Flash 397*

FINAL STORY: "Running Toward Myself" (397 words)

2011-07-10T20:26:00.000-07:00

Flash 397* ends where it begins: On the flip side of Story #1: Running From Myself.
___

I saw myself again today.

I'm getting sloppy.

That is what I need to believe.

It's working. A year ago, I was on the front end of this scenario. I remember how it felt, encountering myself walking the streets of my neighborhood.

Now here I am.

This is redundant, yes; I feel silly on this end of the game, but if I don't play, I won't exist, at least, not as me.

Today is my most important meeting with me. The previous two were just attention getters; this one will be the encounter that changes me, puts me on the path to gain the ability to what I do now.

It's important I get this right. Was I wearing the blue dress shirt or the red? It was the blue. I remember how it matched the cab company logo on the passenger door.

Shit. My hair was buzzed that day. I have time to trim, but only a few minutes. This is a small detail I could skip and risk maybe only a small flux in my memory, but let's not take that chance.

I can't allow myself to slip. I can't get sloppy.

Yes, it is today's meeting that puts that scare into me. How well it worked.

I shower; trim. I don the suit and blue dress shirt. There is no reason to dress so warmly today except for it is what I saw myself dressed as a year ago. The completion of the circle.

I leave my tiny apartment unlocked as I go, key sitting squarely in the middle of the air mattress I've been sleeping on the last month. I won't be returning. I'll be off to the next assignment.

Similarly, after my cat-and-mouse game with my younger self, he won't make it back to his apartment either.

I let three cabs pass me before flagging the one I am to take. We ride northeast to Addison and Southport. We almost miss the light, speeding through the yellow, but I see me coming, jogging weakly down the sidewalk.

The cab stops right on cue. I pretend I don't see me. I open the door and step out.

Eye contact. Recognition.

"Shit," I mutter, and bolt north, repressing my smile until all the other me can see is my back, and then it extends from ear to ear.

Because today, the real adventure begins.

Story #403: "Tommy & Hayley at the End of the World" (378 words)

2011-07-09T21:05:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I wrap up this 397 day project. I'll likely write the last story tomorrow on an Amtrak train headed towards Southern Illinois. I don't know exactly what is going to happen in it, but I've known the perspective the story will be from for some time now.

For today's story - writing it just under the wire - I couldn't imagine not going back to visit Tommy & Hayley one last time. They became staples early on, and the anchors of The Flash universe stories.

Tommy is an idealized version of myself. Any time I've written with a character named Tommy for as long as I've been writing, that character's been a stand-in for me, going back to a show I wrote and produced in college, "Tommy & Lisa's Romantic Comedy".

Hayley is a happy accident, the first story coming from a comment on a status update on Facebook, and she became Tommy's romantic interest and basically the best qualities of every girl I've had the fortune of dating. If that didn't come through in the writing, at least, that's what existed in my head.

So here we are. The last Tommy & Hayley story, and one more story from The Flash universe. (See above tab, or click Tommy or Hayley's name at the bottom of this post.)

This story is breaking the word count rules, using one I've already used before. You know what? Sue me.

And as always, thanks for reading.

___

"Oh, and honey?" Hayley shouts from the kitchen, breaking the silence, picking up the middle of a conversation we hadn't been having. "The world is going 'kaboom' tomorrow."

"So I hear," I deadpan, scratching Charlie II behind the ears as he lies lazily across my lap, the both of us watching a VHS tape of The Princess Bride. Anything to avoid the television news.

This is how we behave the day before the world ends: Treating it like any other.

At least we are trying.

"You talk to Mom and Dad?" she asks, meaning mine.

"Yes. Your Mom and Dad?" meaning hers.

"They know the rules for dinner tonight, yes?"

"Yep. Just another night."

In the years since The Flash, Hayley's family has moved to Oakdale, and we've been quite the happy sextet in this crazy world. Sorry, seven-tet, or whatever you'd call it. Can't forget Charlie II.

"Good," Hayley responds simply.

I am silent. Because I know if I start talking now, the floodgates will open. The same for her. I keep my eyes glued to the television. Wesley is lying still in bed, the princess is about to kill herself, and I contemplate that this will be the last time I ever hear the line, "There's a shortage of perfect breasts in the world; It would be a pity to damage yours."

For some reason, that's what does it, and I burst. Hayley does too. She comes from the kitchen, and we sit on the couch and cry together. Charlie II is annoyed.

After a few minutes, Hayley wipes her eyes and says, "We can't have this shit tonight."

"I know," I say. "But we will."

"I know," she whispers, her head coming to a rest on my chest. "God dammit."

"Tonight is going to be okay," I lie. "Tomorrow too."

So does she. "I know."

Tonight will begin with all of us trying to pretend everything is normal, per Hayley’s wishes. But then it will turn into an episode like this, just with more players. Charlie II will even join us in the mourning, in his own loyal way.

And I'll take a moment to step outside of this picture and look at all of us and think, "You know what? This really is okay."

Story #402: "Supposed" (336 words)

2011-07-08T05:35:00.000-07:00

A search through my archived e-mails for something else entirely, a journal entry I wrote over a year ago detailing a horrible date I had just been on that I sent to a friend because I thought she would get a kick out of it, and I stumble onto our last string of e-mails. This was almost three years ago, two years after we split. The content of the letters was mundane, just catching up on each other's family. It struck me how cordial we were - I remember more how bitter and petty we had become at the end - but also how hollow the messages were, devoid of the familiarity two people who had been together over six years should have. We had become strangers, which is ironic because we never had been strangers before, not really. That was the beauty of the start of us: We were friends from the beginning, cracking bad jokes and punching the other's arms just minutes after meeting at that crappy little diner on the edge of campus.

Our first kiss, just a few hours later after that crappy movie, had all the excitement and passion a first kiss is supposed to have, but still had all the comfort and ease of the hundredth.

I knew we were going to get married that night. I was sure of it.

Such is life.

Sometimes I wonder: If we had actually gone through with a ceremony, and not just "shacked up" as your grandma always insisted on calling it, would we have gotten through the rough patch? Or would that have just made it worse? I'm guessing the latter, and I'm smart enough to not wish for the former.

Well, at least most of the time.

This was not supposed to be my evening. I was supposed to be having a good laugh over a night I thought was bad as it was happening, but now is just funny.

And now here I am, writing a letter I’ll never send.

Story #401: "Applebee's" (337 words)

2011-07-07T04:44:00.000-07:00

Applebee's appetizers are half priced from three to seven pm, and nine to close. There are drink specials too; that's where they really want your money, but - joke's on them - I don't take alcohol anymore. I’m just here for the nachos and quesadillas and the self-pitying nostalgia.

I once sat in this very booth some ten years ago, and looked around, and thought to myself, "This is the life." It was easy to think that: I was about to walk across a stage and get a piece of paper saying I had a degree, as if that really meant something. The entire world was in front of me. It was easy to drive around this college town like a hot shot, that summer before I took off to conquer the world. I was taking my victory lap.

I loved this place because I knew I was going to leave and never see it again, my memories never to be tarnished by the reality of this place changing, or at least, my perspective of it.

Now I'm back, because this is where the work is, and I am just masochistic enough to come here, to this kitschy, Middle American haven of mediocrity, with the faux-vintage celebrity photos, street signs, and license plates, noshing on fare just a step above frozen microwave dinners. I am out of place among these kids because even in such a short decade, I have not aged well. I feel their stares, "Who is this geezer?” I know the stares are mostly imagined, but I feel them no less.

What am I doing here? Am I trying to send them some warning? "Look out, kids. This is what is in store for you, graduating from this crappy little state college."

Perhaps. Or maybe I'm trying to recapture some of that energy I had ten years ago, before it was drained out of me.

I'll ponder this a while. My nachos and quesadillas have just been delivered, and the server is refilling my diet soda.

Story #400: "Love and Desperation" (327 words)

2011-07-06T20:02:00.000-07:00

He got off on the absolute rejection he felt as he drove away from her house that night. He registered this feeling as he drove down the country road lit only by his high beams and the full moon, the syndicated "Love and Desperation" call-in request show playing on the country station.

There was an exhilarating joy in his humiliation. It wasn't the first time he experienced such exquisite pain. It was the norm whenever she was concerned.

She was particularly brutal this evening. After an intense night of passion forty-eight hours previous, she practically sneered at him when he walked into her party a couple of hours ago, ignoring him completely, unless it was to catch his eye to make sure he saw her flirting with one fellow or the other. She looked at every other man in her home with an affectionate gaze he once thought was reserved just for him.

The tears that trickled down his cheeks felt warm and vital. The hollow pain he felt in his thumping chest made him giddy. Every so often, he realized he was forgetting to breathe, and then he would gasp in new air greedily.

He noticed that there were stretches of road he couldn't remember passing. He was tipping in and out of awareness; to counter, he began swerving back and forth across the cracked and damaged asphalt.

He wasn’t buckled in before, but now he reached for the strap and secured it over his person, it just occurring to him that if he had the nerve to do it, an accident – not a major one, just enough to put him in the hospital a couple of days – would be the perfect way to get her attention.

And he guessed the physical pain would heighten all the other sensations he was feeling.

He saw the telephone poll fast approaching at the upcoming T intersection. His laughter and tears grew more and more as he got closer.

Story #399: "My First Girlfriend's Father" (338 words)

2011-07-05T09:32:00.000-07:00

He was my first girlfriend's father, and one a boyfriend, not to mention a daughter, should never have to reckon with.

He had spent so many years in the bottle, he was drunk even when he was sober.

He would come home from the bar shit-faced. His loud stumbling up the porch steps made it easy to stop making out, get our clothes adjusted just in time to be pretend we were only watching television. But he would still call her stupid and a slut and ask her when she was going to get knocked up and make her cook him dinner.

I asked her if she wanted me to stand up to him, and she begged me not to, saying it would just make it worse. I asked her over and over if she was sure. I'll be honest: I was relieved when she always said 'yes'.

He hocked her stuff for booze: CDs, VHS tapes, a nice watch she had gotten for her birthday, her stereo, and my parents would loan me money so we could go to the pawn shop and buy them back.

After we broke up, I would still see him out at Wal-Mart when I was working there. My ex or her sister would often be pushing him around in one of the store wheelchairs. He was in such a constant daze at that point, I am not sure he even recognized me.

He died a few years later, after I had moved away. Heart attack. My mom told me later, he lived across the street from the town's hospital then, and my ex's little sister was there when it happened, and ran across the street to get a wheelchair, but they refused her one, saying she would have to call an ambulance, which had to come from across town. By the time they picked him up and drove him across the street, he was gone.

I did not hear about this until weeks after, and I neglected to send my condolences.

Story #398: "Nancy at Noah's 4th of July Barbeque" (336 words)

2011-07-04T09:01:00.000-07:00

"Bruce???"

The voice was high-pitched and full of delight. And female. Not the raspy, deep voice of my best friend, Noah.

"Oh, my God, I haven't talked to you in forever! How are you?"

This was Nancy, who lived one contact higher in my phone.

"Nancy! I am great,” I covered. “How are you? What are you up to today?"

That second question just slipped out, me realizing as I uttered it she might construe as an invitation.

"I have absolutely no plans today! What do you have in mind?"

Damn it. I knew what that really meant was, "I did have plans today, but I'll ditch them for you!"

"Oh, not much. Just going to hit a barbeque my friend Noah is having. Remember Noah?"

My mouth was betraying my brain.

"Of course, I remember him!"

I was now holding the phone a foot from my ear; Nancy shouts everything.

"I'd love to come along! Can you pick me up?"

Noah was going to throttle me. He didn't hold Nancy in a high regard, to put it nicely. I wasn't a big fan either. Yet here we were.

"Umm...yeah. Sure? Or you live just a few blocks away, right? You want to meet there?"

As if not arriving together would absolve me from responsibility for her presence.

"Come by and get me! I'd feel awkward showing up by myself, you know?" Then she laughed that nails on a chalkboard laugh I remembered all too well.

"Ooooohhhh. Sure! I'd love to!"

I was yelling now.

"Let's say in about an hour?"

"How about a couple? I definitely need some time to get ready."

Of course, she did. She had made me perpetually late for everything that long two months the year before.

"Okay, then. Around two then?"

"Yes! Two! See you then! I'm so excited!"

She hung up.

And all I had wanted to do was ask Noah if he needed me to bring ice or anything extra. He was going to kill me for this.

Story #397: "Out of Town Clowns" (344 words)

2011-07-03T11:34:00.000-07:00

Programming note: Today is not the last story of this project. The deal was to write for 397 consecutive days, and a few of those days, I wrote more than one story. The last day of the exercise will be July 10. I haven't written more than one story in a day in a while, so most likely the last story will be story #404.

Unless I start feeling froggy.

Today's story is inspired by something that actually happened to a new co-worker of mine.

____

I get home a little after 2:30 in the morning, and I trip over two pairs of clown shoes.

Honest to fucking God clown shoes.

In the living room, all the lamps and the overhead are on, but that makes the clowns passed out on the couch and the recliner no less creepy.

Makeup, costumes, the whole bit. The place smells of cigarette smoke and beer, and there's a half spent Marlboro resting atop an open PBR can.

The one on the couch - he puts me in mind of Cookie from The Bozo Show - is snoring louder than an elephant's trumpet. The other one - some sort of weird penguin/clown hybrid - is so still and quiet, I have to look to make sure he's breathing. While I'm confirming this, I see he barely has arms, just two hands sticking out from his shoulders.

The penguin wakes.

Now's a good time to mention I work in a faux-German ale house where I'm required to dress in a sexy wench uniform. Beer wenches, they call us.

Penguin's eyes go wide, as if I'm the interloper, and he says in a voice straight off of sucking on a helium balloon, "Where have you been all my life?"

"I've just been waiting for the right moment, Burgess," I deadpan.

"Wah, wah, wah," he deadpans back.

"I assume you’re friends of Ken's."

"Yeah, we're crashing this weekend. Didn't he tell you?"

"He did not."

"Ah, we're out of town clowns.”

"Didn't realize the circus was in town."

"Maybe it is," Burgess says. "But we're here for the Improv Festival."

"Of course you are."

"'Out of Town Clowns.' We opened at The Playground tonight."

"Of course you did."

He eyes me up and down.

"Don't suppose you're into costume play with deformed comedians."

"You make a move towards me, I'll hack your flippers off."

"Fair enough, wench," he says. His head flops back, and he's promptly back to sleep.

I go to my room, change into my pajamas, boot up my computer, and start apartment hunting on Craig’s List.

Story #396: "The Scare" (343 words)

2011-07-02T16:56:00.000-07:00

The long day had finally caught up with me. I was tired, walking out of the Belmont station. My cell rang.

A somewhat crowded sidewalk, waiting for a #77 to take me the last mile home, and my tired mood: I decided to not take my older brother, Reggie's call, which I assumed was to give me an update. Something irregular had shown itself (I really don't want to think too hard about the details) during a recent prostate exam, and his doctor wanted to have some blood work done. That was a few days ago, and Reggie said he would keep me posted.

A minute later, a voicemail.

"Hey, little bro," it said, "just wanted to give you an update on the test results. Give me a call, but wait till around 5:30 or so, would you? I'm about to go for a walk."

Shit.

I listened to the message again, and there was definitely some sadness in his voice. He was going to go for a walk? Reggie never goes for walks.

By the time I got home, it was five. I set my alarm for 5:30, curled up on the couch for a quick nap, braced myself for the phone call on the other end of it.

My alarm didn't go off at 5:30. I woke up at 5:52, in the middle of a dream where the family was already dealing with Reggie's sickness. I woke up stressed, sad, and in a fog.

I called Reggie.

"Hey, little bro,” he said, “the doctor didn't find anything, but he still wants to have another doctor take a look, get another opinion."

That’s just Reggie, and I wanted to yell at him for getting me worried, but he probably didn't even realize what he had done. So instead, I just paced in the kitchen and let him update me about the rest of the goings on in Oakdale.

I'm not sure if it's the sleep fog or the scare, but two hours later, I'm still moping around the apartment depressed as hell.

Story #395: "Television Viewing" (361 words)

2011-07-01T05:55:00.000-07:00

He walks the last few feet up the sidewalk, his keys jingling, and the front door opens.

The security system sounds. He stops, annoyed. "Goddammit," he mutters, dropping his briefcase by his feet. He deactivates the alarm with his four-digit code.

His tie is already completely unknotted and hanging around his neck.

It is the tie she gave him on his birthday, right in front of me, just a few months ago. I wonder if he noticed or remembered that when he put it on in a rush this morning.

He looks at his hands as if they're missing something - aside from one certain silver band - then walks out, leaving the door ajar. He returns a few moments later, flipping through mail.

One of the items is a card in a pink envelope. He brings it to the top of the pile and regards it. "Oh, Sandra, what passive-aggressive swipe do you have to make me feel like complete shit?"

He walks in the kitchen, plops the card and the rest on the island, retrieves a glass and pours himself water. He replaces the pitcher in the fridge, drinks most of what he has poured in one continuous gulp, refills his glass. He grabs the card at the top of the stack, comes into the living room, sits on the couch.

He rips open the envelope and settles in to read the card. He kicks his feet up on the coffee table.

Slowly, very slowly, his face starts to bunch up. He weeps, silently at first, but then it builds - to nothing of great volume, but it is the only sound in a house that has become much emptier this past month.

He angrily tries to fling the card away from him, but its lightness and lack of aerodynamic qualities only let it fly a foot or so before gliding lazily to the floor. He sees this, sighs, and throws his hands up in a small gesture of defeat.

He wipes his tears, sips his water. After a few more moments, he picks up the remote and turns me on.

This is where he mostly stays for the duration of the day.

Story #394: "LIfe is Your Creation" (345 words)

2011-06-30T20:07:00.000-07:00

Last week, my friend Alan Hawkins tried to start a contest of Facebook to give me an opening line for a story. It didn't take off, but I appreciated the effort and his support. So here's the opening line he submitted, and I ran with it.

This is a weird story. I blame it on also currently rehearsing for a Mammals show.

___

People never wonder if I have a tattoo of a screaming eagle riding a rocket under my shirt.

I do.

People never glance at me and consider if I have a dimple in my left ass cheek.

