loving her.  But they would also know I would admit it if I did.  I will say this:  I care.   I care enough to think deeply on what I would say if I saw her again.  And I find the words:

 Michelle, everything in your life that isn’t right, that isn’t pure and that isn’t beautiful.  None of that is your fault.  You should be happy; you should be loved.  You should be placed on a pedestal where all the boys stare and wonder in awe.

“Ode to my blanket” 

Personal Essay

“Ode to My Blanket”

I never had an imaginary friend as a child.  Surprising, considering  I had an overactive imagination.  I would always get into trouble for telling the most outrageous stories.  My mother couldn’t be that mad though; she found the intricate tales I wove to be “adorable.”  I believe her favorite was when I told her the “preseedent” came in and said he needed cookies for “natchnill schurity”   

            I was a sensitive child.  I wasn’t shy mind you, but I cried very easily.  My father says it is because mom babied me too much.  Maybe he was right; I did take after my mom.  Loud noises used to frighten me, and I couldn’t handle people yelling.  My playmate Bobby had always told me that when parents yell it means that they are going to leave you in an orphanage because they hate you.  At the time I believed him.  Kids. 

             My father was not a poor father, but he wasn’t exactly the spokesman for the National Fatherhood Association.  He would come home drunk a lot in the years I remembered.  He would wake me up and ask me how “daddy’s little man was doing.”  Being a toddler at the time, I would run out of my room crying, to the security of my mother’s legs.  I didn’t understand.              

            One day my mother came to me and handed me a blanket.  She said I had used it when I was a baby.  It was a blanket woven by my grandmother who gave it to my mom.  My mom said that when I was learning to talk and wanted my blanket, I would always do something she said, “melted her heart.”  I would stretch my hands out, with my arms reaching, and cry out “sheety-sheet.”        

            She and my father had been acting differently.  She stayed home from work a lot more and he stopped coming home drunk.  There wasn’t any yelling.    One night she came in while I was sleeping and sat on my bed.  Quietly.  I always find it interesting how the presence of someone you love always wakes you up.  I woke up, and she ran her fingers through my hair.  She had always done that, strumming her smooth hands through my hair, which always put me back to sleep. 

            She sat there for some time and I didn’t know what she was feeling at time.  I still don’t know exactly what it was, maybe fear or sadness or gratefulness all mixed together like cake batter.  But I remember the words that shattered my snug little world.  “Mommy has to go away soon.  You won’t see me for a long, long time.”  But I will always be watching over you. 

            I wish I had reacted more, but I was almost asleep, drowning in that sea of safety.  She tucked in my security blanket she had recently given me and whispered in me here, “Don’t worry, while I’m gone your sheety-sheet will keep you safe.”  She laid next to me, and I soon fell asleep.  When I woke up, she was gone. 

            I was excited to see my grandfather and grandma at the door that day.  All sorts of people had come over, but everyone was really quiet.  Maybe everyone whispered because someone was taking a nap—but I wasn’t.  My grandfather, who smoked the great-smelling stuff and would bellow out laughs while we would watch cartoons together, put his hand on my shoulder.  He explained to me that God had come and said that Mommy could go to heaven.  When he said I wouldn’t be able to see mommy again, that made my little eyes cry and I ran into my room to get Sheety-Sheet.  Since no one could pry it away from my hands, I sat in my little suit and little red clip-on tie at the funeral, with a security blanket in my arms.  

            In the fall that followed my mother’s death, I started Kindergarten.  I really enjoyed school and liked my teacher, who reminded me of the big woman who cut my hair.  She had loud voice, but she was so gentle in dealing with us that we all felt comfortable.  Her hair really surprised me; it was really really big.    

            My home situation was rather bleak.  My father never spoke much, and when he did it was usually directed at the ceiling.  I asked,” who you talking to Daddy?  I don’t see anyone up there.”  He just patted me on the head and would reply, “Good question buddy.”  Good question.  He didn’t scare me as much after that, he rarely got angry.  I wasn’t sure how to talk to him though.  Sometimes he would sit at the dinner table with some bottle of something and just sit.  He never heard me the first few times and after that I just knew not to talk to him then.  Maybe it was a bottle of medicine and tasted bad, because as soon as he would take a sip he would spit it out and throw it in the trash.  I wish I got to do that when I was sick.              

            As for me, I would cling to my sheety-sheet still, but now it wasn’t just for protection.  I would play games with it, and it was the foundation of any fort I built.  It also granted me the power to fly, and if I suddenly found myself on the moon and needed a shelter, it would suffice nicely.  It was impenetrable and it kept monsters out—as long as I kept every part of me under it.  It got harder and harder to fit under it the more I grew.   

            When I was older and about to graduate high school, I had a nightmare.  I’m not sure what it was, but I was scared.  Some vague monster or apparition or something had been frightening me for the last few hours, one of those nightmares that lingered in the air of night.  I panted as I looked around my dark room, cold sweat on my face.  I sat at the edge of the bed for a few minutes, thinking my own private thoughts.  Finally I walked over to my closest, reach up on the white caged shelves, and grabbed an old blanket.  It was a blanket woven by my grandmother who gave it to my mom.  I recalled that I had a nickname for it, but couldn’t remember at the time.  I wrapped it around me, and settled into bed.  After that I didn’t remember trying to sleep.