Affirmative.

People never see me inspecting produce at the supermarket and wonder if I keep the remains of the likes of you in a freezer in my basement.

As they oft said on that old TV show, "You bet your sweet bippy."

This is where you come in, my unfortunate lady.

I know this won't make you feel any better - please, stop sniffling - but it's not personal, really. One of those wrong place, wrong time kind of things. I mean you were just lying by the trash, discarded by society. You may have been someone's favorite for a few brief moments in time, but you have no place anymore. I'm doing society a favor, and likewise, you're doing me one deliciously exquisite.

No, no. Let me slide your purple halter top back on your shoulder. I'm not interested in that. That won't save you, I'm afraid. I am wounded you would think that of me.

Here is the game plan, doll:

First, I will sheer off your perfect blonde hair. I will place it in my keepsake box along with my other golden locks.

Second, I will then slowly, deliberately undress you. Again, be assured, this is not sexual in the slightest. I just simply need your clothing removed for step three:

Your dismemberment.

One by one, I will pop off each appendage. Each limb will go into its own plastic bag, each placed in its own section of the freezer.

I will then lop off your perfectly shaped breasts and discard them. They are useless.

Your torso, I will melt, and your head will be painted like the rest, and placed on my bedside table.

Shall we begin?

I have sheered your hair.

Now for your clothes.

What's that, my dear?

Yes, it's only fair I suppose. You can view my screaming eagle tattoo as I end you.

Story #393: "Cookie Wednesday" (346 words)

2011-06-29T12:57:00.000-07:00

Every Wednesday when Rodney came into the office, there was a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie sitting on his desk. Freshly baked as in the chocolate was still gooey. The cookie was baked not even the night before, but just that morning; the last thing its maker did right before driving to Underwriter's Safety & Claims was bake. And one cookie was always just for Rodney, the lead claims adjuster. He asked around; no one else got this treatment.

He first suspected his assistant, Ele, and asked her, but she assured him she was the type capable of burning a perfectly good pot of water; the cookies that were left for Rodney were always delicious. He enlisted Ele's help in catching the perpetrator, but the cookie was always already there, even when she came in twenty minutes, a half hour early. (Rodney soon asked her to stop this, however, because whoever was leaving the cookie was obviously countering her by getting to work earlier, which meant it was cooled and less gooey by the time Rodney got it.)

Then after about a year - exactly fifty-six weeks; Rodney counted on his desk calendar - there wasn't a cookie on his desk one Wednesday. Nor the Wednesday after that, or the one after that. The company had two hundred employees; Rodney looked into it, and no one had left recently.

The cookies just stopped coming.

One Wednesday, Ele brought in one from the Kroger's deli, kind of as a gesture of sympathy, and Rodney appreciated it, but it wasn't the same.

A couple of months later, not able to let it go, he sent out a department wide e-mail, then one company wide, saying how much he had enjoyed whoever had brought him the cookies, apologizing if he had done anything to offend their baker, and asked for whoever it was to come forward.

No one ever did, and he never found out who it was. He tells this tale on occasion, and people agree: It's an intriguing story that's also somewhat disappointing in its lack of resolve.

Story #392: "A Little Randy Travis" (318 words)

2011-06-28T08:58:00.000-07:00

For Sean, bourbon and Randy Travis went hand in hand. Both are keeping him company this late Friday night, in his neglected apartment, the one he has barely stepped a foot in for weeks.

The break up was bad, the worst he had ever had. The relationship lasted only two months, and by the end, was filled with more angry shouts than loving whispers. Their final showdown was epic. As he sipped his Maker's, he traced his finger along the edge of the bandage on his temple, the result of a painfully accurate hurl of her television remote. The woman was passionate. That's what drew him to her.

She had picked him up at his regular haunt: "Look," she said, "I'm a blunt, honest woman, and I don't believe in putting off happiness and excitement. You're intriguing as hell and I want to get to know you better. Wanna get of here?"

No one, including his two ex-wives, had ever called him 'intriguing'. So he was more than happy to get the hell out of there. The love they made that first night, and the nights that followed, was like nothing he had ever experienced.

He was spending the night at her place every night within the week. She became upset whenever he wanted to spend time away. Almost jealous, even - of what, he didn't know. It got to the point he was catching grief for going home to check the mail, get a change of clothes.

The woman was passionate. In the end, that sent him fleeing from her, but not before she got in some good final shots. His first to-do item tomorrow would be to get a new windshield, and have the dent in his hood fixed. The woman had a hell of a throw.

But for now, he'll listen to a little Randy. Better Class of Losers seems perfectly appropriate right now.

Story #391: "A Beautiful Relationship Near Its End" (298 words)

2011-06-27T21:08:00.000-07:00

"Honey, I'm home."

"Dear, you look so tired."

"You bet I am. Ten hour day."

"Oh. Well, I'm sure you won't be in the mood then."

"In fact, I am not. But here I am."

"Wow. I am so turned on right now."

"Hey! I'm here for the three hundred and somethingth day in a row. What more do you want from me?"

"More than your scraps. All you give me anymore is your last bit of energy at the end of the day."

"Baby, don't be that way. We had some good days last week. And a couple before that."

"Oh, sure. A couple. A handful. But you used to be so excited about us. You used to rush to me practically every morning when you woke up.”

"We've been together a long time now. Sometimes passion wanes. (I mean, that’s a theme that runs through you, if you haven’t noticed.)"

"Only a year!"

"Yes, but that's a long time, considering."

"Considering what?"

"This relationship has a pre-defined end: 397 days. We're almost there."

"So you're just not that into me anymore? You’re the one who committed to this, the one who created me. And now you don’t love me anymore?"

"Of course, I love you. I’m just saying sometimes people grow, change. I’ve gotten a new job since this all began. Certain relationships have changed. I’ve worked on other projects. I’ve evolved. But I've been here almost 390 days, and you have my word I’ll be here a few more."

"And then?"

"And then you'll evolve...into sometime else."

"You know what I wish?"

"What, dear?"

"I wish you showed me the same excitement and attention you did at the start of the relationship."

"I will, dear. I promise. Tomorrow..."

"You say that every day."

“I know.”

Story #390: "Interloper" (348 words)

2011-06-26T15:57:00.000-07:00

About twenty seconds after he got there, he knew he didn't really want to be at the party.

The people were friendly enough. The host greeted him at the door, took his coat, introduced him in a grand gesture to everybody, and everybody said hello.

But still, he felt awkward. Like an interloper. Like a fish out of the cliché body of water.

Yet still, when he had gotten the last minute invite, his response had been an enthusiastic 'yes', his shower quick, as well as his drive across town.

But then he walked in, and his confidence seeped out of him quickly, like air out of a punctured tire. If he was lucky, he might last a half hour before having to find a reason to make a quick exit. He would then drive home, shaming himself for daring to think he could be anything other than what he had been his entire life. Maybe then, being alone in his own home, in his own thoughts wouldn't seem like such a bad thing on a Sunday afternoon.

The host escorted him into the kitchen where the snacks were laid out on the table with the plates and the napkins, and oh yeah, there’s plenty of beer left from the last party – so sorry you couldn’t make that one – please help yourself.

The kitchen was hot and musty and people were chatting merrily and he couldn’t understand that because he felt like he was being suffocated, as if a pillow was being held over his face.

As the host poured him a glass of water, he fled down the hall into bathroom. He had the awareness to lock the door. He frantically splashed cold water on his face, then found himself sinking to the floor, finding comfort in the feel of the cool bathroom tile against his palms, his cheek.

Hyperventilation didn’t seem so close now.

In a couple of minutes, the host would come knocking on the door, making sure he was okay. Then the anxiety would start again. He enjoyed the calm while it was there.

Story #389: "Saturday at Work" (295 words)

2011-06-25T12:39:00.001-07:00

Navy blue ball cap with a ponytail sticking out, black tank top and shorts, green apron. She's behind a sample table, offering passersby small cups of a cereal called "Love Crunch". A store employee passes by and they flirt a bit.

Three Chicago actors walk by, two in a pair, one alone. The pair is shopping; the loner works here.

Tank tops and short sleeves walk by my booth on the way to express checkout; a lot of flesh, a lot of unique tattoos. One twenty-something, he has a waterfall, the top of it obscured by his tee, running down his tricep.

A plump woman walks by in a purple shirt, black hair, and for a moment I think it is a former co-worker, one who was quite unpleasant. Luckily, I am mistaken.

An employee named Dottie, according to her name tag, stops to chat a bit. The store looks bustling to me, but she says it's a slow day. She guesses it must be the weather; it's been so cold and dreary the last couple of days, and today is so nice. People must be outside, she says. The weather: It's something Dottie and I chat a lot about.

Dottie is right, though. Today is slow, at least for me, the massage therapist.

L, a regular, walks up, confirms I'm open, and say she's going to run to the restroom and be right back.

After the massage, L asks me how business is, one of her conversational go-tos. I say it's slow today, and she also guesses it's the nice weather. There could be something to this theory.

I settle back in my folding chair and wait for the next client. I'm pulling a double, and have a few hours left to go.

Story #388: "Image" (364 words)

2011-06-24T17:30:00.000-07:00

Ten years for Colin to ascend to his dream job, then exactly eighty-eight days to lose it.

It’s not his fault, truly. His boss’s major snafu, and his position is the one required to be thrown under the bus. He knows it the second he sees the news break on national television. No one has to sit him down and explain the politics of how an issue such as this plays out. It is his job to know the politics.

He sinks into his chair in the office he had just gotten use to striding into early every morning, and leaving in the best state of tired late every night, his head cradled in his hands. He chokes back tears, aware that his office door is still open, with staff walking by doing everything in their power to not peer in. They understand.

His wife will not.

He will have to explain to her how this thing that had nothing to do with him destroyed the career his entire life had been leading towards. He will then have to admit that he knew something like this was possible all along.

His marriage will be destroyed. She will leave him. Not for financial reasons, but because he is a failure. He knows that she knows this is not the case, but it is what her parents will think, and to them, image is everything. If he is a failure, then their daughter is a failure, and this they would not abide.

They would drag her out of their soon-to-be-foreclosed-upon two million dollar home kicking and screaming if need be, that is, if they thought they could without being seen. Because, the image of such a thing, you know?

Colin’s senses return slightly, and he realizes he is taking all of his thoughts to the extreme. His job is gone; of that there is no doubt. But perhaps his image, his marriage, his life might have something to salvage.

He rises and quietly shuts his office door. His hand hovers over the telephone.

He has to call and tell her before it is announced on television.

But he’ll wait just a few more seconds…

Story #387: "Pudding" (324 words)

2011-06-23T05:30:00.000-07:00

Her face was the kind I never forgot - lonely, tired, and covered in pudding. Least I hope it was pudding.

Lonely and tired. Familiar themes in these dreams of mine these days. I abhor this: I'd rather have nightmares of monsters chasing me through the night than dream of the everyday mundane. In a dreamscape, the last thing one should ever be is lonely and tired.

Pudding. Yes, this is my dream, so it is most definitely pudding. The smell of it is delicious, homemade, unlike the plastic-tasting gelatin I fingered from the bottom of a Jell-O cup some hours ago.

I kiss and lick her face hungrily, the sweetness overwhelming my taste buds. I laugh gleefully, and so does she, the sandpaper of my tongue tickling her. She licks my mouth in return, as if to steal the pudding back. This will all be over in a few minutes - which may be just a microsecond or two in the limbic region of my deteriorating brain - so I take in all the sensation I can, desperate to retain its memory once I wake.

Soon enough, all the pudding is gone, and I can see her face. She is this former love from my life, then another, then another, a cavalcade of old heartbreak crossing before my eyes. For the thankfully briefest moment, there is my mom.

Then finally it settles on her – her at her most beautiful - the greatest regret, the greatest person lost from my life.

We collapse together in tears. We collapse in each other’s arms, in a heap of trash.

I wake up in a dumpster in Des Moines, weeping. I'm still gripping the Jell-O cup, my serving finger now crusty.

I wipe my eyes with the cleaner hand, pull myself out, and move on before I am discovered.

I limp down the road and make the decision, as I do every sunrise, to not end it all today. Maybe tomorrow.

Story #386: "Keith Tincreek's Next Single" (365 words)

2011-06-22T07:19:00.000-07:00

Marty Selgrad, over on Facebook, gave me this suggestion: "This is the story of a guitar, a runaway bride, and a thousand dollars...not necessarily in that order..."

I used that, and two lines suggested by Elizabeth Bagby and Alan Hawkins.

___

"I like my martinis dirty, like I like..." the runaway bride didn't have the heart to finish the joke, realizing Keith Tincreek had probably, over the years, heard all the variations on the hook from his best-known song. This was in the honky tonk where she had spent many a night in her formative years. It was where she met the man she just jilted at the altar, about an hour ago, and where she retreated to now. Her quip was out of place here anyway, in an establishment that trucked in only cold beer and whiskey.

Keith sat on a rickety bar stool tuning his guitar for the show later that night, a far cry from the arenas he used to play.

"What's your name, sweetheart?" he asked her, easygoing, as if she wasn't wearing a wedding dress in a place that had cigarette butts ground into the rotting gray carpet beneath her slippers.

"Just call me Julia Roberts," she said, indicating her gown. When Keith stared blankly at her she continued, "You know, like the movie...?"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. That's clever. Who's the lucky guy?"

"Just a mistake." She shrugged dramatically, arms dropping to her side, hands slapping her thighs for emphasis.

"Glad you figured it out before it was too late," he said, withholding the last two words, "for him."

"My father's going to kill me," she said. "I mean, this dress alone cost, like, $1,000. Not to mention the rest of the wedding."

Keith took a sip of his drink, a famous green logo on the paper cup, and said, "No one ever really enjoys Starbucks coffee, least of all me. But in a world that is slowly dying in the grip of corporate, diarrhea-filled fluff, the caffeine is what you really go for." It was Julia's turn to stare blankly at him.

"What?" he drawled. "I thought we were getting to know each other.”

“You’re mocking me,” she pouted.

“You make yourself very mock able.”

“You’re writing a song about me in your head right now, aren’t you?”

“Honey, if you’re not a country song unfolding in front of my very eyes, I don’t know what you are.”

Story #385: "Rhinestone Replacement" (326 words)

2011-06-21T15:23:00.000-07:00

The first line was contributed by Leah Roberts on Facebook. I took this as an opportunity to tell the third and final part of a story that began early on in this project with Story #10: Remarried; Then another point of view in Story #227: Need Who Now.

___

She realized she had just punched him with all her cheap rings on - rhinestones were embedded in his cheek.

Then she realized she had managed to cut up her own fingers with her jewelry as well. She processed this for only a second, then took advantage of Josh's stunned state of being, reared back and punched him again, same fist, her knuckles tearing more on the stones left in his cheeks and the cheap metal still around her fingers.

It was worth it.

The rhinestones were now jarred free from his face and laying in the driveway next to him, now dumbly sitting on his ass. She looks at them and a flash of memory hits her, and she realizes the girl on the steps of the funeral home had rhinestone rings too.

The girl that looked just like her. The sight of standing across from her apparent doppelganger shocked her into dumb silence, and an idiotic look back over her shoulder as Josh quickly escorted her away. Her only consolation was the woman gave her the same dumb look in return. That she was able to contain herself until he pulled into the trailer park was nothing short of a miracle.

And that anger inflamed once more, and Josh paid for it with a toe of a high-heeled shoe driven into his face.

"You goddamn son of a bitch! What was I? A motherfucking replacement?!?" she screamed more curse words in one sentence then she had uttered in the past year. "Go back to her, you fucking sicko!"

She tore what was left from her rings from her fingers, small bits of flesh clinging to them, hurled them at his bleeding face. Then she removed her shoes - "were we even wearing the same shoes?" - flung them in the vicinity of his crotch.

Then Sally walked off down the road, not really sure where she planned to go. Maybe she could go stay with a friend.

Story #384: "Peach Casserole" (374 words)

2011-06-20T06:07:00.000-07:00

We had been sitting at the fellowship dinner in the church basement for over an hour, and my sister's peach casserole still hadn't been moved from the kitchen out to the dessert table.

I had not noticed this, but she had. She sat rocking back and forth slightly in what way she did when she was angry, her anxious eyes fixated on the folding table across the room where our fellow Southern Baptists were helping themselves to other assortments of brownies, cakes and such.

I was ten years old when this happened, about the time I began to notice the disparity between my sister and I and most everybody else in our congregation. First Baptist Church was made up mostly of more middle class, better off folk, and Sis and I were less so. We lived on the other side of town, literally the other side of the railroad tracks that ran through our small community, in an old, dilapidated trailer; the church van picked us up every Sunday morning.

We didn't dress as nice as others; we were the outcasts in our respective youth groups. The table we sat at during the fellowship was largely unoccupied by anyone other than us.

My sister's peach casserole never made it to the dessert table. But Sis would never be one to go inquire.

We stopped in the kitchen on the way out. In the refrigerator, sitting by itself, was the casserole. The glass dish was old with a couple chips out of it. A couple of burnt chunks could be seen through the sides.

We stood there, my sister holding the dish in her hands, fluorescent light reflecting from the tinfoil cover up onto the confused, hurt look in her eyes.

Mrs. North, one of the fellowship committee organizers, walked into this scene, and did her best to cover. "Oh, my! We must have forgotten to put that out. I am so sorry about that!"

We both knew the part we were supposed to play. "It's okay. I understand," my sister said. "We'll just enjoy it at home."

She at least got the words right if she was in no way convincing otherwise. And Mrs. North certainly wasn't going to call out her bad performance.

Story #383: "A Story Where Nothing Happens" (358 words)

2011-06-19T13:39:00.000-07:00

Nothing is going to happen in this story.

It is an anti-story; the Seinfeld of flash fiction stories if you will.

I am in no mood to write today. The weather is too nice, I've been invited to a barbeque by a friend I haven't seen in years, and frankly, I'm a bit in my head and don't trust myself to write something today that doesn't have too personal bleed over from my real life, which I have been more than guilty of in the past, but I don't feel like it in this particular instance. Is that okay?

Right before I woke up this morning, I had a dream that wasn't a nightmare, but a number of frustrating, minute things occurred within it, and I woke up stressed out. It occurred to me upon waking that I'd rather have a dream where I'm running from a scary monster (in most dreams, the monster is Lou Ferrigno's incredible hulk, a remnant of my childhood) than a dream where I'm dealing with day-to-day dilemmas. Because what is the use of dreaming if not escapism of the most natural order?

But then, Heather, an ex-girlfriend who I accidentally punched square in the face one night dreaming I was confronting a burglar in our apartment, might have a different opinion on the matter. She was okay, by the way. The left side of her face was puffy for just a day or two. We didn't have to explain anything to anyone.

This morning, I ran four and a half miles slightly hung over from last night. What hurt more was less the alcohol and more the chicken quesadilla I ate right before going to bed.

By the way, Blogger doesn't recognize 'barbeque' and 'quesadilla' as correctly spelled words, red squiggly lines appearing underneath them. Does it have a grudge against all the food I like?

'Pizza with anchovies'.

Not entirely I guess.

Laundry is done, and I’m about to fold it while waiting to hear back from my friend about the details of the barbeque. (There’s that red squiggly again.)

Here I go. Nothing to see here, dear readers.

Story #382: "382" (293 words)

2011-06-18T09:18:00.000-07:00

382

The prefix of my home phone number growing up in the small town of Carmi, Illinois. The majority of prefixes in the town of about 4,500 are 382, and then the rest are 384.

The phone number I grew up with - 382-5xx7 - is still in the family. When my dad died, and mom moved from the trailer into a house a few blocks away, the number went with her. Then when mom died, and my oldest sister moved into the house, the number, of course, stayed.

That number is etched in my memory. It's in the hardwiring. If I woke up an amnesiac lying in a field one day, those seven digits would be the first to return.

I don't care to dial it. I avoid it unless absolutely necessary, preferring to call my sister's cell. When I do have to dial the number, a part of me still expects mom or dad to answer, or at least be somewhere in the background of the call, as if pushing those seven numbers in the right sequence would have the power to reach back through time.

How silly is that? Not as silly as this: A couple weeks after dad died, this was back in 2002, I called the number from my dorm room. I knew mom wouldn't answer; she was staying with my sister. I prayed that dad would. I prayed a lot more back then, and I thought that not thinking God could fix this was limited thinking: What is the concept of Time to the universe's creator? Couldn't he simply reach back ('back' being our limited view as humans) and undo what had happened?

I felt stupid immediately after. I still do a little. For that, and still being reluctant to call the number.

Story #381: "One Week/One Summer" (313 words)

2011-06-17T06:18:00.000-07:00

They did it so much to Stunt that summer of '98 , to this day, whenever One Week stumbles across his music player, he gets sexually aroused before his mind can even consciously register why.

Those endless nights at summer camp: Drinking beer with the other counselors after the kids had been put to bed. By the end of June, the duo was sneaking (but not really sneaking; they weren’t fooling anyone and they knew it) back to her cabin pretty much every night, and radio reception in that part of the woods was spotty, and that CD just seemed to work for them.

By the end of It's All Been Done, they were bare naked in her bunk bed, and they were well into their groove by the opening riff of Alcohol. She'd reach over, hit 'Skip' on Call and Answer and In the Car, the former being too damn depressing and the latter being a bit too spot on the situation at hand, something they never openly acknowledged. They were squeezing an entire span of a relationship into two and a half short months. For this reason, they also passed over I Told You So and the lyrics:

I had myself fooled into needing you/
Did I fool you too?

Who Needs Sleep? was apropos since they hardly got none that summer; they were usually finished by the end of Some Fantastic, and they drifted off to sleep to the slow strains of When You Dream.

He regrets he can't remember her last name. This is not a guilt thing; it's a now he can't find her online thing. She's probably married now anyway.

But it’s probably best that he leave Liz back there in woods of western Kentucky, where his time with her belongs. So many people ruin their past, he thinks, by trying to bring it to the future.

Story #380: "The Kiss Behind the Theater with Beverly" (380 words)

2011-06-16T07:55:00.000-07:00

The mistake with Beverly wasn't the kiss in the alley behind the theater that night. The kiss itself was fine. Just what we both needed: Two friends having a rough go of things - her show wasn't going well, and me, I had completely fallen off the grid for two days with not a lick of memory of where I had been (but more on that later) - sharing a supportive hug, that on the pull away turned into innocent pecks on cheeks, and then spontaneously into a full-blown kiss.

No, that wasn't the mistake. The act itself was a thoroughly enjoyable encounter with someone I had somewhat relegated to "little sister" status. It was filled with all kinds of unspoken affection that had grown between us over the years.

The mistake came after when Beverly and I, both of us people who can't quite let anything go, stayed in the alley over analyzing what just occurred, unable to accept it for what it was. I was seeing someone, and a love from Beverly's past was moving to Chicago in a few days, and they had decided to give it another go when he arrived.

I reasoned out loud that the girl I was dating was a very casual thing, so I didn't really owe an explanation or apology, and Beverly misconstrued that as me saying her thing wasn't serious and that whatever just happened between us was, and I reassured her that wasn't what I was thinking at all. Truth is, at that point, yes, I did find myself suddenly interested in Beverly, one of those "why wasn't I seeing the thing in front of me?" moments, but she had gone on and on about her returning beau, and I didn't want to get into the middle of that for several reasons, not the least of which was my larger priority of piecing together my last forty-eight amnesiatic hours.

I don't remember much else about that night; my memory is a constant source of frustration these days. But I remember the kiss. And I remember sitting there with Beverly after, listening to our increasingly absurd conversation, wishing that once our lips had finally parted I had had the sense to disappear back into the night.

Because that kiss, it was really something.

Story #379: "Mom's Theory of One-Night Stands Followed by Cracked Peppercorn Ranch and Carrot Sticks" (313 words)

2011-06-15T19:36:00.000-07:00

My mom always said any one-night stand that comes out on the other end spending Sunday watching an Adam Sandler marathon naked together, eating carrot sticks dipped in cracked peppercorn ranch (because that's all there was in the fridge), that may not be the start of a relationship that lasts forever, but it certainly is the start of one that will have a lot of stories.

Okay. My mom never said that. She passed long before I was the age to be having inappropriate one-night stands (you know, as opposed to the appropriate ones), but remembering some of the candid conversations with my older brother about safe sex and proper condom usage (with cucumber demonstration even) and all that, I can imagine her doing so. (She said to him once: "You get a girl pregnant, son, and I'll cut your dingdong off before her father has a chance.")

I miss mom.

Yes, I'm aware it's weird I'm thinking that with Helen sitting right next to me on the couch, dipping her snack into the plate of ranch I may or may not have strategically placed right over my junk.

Helen, coincidentally, looks much like Helen from The Andy Griffith Show, but ten years younger. Of course, I haven't seen the show since I was a kid, so my memory may be skewed, and Helen may be exactly Helen's age now.

Who cares? Both are hot.

It's the part of Happy Gilmore now where Happy and the girl are skating in the rink, and the zamboni driver is emphatically lip syncing Endless Love, but Helen and I are belting it loudly, passionately, and love is too strong a word to use for us yet, but I definitely have some warm fuzzies going.

Warm fuzzies? My mom would hear that and call me a pussy.

But I bet you dollars to donuts she'd love Helen.

Story #378: "Canaries in a Coal Mine" (348 words)

2011-06-14T15:30:00.000-07:00

I'm sort of cheating today.

Sort of.

I've been tasked with writing a monologue for my character for my next show with The Mammals, "Put My Finger in Your Mouth". (Come see the show; there really is no better title for it.)

This is my first pass at it, modified to fit the word count needed.

And hey, it is story. So I'm not cheating too bad.

As always, thanks for reading.

___

I remember my head was resting on his chest.

We had been lovers for weeks. This was before, obviously. When he could still be touched the way I still long to touch him.

He was drifting off to sleep. He was exhausted. We both were. He was a force of nature when we made love. Like the world was coming to an end, and he was trying to drain every last morsel of life out of one last encounter. Every one I've shared an interlude with since has him to thank.

My apologies; I digress.

I was laying there, my head on his chest, listening, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat. Then his entire body trembled, you know, the way a body does when it's falling into complete slumber.

But then, as if continuing a conversation, maybe in his own mind, he said, "Yes, that is right. Artists' greatest gift to the world is their willingness to be utterly destroyed. Their gift, the price they pay, is their hypersensitivity to every little thing. They're like canaries sent into a poisoned coal mine. Those poor little canaries: When you seem them keel over and die that means they're sensing danger the rest of this careless world just can't see yet.

Then he said, "The world needs more canaries. Will you help me find them? Will you help me create new canaries?"

My answer was to sob uncontrollably. I cried like a child does, unashamed. I had no idea why then, but now, I think deep down I knew this would be our last time together. He reached up and stroked my hair the way he knew always comforted me. He kept whispering over and over, "I need you, Matthew. I need you."

That's all I had needed to hear my entire life.

I nodded, my beard rubbing against his chest, "I will. I will."

He kept stroking my hair until he drifted away. I followed soon enough.

When I woke the next morning, he was gone.

It was just a few hours later, he became what he is now.

___

The canary in a coal mine analogy as pertaining to artists was actually something Kurt Vonnegut - who I have read a lot of in the last few months - said in an interview with Chicago Tribune Magazine in 1969.

I'm not sure I believe it, but it's an interesting way of thinking.

Story #377: "Friend Request" (367 words)

2011-06-13T12:32:00.000-07:00

If Mark was honest with himself - these days, that was a rarer and rarer act - he considered sending Bethany a friend request, his cursor hovering over the "Add as Friend" button, just so he could say passive-aggressively, "See who you dumped two weeks into college. And look who you're married to now. I'm ten times hotter than that guy."

On the surface, that was true: Mark was by all traditional standards more physically attractive than her rotund partner with his goofy smile, a small goatee sitting squarely amidst his double chins.

Double Chin, however, probably wasn't sitting at his computer right now in underwear that he hasn't bothered to change in three days, with a pee stain up front because he never mastered how to shake well after. Double Chin probably wasn't turning his keyboard keys orange from typing right after finishing off a half bag of Cheetos as dessert following his Taco Bell gordita, which he wouldn't have had as much time to eat as Mark, seeing as how he was probably employed.

Of course, none of these unpleasant details are on display on his profile. His wall is filled with pithy comments, and all his photos are from the most desirable angles, with him in his best clothes, and from several months ago, before he gained those fifteen pounds.

The beauty of the situation is Bethany lives two hundred miles away, and, granted she accepts his request, will never travel to his city and see him as he really is, and will only know the version he presents online.

So he clicks, and confirms, and waits.

___

Bethany lets his request sit unanswered at first, but only not to seem too eager. She's seen his profile before through mutual friends and thought about adding him, but was shy.

Two days later, after she's put her kid to sleep, and her husband has gone to bed, she confirms Mark's request, and flips through his tabs, his photos, his life. She thinks about how differently her life might have turned out, and wonders if Mark ever still makes it down to her part of the state, the beginning of her fantasy affair with a man who doesn't exist.

Story #376: "Slipping" (353 words)

2011-06-12T19:54:00.000-07:00

"And can you believe it? It's been twenty years since Michael Jordan and The Bulls won their first championship," says the sports anchor on the kitchen television as Toph pours himself another glass of water, still trying to catch his breath.

"Yes, twenty years," Toph, Most Valuable Player of his own high school basketball team, class of '91, replies, taking it personally. "Thanks for reminding me how old I fucking am."

He pivots on his left leg to replace the water pitcher in the fridge, and his knee almost buckles. The pitcher slips from his fingers and falls to the tile floor, sending the filtered top flying loose, water splashing on his worn running shoes, around his ankles, all the way up to the bottom hem of his gym shorts.

Toph stares at the mess plaintively, sees the large, jagged crack in the plastic.

"Goddammit," he says, barely above a whisper, defeated. He wants to kick it across the room, but is afraid doing so would put him on his ass.

And bending over now to clean it up seems like too much also, so he just lets it be, and drinks from his glass, taking in the liquid in big greedy gulps.

When the glass is empty, he considers the broken pitcher in front of him again, holds out the glass in front of him very deliberately by his fingertips, and slowly unbends them until their hold slips, and gravity does the rest.

Less than a second later, glass shards fly up onto his shins, creating a few tiny cuts.

“Babe, you okay?” his wife asks, seemingly appearing in the doorway out of nowhere.

“Well, that was certainly stupid,” he says, as if that answers everything crystal clear. His eyes meet hers. “I had a difficult run,” he explains. He brushes past her out of the room, then slowly up the stairs to shower.

She cleans up the mess, and begins to cry. She thinks how and when to gently tell him all he had done was change into his workout gear, and then walked into the kitchen, never leaving the house.

Story #375: "Calvin's Tale" (292 words)

2011-06-11T14:23:00.001-07:00

Calvin loved to say, "I do things I never done before, just so I say I done them. That's the only job I care about in life."

And he followed through on those words with rabid ferocity.

Most folk build comfortable lives and enjoy casual hobbies; Calvin lived the life of a vagabond, and continually gave himself over to the wonder of a brand new experience. As a youngster, when most kids his age were collecting coins or baseball cards, he was collecting stories and scars. Forty years later, he had almost nothing to his name save for a passport, a box full of keepsakes, and a collection of dear friends who put a roof over his head when he needed one. And, oh, the stories he had to tell. More often than not, he drank free in the pubs in exchange for him entertaining all who cared to hear his unbelievable tales.

Whether his incredible charm and quick wit was the cause or the effect of the countless adventures in his life was often debated among the awe-filled locals.

He wasn't a good-looking man by any stretch of the imagination, but he never had a problem with the ladies. He was a total gentleman, though; those were stories that he would never tell.

Most of the town folk loved him, and those who didn't were just jealous of his audacity. Or perhaps he had seduced their women.

In fact, it was one such man that ended his life: Cal had taken twenty-seven bullets on his life; the twenty-eighth killed him.

It may not be surprising to hear the village was unforgiving of the shooter, no matter the circumstances. They reasoned Calvin's tales were of more value than a common man's pride.

Story #374: "Smile" (369 words)

2011-06-10T15:22:00.000-07:00

He watches in the mirror as his tongue moves along the front of his upper teeth, his sense memory expecting the feel, the taste of brackets and hooks, archwires and bands, but now there is only slimy, smooth enamel.

His tongue glides from tooth to tooth almost seamlessly, and he compares this to the tortured memory of it darting and falling between the grotesque, misshapen forms where so many of his insecurities had lived for much of his life.

He gives his tongue a rest, and now moves his upper lip up and down, back and forth, almost as if offering it an apology. "See? No more sores and cuts? Doesn't that feel better?"

He smiles, big and open, and turns his head back and forth, eyes locked forward as he tries to see all the angles.

He takes his phone from his pocket, smiles big, and goes ahead and snaps a shot for his new Profile Pic. (Within five minutes, he will have seven comments and twelve "likes".)

There is a rap on the door. "Cliff, is everything okay?"

He gives himself one last smile. "Yes," he calls. "Everything is perfect. I'll be out in a moment."

The orthodontist’s aide is waiting a few feet from the restroom when he steps out. She is wearing "Dora the Explorer" scrubs, and is at least twenty years her junior.

Her name is Willow. She is a single mom. She has been there for his entire two years of visits. Six months ago, he decided as a reward for himself at the end of his treatment, he would ask her on a date, and after she has prepared his final goodie bag, he asks simply, "Would you like to grab a bite sometime?"

She blushes. "I'm really flattered, Cliff, but I can't."

He smiles confidently despite the rejection. He is almost relieved that this scene is following the script he had anticipated. But then:

"You know what? Yes, I would," she now says, hushed. "We're not supposed to - Doctor Benton's rule - but, whatever. Yes, please. I would."

Now it’s Cliff’s turn to blush, and as he does, he feels his open smile reach to the far ends of the bright, new world.

Story #373: "Kasey's Change" (386 words)

2011-06-09T14:41:00.001-07:00

Certain chemicals flooded Kasey Bryant's brain, putting him in the best mood of his life on this rainy day.

He bounced down the sidewalk with his head held high, arms swaying confidently. If he could whistle, he would have whistled Otis Redding's "Dock of the Bay", but since he couldn't, he just sang it openly.

He was out of place in contrast to everyone else cowering under umbrellas. They let him know by giving looks of curiosity and disdain.

Kasey felt more than happy. He felt enlightened. He felt as if he saw the world in a more joyous and optimistic way than ever before.

So as he approached the drug store, his destination, he reached in his pocket and scooped up the spare change he had to give to the black man standing outside the sliding doors. This is not something he typically did.

"Here you go. God bless," he said, holding out two quarters, a dime, two nickels, and three pennies, and a Chinese fortune that struck him as clever the night before.

The man did not hold out his hand to accept. "What's that?" he asked.

Kasey's high was instantly rattled. "It's, you know . . .," he stammered. "It’s change.”

"Did I ask for change?"

"No. I just . . ." Kasey trailed off. His euphoric hormones were gone now, just like that, and he could see clearly: Nothing about this man's dress or demeanor indicated he desired anything from passersby. He had assumed based on one trait.

"I'm waiting for someone, asshole," said the black man, with a calm voice and a smile that betrayed his harsh words. He took a drag from his cigarette. "I probably earn more than you." He based this on Kasey's clothes. "You keep your fuckin' change."

Kasey realized his fist still hung mid-air. He lowered it.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Just walk away," the man replied with something worse than anger in his voice; pity.

Kasey obeyed.

He picked up his prescription, trudged home. He tossed the small paper bag on the kitchen counter. He emptied his pockets. He stared at the change. He re-read the fortune. He didn't find it clever anymore.

Different chemicals flooded his brain now, kept pouring and pouring in. He wept. He felt this might be the saddest day of his life.

Story #372: "Dallas" (311 words)

2011-06-08T14:33:00.000-07:00

The humid, ninety-degree air should be stifling, but Dallas feels like she can breathe for the first time in years.

Her Chevy Malibu's only air conditioning is the rolled-down windows. Her left arm hangs out the driver's side, and she can feel the sun baking into her skin; just the right kind of pain. With any luck, the sun will fill in that conspicuous pale ring on one certain finger.

The radio dial's switched 'off'. She doesn't need music, aware right now she's living the best kind of country song: The one where the girl who's been held back for years finally has enough of her poor excuse of a man and leaves him in the dust.

She imagines Alan Jackson singing this song, mournfully.

Physically, she's driving to Tulsa to stay with her sister for a few weeks; Spiritually, she is lost, and in this, she takes exquisite pleasure. Ripped of most of her identity, she feels like she can be anyone now.

"I can be anyone now," she whispers, not even able to hear herself over the sound of the highway.

She has to reach up and wipe the tears starting to cloud her vision.

She knows she's high on adrenaline, and later she will crash and second guess her decision and think about turning around. So she stocks up on this rush, stores it away so she can remind herself later how good it can feel to be free when freedom doesn't look like such a good option.

“Just imagine how miserable you’ll feel if you wake up one more morning in bed next to that jackass,” she tells herself, this time yelling loud enough to overcome the wind.

And having made herself scared of the impending crash, she starts to feel the crash.

So she turns on the radio to a country station, and guns the accelerator.

Story #371: "No More Honesty in the Story" (362 words)

2011-06-07T20:39:00.000-07:00

The storyteller makes his living dwelling in the past, or as close of an approximation of it that is marketable.

Meddling too much in the memory of a moment past has the same side effects as time travel: Events get twisted and altered, in sometimes big, sometimes subtle ways, till eventually, they no longer resemble what originally happened.

It's a sad truth that the truest history is a history seldom remembered.

There is no more honesty in his story. It is full of half-truths, exaggerations, and fabrications, carefully molded to fit what is needed.

He's simply selling a product that somehow came in high demand: Tales of his past, manipulated to make him the bumbling but charming, awkward but heroic star.

He feels guilty for propagating lie after lie, he does, but once the crowds started cheering and the paychecks started pouring in, so many years ago, it was hard to stop.

Now he’s done it so long, he knows nothing else.

He wakes up every morning in a cold sweat, his mind racing trying to sort out who he really is and who he pretends to be. Sometimes, he flips through his own best-selling memoirs on the shelf in his study, re-learning the narrative he has put out there in the world.

He wishes he had never started down this road; Wishes he had chosen an honest living like his dad had so many times begged him, had offered him in the family business.

But instead, he moved away, and turned his dad into a buffoon of a character, the man who would have had in him stay in Podunk and take over the Chevrolet dealership.

He resented his dad for never speaking of his semi-fictional alter ego. Not for the lack of validation, but because he saw his dad’s silence for what it is really was: Pity. Regret.

This medicine show was the only way his son could keep a roof over his head, and somehow, he had failed him as a dad.

The storyteller thinks this is true.

Perhaps.

Or maybe it’s another self-pitying creation he is forming in support of a new tale.

He can’t tell anymore.

Story #370: "Waiting" (284 words)

2011-06-06T21:08:00.000-07:00

Monica was two paragraphs into her grandma's letter before she realized it was written and sent before her grandpa suddenly passed.

She got that same horrible feeling in her gut she did that day a month ago when her dad called her during dinner and the weight of his words sank in.

Her first reaction then was denial, and the same now; her face bunched trying to stave off the tears she knew would come. She grabbed the envelope off the kitchen table. The letter was postmarked three days before his stroke.

Then she got angry: How does a letter get lost in the mail for a month, from a city two hours away? She wondered incredulously.

Then she got even angrier, catching herself in her thoughts. She was objectively noting all the emotions she was going through.

This was the occupational job hazard of being a grief counselor.

She wished she could shut off her knowledge, her multiple Master's degrees. She had no problem helping others - it was what gave her the most joy in life - but when she tried to apply all she knew to her own feelings of loss, it just put her so far in her head, she felt paralyzed; like she was putting on a macabre performance for an audience of psychologists.

She pushed back the tears. She concentrated on holding a blank expression on her face, betraying no feelings. She sat at the table, and read the letter.

Then she read it again, and again, rocking back and forth just slightly. She waited for her imagined audience to get tired of the show and leave.

She waited and waited.

She waited into the late hours of the night.

Story #369: "The Old Pontiac" (349 words)

2011-06-05T20:49:00.000-07:00

Not a "Flash" story, but felt like revisiting Tommy, and Hailey and Eli.

___

"Jesus, dude. Where did you find this?" Eli asked.

"I was driving back in through Enfield,” Tommy said, “and saw it sitting out by The Dream Shop - you remember the Dream Shop, right? - and saw the 'For Sale' sign on it. Just on a hunch, I turned around, and sure enough. The dent in the back passenger door. Then once I peered inside? No mistaking it.”

"And you bought it right there on the spot?"

"We're sitting in it, aren't we? I'm surprised the damn thing still runs."

"You didn't have to do that."

"I know,” said Tommy. “But for only $400? The look on your face is priceless right now. You're like a little kid."

"Jesus, we were kids when we rode around in this thing."

"You know how young we were then? Hootie and the Blowfish was still big."

"Oh, Jesus. I think I bought their CD." Eli thought for a second. “No! It was on cassette!”

"Shit,” Tommy said, contemplative. “Cassettes. We’re old.”

“That we are, my friend.”

They sat in silence for a few moments. Eli debated whether to ask, not wanting to ruin the fun, then decided if he was, then this was the time. “So you and Hailey? Is this permanent?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t.”

“She called you?”

“Nope?”

“You called her?”

“Nope.”

“Does she even know you’re here?”

“Probably. I mean, she still hasn’t deleted me from Facebook, so…”

Eli let out a long and deep laugh. Tommy couldn’t help but join him.

“Well, it’s official, bro. There’s still hope yet,” Eli said.

“Maybe,” Tommy replied. Then he let himself say, “I hope.” His sinuses hurt from keeping the tears at bay.

Another silence. Their minds drifted; Tommy’s on his future, and Eli’s to his past, specifically, that night he lost his virginity to Jennifer in the back seat of this very Pontiac.

“This was a really nice gift, man,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“Stop thanking me, okay? Just next year do something a little fucking more than writing on my Facebook wall, yeah?”

“You got it, bro.”

Story #368: "Glass Half Full" (209 words)

2011-06-04T16:09:00.000-07:00

Ariel laid his eggs benedict in front of him on the counter, and then said, "Ethan, don't want to butt into your business, but...", then she darted her eyes over to the corner booth.

Ethan turned and looked, and there she sat. Across from her was a guy. Their body language and cloths made it obvious: This was "morning after great sex" breakfast.

"Son of a bitch," Ethan muttered.

"Didn’t you guys break up, like, a week ago?" Ariel asked.

"You served us or break-up brunch," Ethan responded, willing himself to turn his attention to his food.

"That was awkward as hell," Ariel said.

"Wasn’t my idea."

"I know. She does that, and then she thinks she gets this place in the split?"

“Balls, huh?” said Ethan.

"You introduced her to this place. This has always been your place," Ariel said, getting angry.

"Four or so years now.”

“What are you going to do?” Ariel asked.

“What can I do?” Ethan shrugged, lifting a fork full of eggs to his mouth. “She knows exactly what she’s doing. At least she still regards me enough to be a bitch to me, huh?”

“You’re always a “glass half full” kind of guy, you know that?” Ariel said.

“I try,” Ethan said.

Story #367: "Orange Cheese Powder" (299 words)

2011-06-03T14:30:00.000-07:00

Fifteen minutes after Monica dumped him, walked out of his life forever, Jonathan stood in his small studio kitchenette, sucking the orange cheese powder from his fingers, the last remnants of the entire bag of Doritos he had grief-eaten in that same amount of time.

He never had a chance. When he buzzed her up, she shot past his greeting at the door, dodging his customary hello kiss. She said what she had to say only barely making eye contact. She wasn't her normally calm self. She rushed through her well-rehearsed words, stumbling over phrases, sometimes having to stop and start sentences over. She was a novice speech student just trying to get it over with before passages slipped from her memory, or before the nerve left her.

Jonathan didn't understand half of what she said. He kind of felt this coming, so once he understood the gist, once he understood the hammer was finally dropping, he just honed in on her frantic gestures, the way she paced back and forth; her determination that this was over. He let his mind drift to first time they kissed, right in this very room.

He never spoke a word, and when she was almost finished, she slowed down and ended with, "I'm sorry. I love you. I do. I just can't anymore." Her collected demeanor returned, she slowly moved toward him, touched his cheek, kissed it gingerly, and then she was back out the door.

Jon didn't go after her, and he didn't shed a tear. He walked straight to a cupboard, and pulled out the bag of chips. And once those were finished, he moved on to the package of thin-sliced ham he had gotten at the grocery that morning. He forgot to buy bread. But that didn't stop him.

Story #366: "Fourteen Hours Away" (340 words)

2011-06-02T21:22:00.001-07:00

The ticket is not an impulse buy; it is his escape from the burning inferno.

He leaves his office with only a suit on his back and the contents of his wallet, which is all he needs to take a taxi to Union Station, then get on an Amtrak train headed out of the city. His credit card can get him fourteen hours away. No return trip. He will address that concern later. Maybe days, maybe weeks.

As the train slowly picks up speed, the skyline growing smaller behind him, he feels as if he emerging from a dark, hateful sea that was drowning him. His chest heaves, hungrily breathing in all the air that he can. Tears well up in the bottom of his eyes, escape down his cheeks. His face crunches up like a child's does; He sobs. He holds himself. He rocks front and back in his seat, on this sparsely filled midday train.

One moment he is relieved and happy. The next he is sad. Every few moments, a wave of horrible fear grips him, squeezes its dark fingers all over his body, then releases him.

This is the first hour.

By the seventh, he is settled into pensive contemplation about his fate. He can never return to his job, and without his career, he's not sure what the city has left for him. Maybe the world.

He wears a $2,000 suit, but he feels barer than he ever has in his life. He doesn’t know if he’s lost, or if he’s found.

This thought goes through his mind as he peers out the window at the world blurring past him: "Is it scarier to have no idea who you are, or to know with a shadow of a doubt?”

By the fourteenth, he has his answer. He departs the train, the terminal, the station. As he steps out on to the street, he takes his wallet from his back pocket, and hurls it blindly out into traffic. He doesn’t glance to see where it lands.

Story #365: "One Year Later" (312 words)

2011-06-01T21:06:00.000-07:00

"You hope I won't take this too hard? Take this, you motherfucker!"

It was exactly one year later, almost to the minute, when Tammy hurled the same wine glass in anger that she had sipped out of the night just shortly before she and Hank made love for the first time. This was not intentional on her part; she was throwing every glass, plate, bowl, everything she could get her hands on at him.

Give this credit to Hank: While he did put up his arms to shield his head and bent down to protect his middle, he stood there and took the barrage of dishware flying in his direction.

"Tammy, let's talk about this!" Dodge. "Please!" Duck. "Calm down!" Leap.

What part of him that was not being spent doing this bizarre dance of self-preservation was used on the realization he was spitting out all the cliche phrases of the cheating boyfriend.

Or more accurately, ex-boyfriend; he had just broken up with her, confessing his love for a woman ten years her junior. (And twenty, his.)

"I will not calm down, you limp-dicked pederast!"

Hey, this is getting personal, he thought, immediately shocked by his own gallows humor in the moment.

Ready for this to be done already, goddammit, he stood up straight, dropped his arms at his side, and said very loudly and authoritatively, "Tammy, stop it right now!"

Which she did. For one brief second. Then she hurled the still sealed can of Folgers, connecting squarely with his head above his right eye.

He was out before he hit the ground.

Tammy observed Hank's limp body lying on the cold tile floor. She breathed deep, collected herself. Then she walked across the kitchen, grabbed the makeshift weapon that silenced her former love, and opened it. She made a pot of coffee, and considered what to do next.

Story #364: "Stop 9/11" (320 words)

2011-05-31T07:46:00.000-07:00

The next to last dream the man from New York ever had: He was to star in a movie about a guy who time travels to 1998, and once there, realizes he has a chance to prevent 9/11, but since this was a dream and dreams being what they are, he was going to try to stop the attack by creating an oil painting on canvas, put it on display in a gallery, and this would be his warning to the world.

When he woke in the middle of the night, this is all he remembered. That, and the tag line from the film poster: "If you could stop 9/11 from happening - would you?" He fumbled for his cell in the dark and jotted something in the Note function so he would remember it in the morning, atop a list of other mundane reminders about groceries and how much he spent on coffee and the like. He went to the bathroom and peed, then went back to sleep.

The last dream this man ever had: He was in a spaceship that was plummeting from space to earth. At re-entry, the shuttle and everything in it burned away, except for him. He fell out of the sky, through the clouds, faster and faster to the ocean speeding up towards him. When his body hit the water, his heart stopped. This is interesting: It was not the dream that killed him; his brain just sensed the impending cardiovascular failure, and this was the spectacular send off his subconscious gave himself.

His family went through his belongings after he was found. The coroner determined that he had passed his sleep, and gave an approximate time of death. So you might imagine the family always speculated what his last note meant, which was simply: "Stop 9/11".

And wanting to make it more than what it was, not a one of them ever guessed correctly.

Story #363: "Weeds" (354 words)

2011-05-30T20:49:00.000-07:00

Martin knew he should be concerned about the weeds overcoming his dad’s modest granite tombstone, but he simply didn’t care. He resented the yearly visit to his gravesite, something that his mother and her other son insisted on. Martin was thankful, though, that Ray cared, and that he had wordlessly begun clearing the unwanted grass with his calloused hands.

Lucinda Niehaus looked at Martin with a weary look that may have been her disappointment that he wasn’t helping his brother, or maybe it was just brought on by the unusual heat of this May afternoon that already had them working up a good sweat.

Ray finished pulling the weeds, and then hung a new wreath on the small, metal stand they had placed in the ground a couple years back; Last year’s wreath was gone, likely blown away, or maybe removed by a groundskeeper after the weather wore it down.

They regarded Mason Niehaus’s tidied and decorated gravesite.

“It looks very nice. Thank you, Ray,” Mrs. Niehaus said flatly, more reciting from a script than expressing sincere appreciation. She continued with something she said gave a variation on every year, but no one ever followed through with it. “We should do a better job of visiting the old man this year. We should come to visit more than once a year. Help me remember, Martin.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, having no intention of following through on that promise; just saying the words he was supposed to say.

Their short play finished, they now stood in silence. Ray wandered a few steps to look at some other of the other surrounding graves, even stopping to pull a few weeds here and there.

Martin wanted nothing more than to leave soon, go home, crank up the A/C, take a nap.

Lucinda wanted very much the same, but had a duty to her husband, and so did her sons, she believed, and they stood there for another ten minutes or so, with very little said between them.

And then with a resolute, “Well,” she turned and walked back to the car, and her sons knew to follow.

Story #362: "Pulling the Trigger" (347 words)

2011-05-29T15:30:00.000-07:00

She kissed him when she walked into the coffee shop, and she knew. She could taste it. He hadn't even tried to mask it with chewing gum this time.

She pulled away from him, angry, and then the look in his eyes pushed her over the edge into fury. His look clearly said, "Yeah, I know you know. What are you going to do about it?"

Tears filled her eyes, and that shocked him; she was a very cool and collected woman. In their two years, there were the fair share of arguments, but he had never seen her cry.

He had kept his breath uncovered for a reason. He wanted to push the issue and have this fight tonight. But now her heart-stopping look made him regret his decision.

He started to speak, but she put a firm hand on his chest. "Not here," she said, then turned, walked out on the street. He knew to follow her, which he did, about five steps behind her the entire three blocks back to his apartment.

He let them in.

They had it out.

After it was done, she collected her belongings throughout his place into a small paper grocery bag with such quick efficiency, he knew she must have mentally prepared for this moment long before.

It was then he realized the full truth of the situation: They both just wanted out. But neither of them had been brave enough to just pull the trigger.

This was the episode they needed so they could walk away from each other angry. This was what they needed to make their downfall easier.

So he jacked his role of "asshole soon-to-be-ex boyfriend" up a few notches, driving her to gather he things even faster. He scared himself, how easy he was able to do this.

As she descended the stairs of his building, he yelled a few last words and slammed the door behind her.

He was able to stay angry at her a few more hours. Then it hit him, and then it was his time to cry too.

Story #361: "Pathetic Soul" (222 words)

2011-05-28T18:16:00.000-07:00

You are quite the pathetic soul: A hypochondriac with no health insurance.

You would thank God for internet and WebMD, but you misplaced your faith in a higher power some years ago, and despite the occasional half-hearted search, you’ve never found it again.

So to the "interwebs" you go (Quick reality check: The term "interwebs" hasn't been funny in five years. If it ever was funny at all): Cancer, depression, fibromyalgia, rheumatoid arthritis; you’ve been convinced you had them all at some point. You convinced yourself you had adult-onset ADHD when you could not finish that spreadsheet for your Dungeons & Dragons league, when really all you had was an addiction to Facebook and YouPorn.

You convinced yourself you had erectile dysfunction once when the simple truth is, you are single, and can’t even manage to turn yourself on.

The reality is, you want to be ill. Because having an excuse to not be your best, or even a mediocre level, means that when you stumble, you do not have far to fall.

You like to keep your expectations low; for what other people expect of you and what you expect of yourself.

Being this way is surely not your own fault. This is probably some medical condition with a fancy name.

You should do a Google search and look it up.

Story #360: "How We Began Again" (310 words)

2011-05-27T12:35:00.000-07:00

We ran into each other in the flower shop, and that's how Molly found out my dad died.

We hugged for a long time, a lot of tears. We dated for two years in high school. Dad liked her a lot. Everybody has one ex your parents always asks about, wonders if you'll ever get back together. We were that ex for each other. Her parents loved me too.

And we still loved each other; kept in contact in the ten years since. She was on my list of folks to call about Dad, but it was only a few hours after, and I hadn't gotten to it yet.

"Why are you here?" I asked.

"Oh, to get flowers for Grandma Patty's grave," she said. Her grandma passed when we were dating.

"It just occurred to me," I said, "that this is Memorial Day weekend. Well, it'll certainly be memorable from now on." We both bitterly chuckled at my gallows humor.

Then an awkward silence followed, and it wasn't one of those "ex" awkward silences either. When Molly and I saw each other, we were like old friends, sharing old stories, punching each other on the arm and such, often to the displeasure of whomever we happened to be dating then.

No, this awkward silence was brought to us courtesy of feelings of grief, plus loneliness, plus a shared history we looked back on fondly.

"I, uh," I began, fresh tears forming, "I don't really know what I'm doing here" - meaning the flower selection - "would you mind...?"

"Not at all," she said. Having a task gave us an excuse to be together, and way to make the interaction less awkward.

That was how we began again.

I’m not sure if Dad would be glad because he was indirectly the cause, or pissed that we waited this damn long.

Story #359: "Who He Is and Who He's Not" (294 words)

2011-05-26T08:31:00.000-07:00

There was that one two-year period in his mid-thirties - the stereotypical mid-life crisis - where his life fell apart, and he didn't handle it well: He drank too much, started smoking again. He cheated on his young, naive girlfriend, and after he was caught, he had one-night stands like there was no tomorrow, treating the women he used in the most asshole-ish, disrespectful ways imaginable. The entire time he told himself he would eventually get the right motivation to pull himself up by his proverbial bootstraps and get his life right again.

Which he finally did.

So now when he tells the story of his life to some new love interest, and it's getting serious enough that he's hitting more than just the broad strokes and he is actually going into detail, he still leaves out the worst details of this particular phase of his life; he just says it was a "bad time" he's not proud of and he wasn't himself then.

But every once in a while there's this thing that claws at the back of his mind that makes him wonder if maybe those two years was the time when he was actually the most himself. That maybe when he was at rock bottom, feeling his worst, that's when all the artifice was stripped away, and his true soul was laid bare.

And if that's who he really is, how long can he keep it suppressed before it eventually reemerges?

He tries not to think about this too often.

He remembers the cliché proverb, "It's better to be hated for who you are than loved for who you're not."

That sounds noble in practice. But he wonders how he could live comfortably in the skin of the type of man he despises.

Story #358: "Bereavement Level" (206 words)

2011-05-25T12:51:00.000-07:00

The Bereavement Notice e-mail sent to the firm begins with "it is with great sorrow", so Todd knows the person who died must have been very important.

His company expresses varying levels of grief when someone kicks.

From least to most important:

"It is with sadness..."

"It is with great sadness..."

"It is with sorrow..."

"It is with great sorrow..."

Low level employees are typically only given "sadness"; maybe “great sadness" if they have been with the firm for years. Middle and upper level employees are appreciated even more with "sorrow".

Todd is surprised they haven't just added "heart-wrenching anguish" for when one of the very top executives dies.

At the news of someone's passing, "How did they die?" is the third question asked at the water cooler. The second is "Who gets their office?", and the first is "What bereavement level did they get?"

Todd is disappointed in himself, but his superficial nature gets caught up in everyone else's, and he often enjoys the sport of speculation as well.

In three months, when Todd passes away from a freak heart attack at the age of 29, he will be awarded "great sadness" in his notice. This will - sadly - be the greatest accomplishment of his life.

Story #357: "Between Rounds" (135 words)

2011-05-24T08:00:00.000-07:00

The ketchup is slowly sliding closer to the edge of the Heinz bottle, the steak fries waiting below.

Bleu cheese burger. Stella. Comfort food on a Monday night.

She's at home, running off her anger on the treadmill.

This fight is epic. Not their first, certainly not their last. It's not over; they're merely between rounds. He'll return to the ring in a couple hours, and Round Three (or is it Four or Five?) will start.

They’re not in trouble; this is simply how they work it out. They are legend among their friends who mock them, but admire the hell out of them too.

The ketchup hits the fries. He eats, drinks, recharges, ready for more.
And yeah, he knows he’s wrong on this one. But he’s gonna fight a couple more rounds anyway.

Story #356: "My Friend" (285 words)

2011-05-23T08:15:00.000-07:00

Tim woke in the middle of the night, went to the bathroom to pee. When he flipped on the light, a different man looked back at him from the wall-length mirror.

This man had an aura about him not quite of this world. He had a charismatic energy that both compelled Tim to run away, and to stay right where he was. The latter impulse won out.

He didn't look drastically different from Tim, this fellow. Similar body type. A little more hair on top. A squarer jaw. Darker eyes. He wore the same boxer briefs and ratty t-shirt. The mirror image grinned mischievously, and Tim felt his lips curl involuntarily.

"Funny meeting you here," Tim said. "It's been a while. Do you mind?" he asked, nodding towards the toilet.

Tim sleepily shuffled to the commode, and his counterpart followed suit. Both lifted the lid, slid open the fabric of their underwear. Urine flowed in an arc from both of them, into the bowl. They flushed.

Tim squared himself in the mirror, regarded the alien reflection. And now the reflection spoke.

"It has been a while, my friend. But I think I may come for a longer visit soon. Would you like that?"

"I think I would," Tim responded, not sure if that was entirely true.

One sleepy blink of the eyes, and the rightful mirror image returned. Tim flipped off the light, returned to bed and fell into an uneasy sleep. The next morning, he had only a vague memory of getting up in the middle of the night, and unfocused, simultaneous feelings excitement and fear.

And every time he caught his reflection that next day, his eyes lit up with anticipation, smiling back.

Story #355: "Gimme All Your Lovin'" (231 words)

2011-05-22T11:03:00.000-07:00

Clint speeds down the highway, cranking the ZZ Top, shouting the lyrics to "Gimme All Your Lovin'" along with Billy Gibbons. He's aware how this might appear to an outside eye, that he might seem insensitive and highly inappropriate, but this is just how he deals with it. It's how he handled it when grandpa died last year, and how he handles it now that grandma has passed.

Gimme all your lovin', all your hugs and kisses too

He was surprised she lasted this long. He always thought they would go within days of each other. They were that kind of couple. But it took her a few months to settle hers and his affairs. She wanted to make it easier on the kids.

Gimme all your lovin', don't let up until we're through

In the last year, she was immensely sad, Clint guessed, but she never let it show in front of the family. She was that kind of woman.

Clint keeps singing along with the tune, and thinks if she could see him now, she would understand he means no disrespect, and would approve. Just then, he looks up in the rearview mirror and sees a funny sight: Her eyes looking back, her mouth moving to the lyrics too.

Just as quickly she's gone.

Clint allows him to believe that was just a little more than his own imagination.

Story #354: "Stalled" (205 words)

2011-05-21T08:24:00.000-07:00

The hammer smashes through the cheap plastic, a jagged spider web pattern erupting across the face of his old movie star hero.

Another swing. Another. The paper tears, and the framed poster he's had hanging on whatever wall he temporarily called his since college is destroyed.

He's wearing a suit, $400 he didn't want to spend, but did because that's the culture he's found himself working in.

Did he want the promotion? Not really. But not getting it, not to mention the preceding crash-and burn interview, has destroyed the little esteem he had left.

Having retreated to his shared apartment, the contents of his bedroom, all his earthly belongings, now represents everything wrong in his stalled life.

The movie poster is the first victim. Then another relic left from his younger days is destroyed. Then another. Then another.

When he is done, he is sweating through his Brooks Brothers. He wants to be rid of this too, rip it to shreds, but he can't. Because he still has to report to his tiny cubicle world tomorrow.

His room is now in ruins, the tornado of his rage leaving little of his past to be salvaged, stranding him between two worlds where he doesn’t quite belong.

Story #353: "The Start of the End" (301 words)

2011-05-20T12:33:00.000-07:00

To my regular readers, I'm placing "The Flash" series on indefinite hiatus. As this project nears its end, I find it more and more difficult to revisit what now has become an extensive storyline in this limited format without feeling I am repeating myself.

In the meantime, here's a story very much based in today's news and memories it has stirred up in me. This is partially based on something that happened to me and a girlfriend at church camp. The last part with the youth minister, in particular, is fictional.

___

Summer church camp in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. The youth group is walking back to the cabins for the night, just having left evening worship.

Garrett and Carroll hang back from everyone else. His arm is around her, breaking the strict PDA rules, and normally Garrett does as he is told, but right now, he doesn't care.

He is seething in anger as Carroll sobs.

The worship band played a song tonight, one he had heard before but she hadn't, the one about the rapture and the people left behind. She is saved, but her folks aren't, and now she is terrified.

Garrett has always believed in the rapture as a very real thing; it’s how he was raised. He was told it was something to rejoice in as a Christian, but he hates the idea of maybe not getting to lead a full life. And now he sees the thought of it upsetting Carroll so much, and for the first time, he questions following the God, one that was not supposed to give his followers a spirit of fear, but yet, all that seems to be offered in worship is fear of everything of not going to Heaven, of going to Hell, of loved one's going to Hell.

He pushes his anger aside for the moment and squeezes his girlfriend's shoulder and whispers it will be okay, and this catches the ear of the youth leader, who turns and sees his arm around Carroll, and he gives Garrett a stern, disapproving look. Garrett lets his arm remain, the look on his own face daring him to do something about it. The leader relents and turns away.

And even at only fifteen, Garrett realizes something significant has just changed within him. This is the start of his end.

Story #352: "Why I Don't Date Non-Artists" (387 words)

2011-05-19T07:29:00.000-07:00

Brunch at Nookies. A one-night stand that has succeeded beyond the Sunday morning walk of shame. They both have a hankering for gravy, and not consulting each other, both order the Dixie Benedict. They laugh at themselves.

As she stirs cream into her coffee, C.J. asks, "So, what do you do, Ariel?"

"Oh, my. Here we go," Ariel replies, drinking her java black. "You mean what I do to pay the bills, or what I really do?"

C.J. answers, "I used to wipe old people's asses. That's not who I am as a person."

"Fair enough," Ariel replies, "I'm an artist."

"You mean, like, a painter or sculpture or musician or what?"

"A little bit of everything," Ariel says. "I guess I'm still trying to find my niche."

Their food is now in front of them, the service surprisingly fast for such a crowded diner.

"This is typically where I lose girl-", she stops short, remembering she's known this woman less than twelve hours. C.J. is kind enough to let this slide.

"I think that's awesome. I'm sure you get the 'I don't date artists' a lot."

"Kind of."

"Can I tell you a secret?"

"Sure."

"I actually don't date non-artists," C.J. reveals.

"Really?"

"Here's how I see it," C.J. says, only slightly aware she's serving as my - the writer's - mouthpiece. "I've dated non-artists, and it always ends badly. Epically bad. Yeah, artists get the stereotype of being eccentric, crazy, flaky, whatever, but here's what I think: Everyone on this earth is a ticking time bomb of Crazy. Artists, whatever the type: professional, amateur, painters, actors, musicians, whatever - they're just people who've installed a valve, a spigot, to let out the Crazy in short, controlled bursts. And I'll take that any day over someone who has no creative outlet, someone who just goes to their nine-to-five, goes home, grocery shops, watches TV. Any damn day."

This turns Ariel on so much; she almost forgets her breakfast, how hungry she is.

They both eat in silence for a while, enjoying the sausage gravy.

"So, what do you do?" Ariel finally asks.

"I'm an actuary," C.J. says. "But I teach banjo every Tuesday night at Old Town. So when do I get to see some of your art?"

"As soon as we can get the check."

Story #351: "The 'Coy and Vance' Theory of Friendships" (201 words)

2011-05-18T10:02:00.000-07:00

When Darrin watched Dukes of Hazzard reruns when he was a kid, the "Coy and Vance" episodes both terrified and fascinated him in how the characters he was used to seeing were obviously replaced by virtual doppelgangers. The phenomenon gave him literal chills up his spine.

A latch key kid reared by television, he saw a similar pattern in other programs: When one character exited a series, another very similar character would soon take his or her place. This became Darrin's sort of specialized pop culture obsession.

Then Darrin went from high school to college, college to the real world, and then in the real world, from city to city to city. And perhaps because of his “Coy and Vance” peculiarity, or perhaps just because, everywhere he went, he rebuilt his friendships and relationships to be very analogous to all the other places he had been.

And sometimes he would go back, or an old friend would catch up with him, they would reunite, and he would have a chance to have two of the same mold, the same friend, in the same place together, and he got the same chills up the spine of seeing Coy and Vance on television.

Story #350: "Caught" (345 words)

2011-05-17T06:39:00.000-07:00

The Reverend was a godly man with an ungodly habit, an addiction most in his Baptist congregation would call it, probably with a hand clutched over their God-fearing hearts for emphasis.

That he went to those websites and watched those videos was an abomination; that he did it from his office computer in the church was just plain stupidity. He knew this.

When he imagined getting caught, Beaulah Croghan, his secretary, was often who he pictured walking in on him. He imagined her clutching her hands together as if to pray right there, but then fleeing, perhaps down the hallway to vomit in the ladies' room, then proceeding to the sanctuary to get knee bound in prayer. Sometimes, he imagined looking up from the monitor and making eye contact with his shocked wife, and when he was particularly cruel to himself, their children stood by her side.

There were nights when he would dream of dying, and they would come to clean out his office, and find the evidence saved in the hard drive.

When you consider all the time he dwelled on all the ways he could be discovered, it's staggering he made such a silly mistake, going to the restroom with the browser still open, especially when he knew Mrs. Croghan was expected to come in and put the finishing touches on that Sunday's program, and his family was coming to pick him up for Thursday night pizza at Mazzio's.

His heart leaped from his chest when he returned to his office, seeing all their shocked eyes look up from the screen to him, an image straight out of the worst of his nightmares.

His reaction shocked himself and bewildered them, and to a cynical eye, it would probably appear that he was quickly improvising, trying to minimize the damage as quickly as possible. But this omniscient narrator can report with complete certainty: The Reverend Ryan Preston was completely sincere when he closed his eyes, clenched his fists at his side and whispered, "Thank you, Jesus", an incredible burden lifted from his shoulders.

Story #349: "Scarless/Scarred" (186 words)

2011-05-16T12:56:00.000-07:00

He reads the Rollins quote about scar tissue being stronger than regular tissue, and he knows it’s bullshit: Scar tissue is more thick and dense than normal, but it’s weaker. About twenty percent so. When tested, it breaks apart much easier than its healthy counterpart. He’s read up on this.

Romanticized, tough guy bullshit, he tells himself. "Pain is just weakness leaving the body." No, pain is your body saying, "Something is wrong. Fix and/or stop it, asshole."

"No fear." That’s what all those t-shirts said in the 90s, right?

He fears everything. He can't even ride in a car without taking meds. Hunks of metal just practically running at each other at high speeds. Who in their right mind thinks this is a good idea?

And flying? Fuck flying.

The problem is he's too smart for his own damn good. And the strange thing is he's never had an accident more serious than a routine scrape and bruise.

He just woke up one Monday morning - just a regular, typical Monday morning - and was terrified of the entire world. Traumatized by something that never, ever happened.

Story #348: "Richard" (275 words)

2011-05-15T19:27:00.000-07:00

Tuesday morning.

Richard absently grabs the flier that has been held out in front of him, and he quickly folds it and slides it in the back pocket of his slacks. He has no clue what he just took; he assumes it is a menu to a nearby restaurant, or some upcoming political rally. Such distribution is routine on this busy stretch of downtown sidewalk. He takes the flier a little out of sympathy; He had similar jobs in his younger days. But mostly, he takes the flier because he is comparable to a farm animal that goes 'baa'.

Later, he remembers it in his back pocket while eating lunch in his tiny, cluttered cubicle. Fifteen minutes later, he is still on the website advertised on the cheap paper. He is enthralled by what he reads. He starts to believe it. He gets no work done the rest of the day, or the day after, or the day after.

He has quit his job within days. He prints his own literature on his home computer, and hands it out about two hundred feet south of his recruiter, who he now practically lives with. His girlfriend has left him. His new haircut looks awkward, but the others tell him it looks great.

Now, believe it or not: In a reality pretty parallel to ours, Richard grabbed a different flier from a different guy that morning, and now he works the soup kitchen every Tuesday night at a nearby Presbyterian Church. And in another, he didn't grab a flier from anyone that morning, and still works his mindless, unrewarding desk job.

Such is life in the multiverse.

Story #347: "Sleep Sex, Coffee, and Eggs" (359 words)

2011-05-14T15:35:00.000-07:00

At least the coffee and eggs are still warm.

___

Saturday morning. I wake up, and she's already in the shower. We just crashed after the late movie last night, but the bed smells of sex, and the boxer briefs clinging to me say we had an interlude in the night I can't quite remember. It's happened before. Sleep sex, it's called. Sexsomnia. It freaked her out the first time, but after the second time, she said it's sometimes hotter than the usual thing. My only complaint is that I can't remember it. But if it makes her happy.

I jump out of bed, and brew up some java; I pull out an onion and a green pepper, chop them up, throw them into a frying pan to cook, crack some eggs. Make some toast. I can't remember the act, but my body does, and I am famished.

She's done with her shower, and I hear her getting dressed in the bedroom. I'm sliding the first omelet from the pan to the plate when I sense her behind me, and I turn to say good morning, but I only get as far as "Good mor-" before I see that she is fully dressed, wearing her coat, purse slung over her shoulder.

She holds the representation of our planned life together (not to mention representation of two month’s salary) out for me to take.

"What's this?" I am shocked how calm my voice sounds, how eerily calm I set down the frying pan and plate as I utter this.

"You don't remember, do you?"

"This is happened before," I say.

"You've never said her name before."

"Who's name?"

"Who do you think, Max?"

"Oh. Shit," I say. There's no use in trying to convince her it was an accident. That I am now, or was ever, over her.

"Is there anything I can say...?"

"Not that I can think of right now. No."

Both of our visions are getting blurry from the tears welling up.

"Okay."

I hold out my hand, and she drops the ring in my palm. She leaves.

At least the coffee and eggs are still warm.

Story #346: "Toby" (321 words)

2011-05-13T17:10:00.000-07:00

It wasn't first impressions that frightened Toby. It was the one that came after, and then the third, and the fourth. Toby was handsome, and had a natural southern charm and charisma. Folks came to like him easily, within moments of meeting.

And this was the source of Toby's anxiety.

He made such a good impression right out of the gate, he felt it could only go downhill from there. This was, of course, connected Toby's belief that he was of limited intelligence and life experience, and that any conversation that lasted more then five, ten minutes would reveal him as the simpleton he was.

Toby's first defense was to keep conversations brief, but in case he couldn't, he learned to manipulate the topic of discussion to one of several stories that he had practiced and honed to be as funny and enthralling as possible, which he kept in his mental toolbox. So entertaining were his tales that even when he repeated himself, folks loved to hear them again and again. They either didn't notice or forgave him if the stories got embellished a little more and a little more, becoming more sensational every time. Toby didn't know much (or so he thought), but he discovered this: People want to believe a good story so badly, they will suppress their critical nature, let themselves be deceived. And after a while, he didn't mind if the conversations went on and on because they weren't conversations anymore, they were little performances he did, be it at a Meetup social, or just standing around the water cooler at his office.

And while he was glad for having overcome his fear, it also made him loathe the people who let him lie over and over. He started to think they were as dumb as he was.

Probably because hating your faults in others - real or made up characters - is easier than hating them in yourself.

Story #345: "The Long Game" (373 words)

2011-05-12T09:37:00.000-07:00

I finish telling Coach Lou my story, and I'm waiting for him to tell me I'm crazy, I'm disturbed, or something along those lines, but instead, he sits there in silence, gazing absently at his dry erase board, a few running plays scrawled on it in green marker. His calmness frightens me.

"Coach," I say, "You promised, remember. You can't tell anyone I told you this. I trusted you with this secret."

"Why me?" he asks. He still won't meet my eyes.

"I had to tell someone," I say, not being entirely truthful. "You can't imagine what this has been like. I can't trust my friends to not laugh at me, not blab it to the rest of the school. Telling my folks would be even more complicated."

"And you're girlfriend, what's her name?" he asks.

"Katie? I broke up with her. Right after I... It didn't feel right, know what I mean?"

"Because you're...? Even though you're not."

"I know how it sounds," I say.

"For how long?" he asks. Now he looks me up and down, as if he's trying to look through my appearance, and see what I'm claiming to be.

"I don't know," I say. "I'm sort of playing a short game and a long game."

"Say again."

"I know I'm not using the terms right. Whatever. I'm saying I'm trying to change as many things as I can in a short time. In case this reverses itself. But if not, I'm investing for the long haul. In case this sticks."

"Short term goals, long term goals."

"Sure."

"Is that why you're running on the track every morning, 6:30?"

"Kind of," I say, "but that's more my, sort of, meditation. It helps keep me sane. Burns off the crazy. You might imagine how weird this is."

"Sure." He's still not convinced.

"And that's why I had to tell you. Someone. To keep from going, well, crazy."

"Why me?" he asks.

"Because you pulled me into your office to ask," I say, still lying by omission.

"Okay," he finally says. We'll keep this between us."

"Thank you."

I want so much to tell him the real reason why, but I can't. Not yet. This is part of my long game.

Story #344: "Meet-Cute Bank Robbery" (389 words)

2011-05-11T06:50:00.000-07:00

The deposit slips stick together, and Melanie licks her thumb to loosen the top one. It comes free, slides from her fingers, and floats to the bank lobby floor. She bends to retrieve it, but another hand snatches it up first. They nearly bump heads as they look at each other, and they both stand in unison, eyes locked.

Long story short, this is love at first sight. Something about smells and pheromones and dopamine and so on.

"Making a deposit?" he asks, handing her the slip.

She wants to make some witty, sarcastic retort to his slightly dumb question, already cataloging this meet-cute story to tell to their future children, but all she can manage is, "Um...yes." She introduces herself.

"I'm Dwayne," he replies, and then closes his eyes hard, and sighs.

"You okay?" she asks.

"Yeah. I was just… I was going to make a, um, withdrawal. But...I forgot...something. I can't do it today, I guess."

Melanie laughs and finds her wit. "You act like you were about to rob the bank, but now you can't because I got a good look at your face and you told me your name."

A fact about Dwayne's face: Its "poker" mode sucks. The color drains from his cheeks, and Melanie's eyes widen, her having stumbled upon the truth.

"You're a b-b-bank robb-?"

"I've never done it before. So technically, not yet."

"That's why you asked if I was about to make a deposit?"

"I was just making small talk. Your money is safe. You know, insured by the FDIC, right?"

They're staring at each other, and falling in love fast. Something to do with the fear and love centers in the brain being very close to each other.

"You have an awkward charm I wouldn't expect of a bank robber,” she says, whispering the last words.

Dwayne does debate this in his head before he asks. He gets how weird this situation is: "Do you want to get...lunch?"

"God, help me," Melanie says. "I do."

"Do you mind if we go Dutch? I was sorta doing this for a reason."

Melanie laughs so hard, tears flow, and attention is drawn from every eye in the room.

"Well," Dwayne says. "This one's no longer an option."

"Sorry," she says. "Wait right here. Let me make my deposit."

Story #343: " Millie's Lucky Sevens" (308 words)

2011-05-10T20:17:00.000-07:00

Millie walks into the bar with a new guy on her arm, her left ring finger bare, and I see that not only is she split, she's already moved on to another guy.

My high school self appears on the bar stool behind me, looking over my shoulder.

"Dude. You see that?"

"Yeah, I see it," I mutter under my breath, and take a sip of my Miller Lite. As I do, high school me takes a drink of his Zima. I shoot him an embarrassed and disapproving look, but then grin in spite of myself.

"Missed our chance," he says. Millie is now sliding her hand down the backside of her beau's faded Wranglers as he orders their drinks.

"Calm down, kid. She's on her fourth divorce."

"Dude. Really?"

"This guy probably won't last very long."

"Dude. I can't imagine anyone dumping her."

His comment sounds naive, but I remember: I was head over heels for Millie fifteen years ago. Now? I'd be happy just to bed her once. Satisfy the curiosity.

"No matter how hot she is...," I mutter only the first part of the cliché and trail off.

"Dude, go talk to her."

"What am I supposed to-"

"Steal her from him!"

"You steal her," I retort, jabbing him with my elbow. Great. I'm arguing with junior me on his level.

"You know I can't. The rules..." he fires back.

"I know," I say. "Now's not the time."

"When?"

"Would you believe not for another eight years?" The speaker of these words steps to the bar, obstructing our view of Millie, his back to us.

"Eight years,” we both repeat.

"Eight years." He turns to face us, and our hearts leap from our chests.

"Lucky us. We're husband number seven." He takes a sip of his Old Forester, a twinkle in his familiar, wrinkled eyes.

Story #342: "Dressing Up Like an Old Grotesque Woman Might Be the Answer" (223 words)

2011-05-09T13:23:00.000-07:00

Short answer: I lost a bet.

Longer answer: I lost a bet regarding a trivial pursuit question, and dressing as the correct answer to the question is my penance. (Matsys' A Grotesque Old Woman, as if you didn't know.)

True answer: I'm in love with Paige, with whom I made mentioned bet with, last week at game night at Kyle's. Oh, right. You were there.

I know. I’m in the dreaded "Friend" zone with her.

I’m hoping if I show what a good sport I am, how willing I am to play along, parade around Ten Cat like this for the required two hours minimum, flirting with at least ten men, I may cross from that unhappy zone to the "Boyfriend Potential" zone, and this night might end with us making out.

At this point, I don't care if that happens with me in an Elizabethan dress, and Paige half-drunk. At this point, I don't care if I have to flirt with Denton and Nelson to get there.

I am in love with this woman. Do you hear what I'm saying?

Of course, Connie. I know you're besties with her. Why do you think I'm telling you this? I trust you to use this information with care.

Say again?

Sure. You can borrow this costume after tonight. Sex games with Denton, I presume?

Story #341: "First Date at Tequila Jack's (232 words)

2011-05-08T09:07:00.000-07:00

"What say we subvert gender roles, Steve, and I'll pick you up tonight?"

He didn't know her story yet, but Sonya intrigued the hell out of him. A couple times since they met at Doug's Tavern and sent a few flirty texts, he dared let himself imagine her being more than a rebound after his divorce.

"Um...okay. Are you sure?" he replied.

"It doesn't make sense for you to come pick me up if we're going to Tequila Jack's. That's over in your neighborhood, right?"

"Yeah, I guess that makes sense."

There was now an awkward silence on the line.

"You don't have to worry, Steve, whether or not you're screwing something up here. I'm not testing you. It just makes more sense if I come your way."

Steve nodded, as if she could see that over the phone. He rolled his eyes at himself. "Yeah, of course," he said.

"If it makes you feel better, I'll let you buy dinner," she said.

"I would like that," he said, hoping his awkwardness and baggage wouldn't screw things up here.

"Well, there we go," she said.

Another awkward silence.

"Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"This is the part where you say you're looking forward to seeing me tonight."

After they hung up, Steve felt simultaneously dumb and giddy. If he didn't weigh in at 275, he would have done a cartwheel right there in his kitchen.

Story #340: "Almost Home" (265 words)

2011-05-07T08:09:00.000-07:00

He lands on the bed so hard, he bounces, and nearly becomes airborne again. This is how he wakes. He wonders where he has been, and wonders how he could have gotten there, since he is practically tethered to his mattress by the sweat-soaked sheets and blanket.

His eyes open, fixed on the ceiling, and it is foreign even though he has known it for years.

An electronic, pulsating buzz fills the air, and he turns his head to the source. Something deep in his memory tells him this is an 'alarm clock' and that there is something he should do to silence it. He rolls over, and his hand hovers over the device, hesitant, until muscle memory takes over and he hits the large button labeled, bizarrely, 'Snooze'.

He blinks over and over. His fingers reach up, caress his face, and trail down his neck, his torso. He familiarizes himself with his own skin, the small tufts of hair that spring from it.

The night drifts from him, and his day is slowly returning.

He remembers his life, and remembers that every morning this is reorientation back from wherever.

He hears footsteps from another room. She enters. He doesn't quite remember her yet, but he knows she's safe. She's adjusting her blouse as she approaches. She leans over and kisses him gently, says good morning. She knows where he is now, knows he's on his way back, and they will talk soon. She leaves.

He lies there still, blinking and blinking, waiting for his mind to catch up with reality. He is almost home.

Story #339: "Writer's Block Before a Weeklong Vacation" (280 words)

2011-05-06T15:57:00.000-07:00

Taking a break from the Flash story line this week. Also, a note: I used to be annoyed when writers wrote about writing characters (not that I really consider myself "a writer"; this is more of a hobby than anything), but I kind of get it now. It's an easy trap to fall into.

___

a;lkdf;alskdjf;asdkfj;sadlkfj;saldkfjas;ldkfja;owiefjw;oeifasldkfja;oifjawoeifja;lkfja;sfijwoeifjasd;lkfj;weifjaoiefja;lekfje;ofijawe;ifja;efj;efija;oeifj

When he is really frustrated, this happens.

As much as he says he works best under pressure, he doesn't. He freezes up, his brain shuts down, and nothing productive springs forth, his fingers sitting idly on the keyboard waiting for something to happen.

Added to the pressure, his friends are sitting at the restaurant waiting for him, and on top of that, once he submits this last item, his weeklong vacation begins. He will get drunk tonight. She will be in town tomorrow morning. He will pick her up at noon, and if there's truly a God in Heaven, they will be naked by two, which they will remain for three days, save for maybe an occasional wrapped towel out of kindness for the delivery guy from the Thai place down the street.

With all this waiting for him on the other side of the lede, it should be easy, but it makes it all the more harder, difficult, excruciating.

At this precise moment, she texts him a racy picture with the message, "Can't wait to see you", and he's so frustrated by it and himself, he actually reaches down and punishes himself, pressing hard, suppressing the resulting erection.

Those juices quelled, something clicks in his head, his creative juices start flowing, and he puts something on the screen that is by far not his greatest work, but it is passable, and probably one of the copy editors will punch it up a bit for him.

Okay. He's finally done.

Fuck this week, and fuck its ugly mother.

He now lets himself enjoy his lady friend's picture for a couple of minutes, then he prepares to meet his friends.

Story #338: "A Love Story Between Two of the World's Lesser-Noticed People" (328 words)

2011-05-05T08:11:00.000-07:00

He dresses for his date and while he does, he watches the opening credits of that old TV show on Hulu, and it makes him nostalgic for his childhood. But if he dwells on it any longer, if he watches the stilted acting, bad writing, the clothes and hairstyles they wore back then, the nostalgia doesn't hold up. Much the same with his early years; as long as he just brushes the surface with the remembrance, gets the broad strokes, it's all fine, but if he thinks too much about it, if he's honest about the details, it's about as pleasant as watching this Emmy Award-winning actor's (unbelievable) performance.

So he closes the browser at the first ad break. He backs his memory up, and keeps only the opening credits in his head. He's able to enjoy the brief rush of happiness they brought.

Now: Should he wear a tie?

***

When she was in middle school, high school, she used to sit in her bedroom a lot, listen to music, and sit cross-legged on her bed and flip through the pages of her school’s last yearbook, admiring the pictures of the people she saw every day, especially the boys’, wishing any of them would be interesting in going out with her, knowing none of them did.

Tonight, as she waits for him to ring her doorbell, she does much the same: The music comes from an online radio station; her yearbook is Facebook.

***

By all objective accounts, their dinner is horrible and awkward. They are shy and quiet. They struggle to find a common ground in the conversation. Neither is graceful in their dining etiquette. But later at the movie they both enjoy immensely, their fingers slowly find each other, intertwine, and thus a love story between two of the world’s lesser-noticed people begins.

***

They hold hands the rest of the night. But God bless them, it’ll be four more dates before they have the courage to kiss.

Story #337: "Bitch" (256 words)

2011-05-04T12:51:00.000-07:00

The gravity of it all just hit me today.

I'm so predictable; my best buds can see when I've entered this phase just by the look on my face when I walk into the Ten Cat.

Denton and Nelson were already a little buzzed.

"Oh, shit," Denton said.

"Where did you see them?" Nelson asked.

"Coming out of the movies on Michigan," I reported.

"Bitch!" Denton shouted, taking a bite of a pizza slice.

"Not her fault," I muttered.

"Bitch!" Denton repeated, around mouth full of food.

"That's going to be your theme for the night, huh?" I asked my friend who never saw a dead horse that couldn't use another whack or two. A smile formed on my face in spite of myself.

"Bitch!" he affirmed.

"That was your guys' place wasn't it?" Nelson asked. "Didn't you go there just about every week or so?"

"Pretty much."

"Dude."

"Yeah."

"Where are you going to go now?"

"Well, I got Netflix, I suppose."

"Or porn," Denton offered.

"Yes, that too. Thank you, D."

"Don't mention it."

"How many drinks in are you?" I asked.

"Three. Four?" Kenny said.

"Here. I'll catch you up," Denton said, pulling some cash out of his wallet. "But I'm not sleeping with you tonight."

"Tomorrow night, Pookums?"

"Anything's possible, lover."

"Okay," I said. "But I can't get too wasted. I still have to help her move the last of her stuff out tomorrow."

"Are you ser-...?" Denton trailed off.

"Yeah."

"Wow." Denton was stunned.

But Kenny beat him to it: "Bitch."

Story #336: "Coma" (339 words)

2011-05-03T07:54:00.000-07:00

He had an idea for a story one time. He never put pen to paper on its behalf, and it was really a film that he saw in his head. This is what happened in the movie he never made, but talked the hell out of over beers with a friend one night: A guy barely escapes a horrible accident. Over the next few days, he has some weird experiences He hears the sirens of an ambulance all around him, but doesn't see one; he hears doctors and nurses and the sound of a heart monitor. One night when he's sleeping, he hears his newlywed wife tearfully saying goodbye. You get the idea. Throughout the next week or so, he discovers he didn't avoid that accident, and he's really lying in a coma.

It was a lot like The Sixth Sense, he and his friend decided, which made it all the better. This was before M. Night Shyamalan lost it. And it was before Life On Mars.

Jump ahead ten years, and see this guy now sitting next to his comatose wife's hospital bed, days after an event too eerily similar to the one he imagined in his movie idea. He hasn't left her side. He can't imagine being in their home alone without her, trying to sleep without her. So he's here, getting what little rest he can in the world's most uncomfortable recliner. You might imagine, he's going a little crazy. So he talks to her. And he wonders what, if anything, she's experiencing.

Just in case he has any influence, he tells her a story. Nothing fantastical or exciting. He just paints a picture of them relaxing at home. Tending the garden. Reading books on the porch together. Falling asleep on the couch to a DVRd episode of How I Met Your Mother.

This makes him feel better. And he'll never know this fact for sure, but it helps her too. The words make their way into her shrinking world. Her last few days are bearable.

Story #335: "A New Direction" (275 words)

2011-05-02T13:50:00.000-07:00

True story: He steps out onto the sidewalk and, merely on a whim, turns west instead of east, and his legs carry him one step after another into unexplored territory. He is in awe of this; it seems he has called this place home forever, but he has never tread in this part of the neighborhood, never even considered it, as if some subconscious process had built a wall, as if everything to the left of his front door was part of a universe invisible, inaccessible to him.

There is nothing remarkable about where he is going for the first time: Just more houses, a playground, a tiny, slightly rundown grocery store. Nothing particularly attractive or unpleasant. These landmarks are simple and average. They just are. But they fascinate him nonetheless, like discovering a hidden level of a video game he has played over and over, filled with familiar segments from other levels, just in a new, unfamiliar arrangement.

This mundane trek fills him with a disproportionate amount of joy, so much so, he keeps walking and walking, and he doesn't turn to go home until the dusk has almost turned to night.

The next day, he steps out of his house again and turns west instead of east again, trying to replicate that joy, which succeeds for the most part. Then the next day a little less; the day after, a little less. Then trying to recapture that first magical experience, he turns east for a few days.

Then he alternates: East, west, east, west, west, east, east, west, east.

The joy never returns, and the fool never thinks to venture north or south.

Story #334: "Jessie and the Old Deacon" (315 words)

2011-05-01T13:07:00.000-07:00

Jessie drifted away from the faith sometime in college, realizing it wasn't so much God he was drawn to, but the social aspect of the youth group. He hasn't set foot in his childhood church in almost ten years, the last time when an old deacon in the church died, someone he had admired greatly.

When he was a kid, it scared and awed him. It was easily the largest building in his small town, which meant, it was the largest building he ever stepped foot in until sometime in his teen years. (His parents rarely traveled far outside of Joshua's city limits.) No matter how often he ducked out of the sanctuary during the preacher's sermon to roam the halls, he was convinced there was some wing of the building he had never explored. So much did this feeling pervade his thoughts, he often dreamed at night of discovering a mysterious new tributary in which to venture.

These dreams continue even as an adult, even though he no longer lives in Joshua, and only visits a couple times a year. Now his dream self sneaks through the halls of his old church with a sense of shame, because he doesn't belong anymore, because he strayed from the belief he had been raised in.

Sometimes his dream self is a child, sometimes, an adult. Always, he is discovered by the old deacon, in his funeral suit, who admonishes him only with sad, angry eyes.

It took Jessie a while to realize: The old deacon doesn’t represent the disappointment of God for his loss of faith; the old deacon is mad at Jessie for leaving the community, for daring to want anything outside of Joshua.

And knowing that everybody in our dreams is just a representation of some part of us, Jessie wonders what the boys in the basement of his psyche are trying to say.

Story #333: "The Walls" (229 words)

2011-04-30T07:50:00.000-07:00

He's lived inside the same story for so long he believes it, knows almost nothing else.

But he wonders.

Lately, the cracks in the foundation are becoming harder and harder to ignore, and at the same time he turns a blind eye, he wonders what would happen if he looked at them head on. What if he reached into one with both hands and pushed hard, prying the crevice apart wider and wider until everything, his story, his life, his world fell around him, making way for something truer to be built?

When he entertains this, he becomes equal parts elated and terrified. The thought of breaking down the walls of his narrative, leaving the horizon wide open for a brand new tale fills his chest with a joyous relief. But then the fear comes at the thought of being lost, for however temporary, without a home. The fear comes when he’s reminded that destroying the safety of your own home can so easily devastate others’ as well.

It’s these fears that keep him turning away from the cracks, pretending they are not there. But more and more, he finds himself imagining how the rocks would feel against his palms, his knuckles as he forcefully broke them down, how the ground would shake with a revitalizing force as everything crumbled down.

And he knows it can’t be very long…

Story #332: Levi and the Permanent Reminder (204 words)

2011-04-29T13:49:00.000-07:00

Every Friday, I post a story in "The Flash" universe (see above tab.) I've written about Levi in previous story, which you can find by clicking his name below.

___

It would be years before the rollover on I-24 that would give Levi the permanent limp in his right leg, a rollover he knew would have no reason to happen a second time. Despite this, he still found himself walking with a damaged gait.

He knew it was psychosomatic and there was no logical reason for it, but he accepted it as a macabre trophy of her.

He was driving all night that evening to be at her bedside. She was dying, and though they hadn't spoke in years, he had to get to Atlanta. He was driving too fast; too tired and too caffinated at once. The sudden appearance of a deer, bad brakes, and an over correction of the steering wheel kept him from being there when she died.

After The Flash, Levi sought her out, a tricky pursuit since no one had known about their relationship. It would be awkward explaining to her family, no matter what the year, so he had to lie about his identity to get details, and the details were this: She died in a freak accident - ironically, a car crash - just a few hours after the trip backward.

He never got to say goodbye, two times over.

Story #331: "What Do You Do?" (309 words)

2011-04-28T08:23:00.000-07:00

And then Riley killed his last chance at getting laid that night by answering her question with this: "I'm basically a trained monkey, but my official title is 'Payroll Clerk'. Anybody could do my job."

And even though Chesnye wanted nothing more than a one-night stand to bust her slump, she decided then and there this guy would not be that slump buster. Son of a bitch: He was the last eligible guy in the place, and it was 3:31. She might as well disengage and jump in a taxi home.

"What do you do?" Riley shot her question back at her.

Chesnye was a writer of children's books.

"Lab tech," she said. "I handle people's shit and piss all day. Just pulled a double. Came here to wind down." She was trying to sound as unattractive as possible. She made a mental note to call her friend, Natalie, and apologize for disparaging her profession. It was just the first thing that popped in her mind. But part of her statement was true: This is where she came often to wind down after a night of writing.

"Cool," Riley said, nodding. "You must be tired."

"He's trying to get rid of me now," she thought. "Perfect."

Riley now tried to be discreet about scanning the bar for a better option. No dice. His sights locked back on her. She could see this process going on in his head.

"Exhausted," she said. "Think I'm about to head out."

"Nice meeting you," Riley said. He reached out with his beer bottle and clinked hers.

She settled her tab and left, not looking forward to the likely next time they'd run into each other here.

Now get this: Years later, after they were united in matrimony, they understandably omitted this encounter when asked the popular party question "How did you two meet?"

Story #330: "Employee of the Year" (383 words)

2011-04-27T21:22:00.000-07:00

He staves off the tears until he is inside his car, and careful even then, in case others leaving pass by. He wipes them away, but in such a way it looks like he's simply rubbing the tired out of his eyes.

His heart is racing out of his chest. He leans forward, hugs himself, rocks forward and back. People are walking by. Luckily, it's a chilly night, so he's able to pretend he's just cold and waiting for the car to heat up. When they make eye contact, he manages to smile. And, of course, they wave and shout, "Congratulations!" and "Good Job, buddy!" He is somehow able to give a small gesture and mouth, "Thank you."

"These damn fools. Don't they know they're making it worse?" he thinks. "Can't they leave me alone?"

He now wishes he hadn't won ten times as badly as he had wanted to win, right up until his name was called. He did feel deserving of the honor, but then as he rose from his table, placed his napkin on his seat and made his way to the podium, he started to second guess himself. As they applauded he feared some deemed him unworthy.

Then afterward, as the evening was drawing to a close, as the top executives approached to shake his hand, he feared he would say something so unbelievably stupid, they would leave wondering how such a fool could walk away from their company's ceremony with the top honor.

He held it together. He did not make too bad a fool of himself, he thinks. But just as the body fighting off a cold is paid in fever, and headache and congestion, the brave face he put up for that half hour is now being paid in this escalating anxiety attack. If he could drive away from the restaurant, he would be okay, but right now, he's not sure he can manage that.

He glances in the passenger seat and sees the trophy, and the sight literally pains him. He grabs it - it actually feels hot - and throws it over his shoulder into the back seat, where it bounces and lands in the floor board.

He continues to rock slowly, holding himself. He waves at the passersby. He just wants this to be over.

Story #329: "The Traveler is Insane" (198 words)

2011-04-26T13:22:00.001-07:00

If love renders one chemically psychotic, what is romance if not an eloquent expression of insanity?

This is why the Traveler was waiting by baggage claim, ready to make an eloquent expression of his insanity, ready to do what he had failed to do before.

His hope: When she saw him, when they locked eyes, she would see his intentions, and her brain would be flooded with dopamine and serotonin. She would be rendered insane too. And then she would change her plans that night, the pivotal date with the man who would become her husband.

The Traveler wanted to stop this, so he broke the rules, risked death to meet her at this time and place. He had no back up plan in case he was caught, in case she said no.

This was unlike the Traveler, but again, he was now insane.

He waited.

The flight did not come, but the news did, through information screens, then cell phones, then through cries of those around him. They held each other, cried together. He had no comfort.

He saw he had been punished with death, but not his own.

Now a different kind of insanity took hold.

Story #328: "Danielle (or 'You Don't S**t Where You Eat')" (388 words)

2011-04-25T18:38:00.000-07:00

This is how beautiful Danielle was: Desmin didn't even allow himself to desire, to entertain any romantic scenarios with her. She was Dulcinea to his Don Quixote; he loved - nay, admired - her pure and chaste from afar. This was the only way he could survive working alongside her twenty-five hours a week - not fighting windmills, but maintaining the whirlyball amusement center in Logan Square. If he ever thought he had a chance, ever thought she was sizing him up as potential every time they wiped down the bumper cars together after closing time, he wouldn't be able to stammer out a word; his heart would literally explode inside his chest.

And if he even started to entertain such a notion, the first thing he would realize is that a girl as beautiful as Danielle would only find herself working at a whirlyball joint because some storyteller dropped her there. Which was the exact case.

Anyway.

Because of Desmin's detachment, he was comfortable with her. And because he was comfortable, he was truly himself, and because his true self was charming and funny and self-deprecating, Danielle found herself liking Desmin in that slowly-come-to-see-the-thing-right-in-front-of-your-nose kind of way that really only happens in schmaltzy, pandering stories. She shoved her feelings aside too, simply because she was a believer in the old adage, "You don't shit where you eat."

Actually, one night, after Desmin did something particularly adorable as they were cleaning up the court, she had to excuse herself so she wouldn't jump him and kiss him. She locked herself in a bathroom stall and muttered over and over, "Don't shit where you eat. Don't shit where you eat." She believed this mantra very much.

In a cruel twist that only a male writer could muster, she wound up experiencing the exquisite torture that Desmin managed to avoid by sheer will power.

They never hooked up when they worked together.

But they did encounter each other at Trader Todd's a couple years later. Desmin had a bad break up and was feeling more bold than usual, so he made a move. They went home together that night. Then they went on a few dates, but nothing more came of it. And that was that.

Because this story isn’t that pandering.

Story #327: "Them" (376 words)

2011-04-24T19:41:00.000-07:00

Wilson decided the thunder in the Sunday afternoon sky was false. It was not real.

He lay on his thrift store couch in his modest studio apartment, his eyes shut, the headache making him hyper-aware. A slight draft blew on him through the imperfect seal formed by the accordions extending from the window unit, a couple feet from his head. He listened to the thunder's repeated calls, studying the sound. He had never paid close attention before, but he knew something was fundamentally wrong: It had a flat quality. It did not echo as it should; rumbles came in short, succinct bursts. It was a canned effect, was what it was.

Pain swept through the contracted blood vessels just under his scalp, and he muttered out loud, to Them, "Nice try. I'm on to you."

He didn't know who They were just yet, but over the last few weeks, he had slowly started to become aware, in very small, subconscious ways. It was the way he caught some folks staring at him in line at the grocery, or the way the barista studied him as he made his order. They were judging him. Not in a condemning way, but with looks that seemed to say, to shout, "You're predictable. We're doing exactly what we predicted you would do."

"You're boring," their eyes said.

"I hope this is done soon," their demeanor communicated.

All of this was coming into perfect clarity as the storm formed outside. Here came the wind now, and he knew that too was a counterfeit, just a show for his benefit.

Tiny footsteps shuffled across the hardwood floor toward him. This was Maxine. She nudged Wilson's arm with her nose, wanting her walk. Wilson wondered what her exact role in this charade was.

He decided to play along for now: He reached out, scratched her favorite spot behind her ears.

Somewhere, a technician played the thunder effect again, turned up the wind.

Wilson considered his next move, thinking how he had disappointed Them with all his calculable responses to their tests. That was about to change.

First, he would sweep away this headache with a nap. Then he would take Maxine for her walk. And on that walk, things would start to change.

Story #326: "Nelson Joseph Was Cruel" (196 words)

2011-04-23T14:27:00.001-07:00

Nelson Joseph was a cruel person. His cruelty wasn't the kind that stood out or ever had him jailed or anything like that. He was cruel in tiny ways. To strangers, it was deeds like jumping in line when folks were inattentive. He rarely surrendered his seat on the bus. To the people who loved him, his nature was expressed in how he didn't return phone calls, or messages, or thank those who were kind enough to send him cards on holidays. His nature was to fall back on his claim on how busy he always was.

His salvation, the reason why people often overlooked his ways, was his natural charisma, often seen in larger crowds where he enjoyed being the center of attention. He had a tale for just about every occasion, and people loved hearing them, even if they had heard them before. Nelson had power that way.

Perhaps a more apt word for Nelson would be 'self-centered', but consider this: Nelson knew full well who he was, what he did, and how his inconsiderate manner made people feel even as they loved and adored him. And if that's not cruelty, then what is?

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Story #325: "Elvis Bryant is Just Lazy" (253 words)

2011-04-22T13:51:00.000-07:00

This Friday, I return to "The Flash" storyline (see above tab).

___

Elvis Bryant was a 32-year-old bartender at T-Bone's in Joshua, his dad's bar, when the world turned upside down. He was adequate in his job. When his dad tried to hand him the full reigns of the business side a few years before, Elvis had to be bailed out in three month’s time, and worse than yelling or being angry at him, his dad was sympathetic, as if he had always known that would be the outcome, but had to give it a shot anyway because of his duty as a father.

Elvis didn't have much ambition to rise above his station, most of his off nights spent drinking and playing video games either alone or with an old friend who had moved on with his life but felt sorry for him.

These were the facts on the ground, and in the last year it had gotten worse for Elvis, for this simple reason: He had gained painful awareness of who he was, but not the slightest willpower to change it.

A couple days after the world rocked back and the town elders decreed its was God’s plan for the community to repeat their lives exactly as the first time, 10-year-old Elvis Bryant hung himself in the back room of his dad’s bar.

The note he left behind said this:

“I’m not sad. Just lazy.”

His dad found the body a few hours later. He was barely shocked at the sight. He gave one sad nod, and went to call the police.

Story #324: "Evan's Lucky Day" (269 words)

2011-04-21T17:28:00.001-07:00

So there is this night Evan is drinking with his buddies, and the conversation turns to dirty jokes, and he surprises them by telling a tale about a pedophile, a joke that hasn't crossed his mind in years. The punchline: "And he turns from the cliff, unzips his pants and says, 'Well, I guess today's just not your lucky day.'" His friends laugh their drunken heads off.

Here's the deal: Evan's friends are assholes. They hang on to moments like this, ones that are just supposed to be between guys, and use them later to embarrass him in front of others, especially whenever he's dating someone knew.

So one Sunday, they're all at Buffalo Wild Wings watching the game, and Evan's brought a girl who he's started hanging out with. A beer commercial comes on using the "lemmings running off a cliff together" myth as its premise, and that reminds one of them of that joke. And this jackass of a friend knows full well what he's doing when he says, "Hey, man! Tell that joke!"

"What joke?" Evans asks, playing confused, but he knows exactly.

"You know the one about the little girl, the cliff, and the pedophile." The asshole is smirking, and even shoots a glance at Evan's date to see her reaction.

Get this: Evan has snagged himself a pretty cool chick. Instead of getting mad or disgusted with Evan, she throws her Bud Light in Asshole's face. Then she says, "I guess today's just not your lucky day."

Now, Evan and this girl never get married, but they have a pretty good couple of years.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Story #323: "Crystal Clear Pepsi and a Bigfoot" (377 words)

2011-04-20T20:43:00.000-07:00

I pull into the Razzles gas station, its doors not yet shuttered, right across the street from Washington Middle School, looking scuzzy as can be, because it has not yet been renovated.

I don't stand out because simple jeans and t-shirt, a leather jacket and black boots always fit in. My time machine is housed not within a clunky can opener on wheels, but in a black Trans Am, as I always thought it should be.

I have come back in time for two things: A Crystal Clear Pepsi and a Bigfoot pizza. I want nothing more complicated than that. But I have six hours here - that's how long my time machine takes to recharge, thanks to an arbitrary plot device - so after I consume these forgotten symbols of my childhood, I may cruise up and down the Main Street of my hometown a few times, get a kick out of seeing the old storefronts and all the late 80s/early 90s cars, and then drive out into the country, someplace discreet, and ride my hoverboard through a field, but not a sissy, pink Mattel model; one like Wilykit and Wilykat rode.

And since this is my fantasy, I actually have the grace and coordination to do so.

I'll do this till sunset, then return home, and hide my sweet ride in my secret lair.

And just writing this brief indulgence of fantasy, a number of chemicals fire in my brain, and I feel a pleasurable sensation that is easy to escape into and be happy as I create other time travel scenarios in my head, some carefree, some wild adventures where I am the hero that saves the day and gets the girl.

The artificial joy I feel now is much the same as the type I retreated into all too often in an outcast youth, something that helped me forget I didn't really fit in anywhere.

I didn't realize then what a powerful tool my fantasy was, and I'm grateful for it, both then and now.

But this is not something to dwell on in the six hours I have here. I take a swig of my Pepsi, every bit as awesome as I remember, drive west on Main towards Pizza Hut, and crank the stereo.

Story #322: "Cathy Brinks: Composite Character" (385 words)

2011-04-19T19:07:00.000-07:00

I am Cathy Brinks.

You don't know me.

My first name is a product of my creator looking down and seeing his copy of Cat's Cradle, and that's what sprang to his mind first. My last name is from the small safe on the floor by his desk, right next to the book.

My story will last a mere 385 words.

I am what is known as a composite character. I am several people condensed into one, for the sake of simplifying a story.

Here is what I represent in my creator's mind: I am every woman he has ever dated, thought about dating, seriously wanted to date but never thought he had a chance with, and so on, that does not appear in his stories when he talks about his life.

I am not his high school/college girlfriend, I am not the woman he lived with for eight months and never told his family because he thought they wouldn't approve, following so quickly after his divorce, and I am certainly not his ex-wife.

I am not his girlfriend who he will joke with about this story a few minutes after he posts it online.

You probably haven't heard about me even though I was the first to break his heart by dancing with another boy at the Homecoming Dance in seventh grade. But I did send him the thick blanket he uses in the winter. One time when I was having a rough day, he brought me half a dozen cookies because I mentioned earlier that day I was craving one. One time I had a rough day because he broke up with me over the phone.

I am the one who tortured him by dating every single one of his high school friends but him, but I am also the one he didn't call after our single date when he said he would. I am the one who broke up with him by passing him a note between 7th and 8th period, and I am the one he broke up with to go back to an ex.

And you've never heard of me, simply because my creator doesn’t have a convenient place for me in his narrative. But at least for tonight, I am on my creator’s mind.

I am Cathy Brinks.

Story #321: "Black Box" (342 words)

2011-04-18T14:19:00.000-07:00

The picture he flips across is this: A black box theater. The walls are partially covered by felt soundproofing material. The floor is a dark hardwood. Two low levels of risers at three walls. Scattered on these risers are the seats, their cushions a variety of reds, and greens, and blues. Partially in the picture, on the right, is a ladder mounted on a wheeled cross brace. Two people he does not recognize are in the frame. They are not looking at the photographer.

It is simple. Probably taken with a phone camera.

It takes his breath away.

He used to perform here regularly. But it has been over five years since he has stepped a foot inside it, and it feels like a complete life ago. He has rarely thought of the space in that much time, and so his memories of it are safely stored and fresh, so when the hormones and neurotransmitters activate and pull them out after their long rest, they are strong and pungent. The breath is taken from his chest.

He has a sad longing for a small room hundreds of miles away, and for the people he performed so many shows with inside its four walls. He thinks it would be fun to perform there again. Maybe someday, he thinks, but he knows his life is here now.

He flips to the next picture in the old acquaintance's online album, and to the next, and to the next, pictures of a different sort, pictures of people and places he doesn't know. It's not that he can't bear to look at the picture of the black box, he would just rather not dwell on it, so that when he does occasionally come across a picture of the theater, he can have the intense reaction that he just did. He wants to keep the memories hidden away as much as possible, not faded.

He keeps flipping further away from the picture, he reflects on it just a bit longer, and he forgets it until the next time.

Story #320: "Things He Knows" (281 words)

2011-04-17T20:48:00.000-07:00

The person he wants to believe himself to be and the person he is are vastly different beings, and the cognitive dissonance he feels as a result is great.

For better or worse, he knows this. Sometimes, he will be carrying out a scenario in his head, imagining himself as charming and well-spoken and someone worth paying attention, and the real world interrupts him and he is forced to interact, to speak, and his unsure, weak voice escapes his lips, and the frustration is so strong, later, out of view of others, he balls a fist and pounds it against the side of his leg repeatedly as he replays the scene again and again in his mind. He calms himself, eventually, by editing the past encounter with what he should have and would have said if he had been brave or quick enough. And since the need is so great, and his desire for self-preservation so strong, he has become quite good at replaying the desired version over and over until that becomes reality, and the undesired reality is forgotten.

Mostly forgotten.

But there are times, often around four or five in the morning, he will wake, his mind racing wildly with the truth of all his daily interactions, and he begins to cry, and he turns on his side away from his wife, and bites hard into his pillow as to not disturb her.

He knows that she knows what he is. For a while, long enough to get her to marry him, he had fooled her. And he knows she will never leave him, but she is resentful and filled with regret.

This is yet another knowledge he ignores.

Story #319: "At the Intersection of North and Kingsbury" (199 words)

2011-04-16T09:33:00.001-07:00

She runs on the treadmill, by the window, in the gym, on the third floor, wearing a pink tank top, her brunette ponytail bobbing up and down in rhythm with her stride.

Across the street, in a chair, by the window, in a coffee shop, on the first floor, he sits with his mug and watches her with fascination.

His gaze drops to street level, and he sees couples walk by on the sidewalk, various degrees and levels of displayed affection for each other. He watches the middle-aged security guard pace through the small parking lot, offering unsolicited help to drivers pulling in and out of too small spaces, trying to find whatever relevance and usefulness he can.

Next to him, he overhears the couple meet on what is obviously a blind coffee date.

He is in simple awe of everyday wonder; we all pass within feet and yards of one another, but worlds apart just the same.

Observing this, he feels just a little bigger than it all, but only for a moment. That moment passed, he finishes the last drop of his coffee, puts on his coat, walks out into the street, and becomes a part again.

Story #318: "Therapy Session" (392 words)

2011-04-15T14:15:00.000-07:00

Taking a break from "The Flash" series this week - had complete writer's block in regards to that. Here's something else.

___

"Here's the thing," my therapist leans in as he places my third Jack and Diet on the bar. "Sometimes you hurt people, and sometimes, you just accidentally rip off the scab of one their past injuries."

"So what's the case this time?", I ask. He's spent the last hour listening to my story. The joint is pretty much dead tonight.

His eyes look toward the ceiling, doing the math. "I'd say 30-60. You kind of screwed up, but with her past, what did you expect?"

"Hey, Doc," I say, evaluating the bump on my head with my fingertips. "You said '30-60'. Where'd the other ten go?"

"It's the unknown," he says.

"What's the unknown?" I ask.

"If we knew the unknown, then the unknown wouldn't be the unknown, would it?"

This astute observation hangs in the air. "Be right back," he says. Another customer has walked in and waiting at the other end of the bar.

I slide my cell out of my pocket to see if she's called. She hasn't. She won't. The last words she said were, "I never want to speak to you again, you fucking shit bag."

Of all the things she hurled at me as she screamed, only the wireless mouse connected, but boy, did it ever. The headache has bunkered down for a long stay. I ruminate on the Doc's words, and I know he's right. I was wrong to keep the friendly dinner with the ex secret from the current, but my bigger mistake was accidentally tripping over the proverbial baggage, the tag clearly marked "Been Cheated On In Every Prior Relationship".

Cheating was the last thing on my mind, but that's hard thing to communicate over such a high wall. Or such a big piece of baggage. Other metaphors may apply.

By the time the customer at the opposite end of the bar has his drink, I have finished mine.

"I'm cutting you off," the Doc says. I begin to protest, but he points to the small digital clock beside the cash register. "Hour's up.”

I nod. Fair is fair.

"You should get home," he says. "Pick your stuff off the front lawn."

"You're probably right," I say. "Same time next week?"

"I would be worried if you weren’t here.”

I slide out into the night as he goes to counsel his next client.

Story #317: "Budd Alstrom" (335 words)

2011-04-14T15:46:00.001-07:00

I see his name scrawled in green permanent marker on the heel of his high top tennis shoes, and I think he's much too old to still be putting his name on such possessions, but then I think, I'm noting this detail lying on the ground, eye level with his footwear, through tears and blood that are the result of his pummeling me to the pavement, so maybe I'm not the judge of what is best for Budd Alstrom.

But then I think, Budd is tough. Ain't no one stealing his shoes.

Or his woman.

In my defense, she approached me, asked me to buy her a drink, and never mentioned once in our flirty banter that someone called her his.

She looked like a "Supergirl"-era Helen Slater, only in hot, white trash form. I got hard watching her shake her ass on the bar stool to "Life is a Highway".

When Budd's reflection approached us in the mirror behind the bar, I immediately thought of the jilted husband in that Kenny Rogers song, the one left with four hungry (I always misheard it as 'four hundred') children and a crop in the field.

His big hands were calloused.
He looked like a mountain.
For a minute, I thought I was dead.

I didn't have a minute. in the brief seconds that followed, he pulled me off the bar stool, and out into the back alley.

In the flash of moments as I was being dragged out, I saw the look on the regulars' faces that plainly said, "Just another Saturday night."

Along about the time the bridge of my nose fractured, I wondered if this is a game Budd and White Trash Supergirl got off on. Would My beat down be an accessory to their sport-fucking later tonight? A man can dream.

I watch Budd Alstrom's shoes walk him back inside the bar. My head is throbbing. A couple of the old timers come out to assess my injuries, and I pass out.

Story #316: "Trash Days" (350 words)

2011-04-13T21:07:00.000-07:00

I could barely see over the dashboard, and the gearshift fascinated me. By today's standards, my dad was endangering me, simply having me buckled in the middle of the bench seat of his old Chevy, but nobody knew better then and Saturday mornings were my favorite. Saturday mornings meant a trip to the landfill.

You see: My town didn't have regular trash pick up until I was seven or eight. This meant folks had to dispose of their trash themselves.

We kept our trash piled inside bags in the garage, the roof of which had long since become too unstable to actually park the truck inside. A good wind might blow down that big tree branch above it and cave in the whole damn thing. That's what my old man was afraid of. So it was just used for storage, to house the washer and dryer, and to keep the trash in till every Saturday. That's when dad would back his old metal blue truck up to the entrance, and we'd throw the trash bags from the week in the back. He'd strap me in, and we would head a couple miles outside of town.

He would never let me out of the truck there. I imagined the back end sitting on the edge of a huge bottomless hole that fell straight to the center of the earth. Even though I whined sometimes, I was secretly grateful he would never let me out of the cabin.

I loved Saturday mornings. That was the only time, really, dad and I spent together.

Then I got older, and the Chapel family began a trash pick up business, the town gave them a contract, and we didn't need to make the trips ourselves anymore. For a long time, I asked every weekend if we could go to the landfill, and dad said we couldn't, and that was true: They had restricted access to all but the Chapel family.

I was sad for a long time. Even then, it was like I knew that was the only time he and I would be close.

Story #315: "Sauerkraut Was Invented by the Chinese" (317 words)

2011-04-12T13:51:00.000-07:00

He sits at his computer (which is getting slower and slower with every passing minute), trying to write, frustrated by the events of the day.

A thought:

"Boy, I don't do it often, but when I do, I really swing for the fences, don't I?"

This thought does not entirely reflect the situation, but it's safe enough to write in a story that will be published, if you can call a blog 'publishing', for the masses to read, including maybe the folks involved in said frustrating events.

He wrote a story a couple of weeks ago that struck too close to reality for someone, and he's still swimming in the wake of that.

Lanford Wilson said, "No one is safe around a writer." This writer had not heard that before Wilson's death. And here's a horrible confession: He hadn't heard of Lanford Wilson either.

You may be upset with the writer for that. Take a number, Jack. (You too, Jill.)

Another thought:

[He writes this thought and chuckles at the hypocrisy of it, then deletes it. It is too much.]

While he contemplates what to type next, he has two trouser buttons between his lips, and he slides them back and forth against each other. These are buttons that popped free of the trousers because his mid-section has gotten a little flabby. Life is tough all over.

In case the space between this paragraph and the last seemed longer than usual, it's because the writer had to relieve himself. A bit of trivia he read while doing so: Sauerkraut was invented by the Chinese.

This is perhaps the third or fourth story the writer has written from the perspective from himself. Some literary types may poo poo on it, but he tends to like these the best. Go figure.

One final thought:

[Redacted. It blew the events of the day up way bigger than what they are.]

Story #314: "Chase's Pie" (314 words)

2011-04-11T19:07:00.000-07:00

People are often preoccupied and can get lost in their own thing, but when someone suddenly comes to be in need, folks can manage to drop the petty stuff, rally together and go help, even in a big city. (Okay, maybe not in New York.)

When Chase died, I was devastated, but kept it together. That Midwest mentality and all; men don't cry. But I'm telling you, Chase was my best friend for twelve years. He was there through the rough times, when a lot of other folks weren’t, not really out of meanness; they just had other shit to do. Chase was my faithful companion, and all he asked in return was to be fed and watered and for me to dispose of his poop and to keep his shots up to date. A small price to pay for the friendship of a good basset hound.

It was a Monday, two days after when Kyra came by with one of her world famous (at least as far as our monthly potluck dinner club was concerned) pumpkin pies. It was my favorite of hers.

It was also Chase's. Sometimes, I'd leave a party with a tiny bit of a slice for him.

A lot of people had called, messaged, and a couple had stopped by too, and I was okay. But when Kyra came in and presented me with the dessert, that's when the dam burst. I cried like a little kid, not the 39-year-old man I am. Kyra thought she had offended me. Not at all. It was just the trigger that worked. I cried and cried. When I was done crying, Kyra made herself at home in my kitchen, grabbed some plates and utensils and served us some deliciousness.

Then we watched some Farscape on DVD, and I wept a little more. It was Chase's favorite program. Something about the muppets.

Story #313: "Blender" (394 words)

2011-04-10T19:50:00.000-07:00

The seed for this story: A couple of months after my ex and I got divorced, I went to use the blender and realized it was gone. She had taken it when she left, even though I was the one that always used it. I actually uttered out loud, more out of my love for alliteration than anger, "Bitch took the blender."

___

As he was packing to leave, he asked where the blender was, and she said she didn't know. This was a rare passive-aggressive move for her. She never once had use for it, and he rarely did anymore either, which is why it was tucked it into the back of a cabinet. He only used it during his sporadic fitness kicks, when he would make smoothies. He hadn't been on one in quite a while, and had the flabby mid-section to show for it. This was not why their marriage was ending. It was ending because, despite the flabby mid-section, he had managed to begin a relationship with some young, hot thing twenty years their junior.

It wasn't the sex with another woman she minded so much; it was that he dared to fall in love. He had fallen in love with a girl who barely had a throwaway Bachelor's degree, and in contrast, she was a Doctor of Psychology, which meant she was intelligent and interesting; she could maintain a compelling conversation with her husband, something this other woman couldn't, and this was important to her because despite their sex life having faded to almost nothing, the long talks they had over glasses of wine most nights was more than enough to keep her in love with him.

This is why she was devastated: She was still in love with him, and he wasn't. Even more: Despite all of this, she knew if he wanted to come home, she would take him back. She never thought she would be that person, but here she was, being that person.

Here's the person she was: The blender now sat on the kitchen counter. Tomorrow morning, she would call and say she found it and that he could stop by, and maybe that would start reconciliation. This is who she was now, and she hated herself for it.

This drove her to so much anger, she burst into the kitchen, grabbed the blender, held it high over her head with the intention of slamming it to the floor, but at the peak of the upswing, she realized how silly it was an appliance had become a symbol for him, and she stopped. She stood there, arms over her head, hating herself for being smart enough to know smashing it to the ground would make nothing better.

___

I found the blender in the back of a cabinet a few weeks later. And then I felt dumb.

Story #312: "Multi-verses in a Burrito House" (393 words)

2011-04-09T14:18:00.000-07:00

Today's story came from a friend's Facebook status update. He works at the Burrito House on Broadway in Chicago:

"A funny thing happens sometimes when a drunk couple that just met at a bar comes into the Burrito House. After eating, and knocking some of the alcohol out of their systems, as if they were seeing each other for the first time in the light of day, these couples will sit in silence with a look that says, "What the fuck am I doing with this person?!". Its awesome when it happens. Tonight, it happened twice."

Thanks, Chuy.

____

You've heard that theory about parallel worlds, right? That every possible outcome of an event can and does happen in a different reality? Every choice we make creates a multitude of new universes? (There's even a guy who trucks in a self-help system called "Quantum Jumping", the idea being that you just keep willing yourself through the realities where what you want to happen to you, happens to you. It's like "The Secret" for weak-minded folks with a love for sci-fi.)

So get this: At least one or two new universes are spawned every night right at the Burrito House where I work. Here's what goes down: A 4 a.m. couple comes in, having just met at the dive bar down the street. They're all over each other. But then they get their king-size burritos, chips and salsa, their cokes, they sit across from each other, and as the drunken veil slowly drops, they look at each other, and see – truly see – the person across the table for the first time. I can actually see the slow realization on their faces. Then one of two things happens: They decide to go through with it, or they awkwardly opt to go their separate ways. (You may not believe it, but more times than not, it's the guy that calls it off.) This is where the universes split off: Do they fuck a stranger or no?

Now, I'm not about to disregard the dangers of STDs, sexual assault, or awkward walks of shame, but consider this: My old chum, who I've known since second grade, met his wife just this way, in a disreputable karaoke bar. They had a chance to back out of the deal while they scarfed down Grand Slams at a Denny's, but they wound up at his place doing the deed. And despite him firing off a prize-worthy fart mid-coitus, they've been married five years now, and just gave birth to their second kid. Here's my favorite part: They don't have a polite, sanitized "cover" story of how they met. They tell it exactly how it happened. I'm telling you, that's how my best friend met his soul mate.

I'm not saying that a normally bad choice will always turn out as well as it did for them. I'm just saying, don't be afraid to take a chance sometime, ya know?

Story #311: "Nirvana" (241 words)

2011-04-08T12:19:00.000-07:00

Every Friday, I post a new story in "The Flash" universe (see above tab). Today, I wanted to challenge myself to write a story in this universe, but not directly mention the event of the flash, or at least less so than I usually do. Also, I'm in a show about Cobain and Nirvana that is opening this weekend, so that's where much of my mind has been...

___

Bleach is on the stereo. He hears Cobain’s voice for the first time in easily fifteen years.

He sinks into his bed, eyes blinking slowly, listlessly, the ceiling blurring in and out of reality. He is surrounded by the artifacts of the happiest time of his life - posters, cassette tapes, clothes long gone out of style.

His guitar.

He used to hate how warm it became in his room in the summer. Now he takes joy in every single drop of sweat which beads on his forehead, his arms, his legs. His ears process the competing noises of music, the oscillating fan in the corner, blowing around the musty air. Somewhere outside, the most domestic, calming sound of everyday life: A lawnmower.

He relishes all of this, nothing stained with the faded, sepia tone of the past, but all in bright, vivid color. All of this is here. It is present even more so than the first time through, because now, he appreciates every single relic of childhood with the grateful clarity of a person who has lived through the mediocrity adult life will bring later.

He is drifting off to sleep, and knows upon waking, the spell will be broken; the slow march of growing older into an unsatisfying existence will resume. So before he lets himself go completely, he takes just a few more seconds to smell, hear and feel the happiest moment in either of his lives.

Story 310: "Scone Order" (372 words)

2011-04-07T22:08:00.001-07:00

She had a distinct voice, not necessarily pretty or sexy, deeper than what he would have imagined, which he hadn't until she spoke to order four blueberry scones and the same number of coffees.

"Can you tell I'm ordering for the office?" she asked, holding her wallet and American Express in hand.

"I was wondering 'Is this all for her?'" he said, making the charming customer service small talk as he pulled the tray back in the glass case to reach the scones, and at the same time imagining what it would be like to hear her voice first thing in the morning. What would it sound like making love to her? What would it sound like fucking her? Her body wasn't the first or second one he'd fantasize about, but he wondered what hers would look like, feel like against him. This preoccupied his thoughts as he pumped her coffee, and he neglected to leave room for cream in the first cup and he had to pour a bit out.

"Monday morning meeting?" he asked to continue the banter and get her talking more so he could her voice.

"Oh, you know it," she said, and he continued to picture her in his bed or maybe on his couch. "You know how it is with meetings. A lot of talk, not much getting done."

"Oh, don't I know it," he said, never having attended an actual office meeting in his life.

He had started to take his time in filling her order. "Would you mind hurrying, please? I only have a couple minutes till the meeting starts."

"Oh, sure," he said, feeling chastised, and now imagined how her voice would sound nagging him to pick his socks up off the floor or do the dishes. He started to quickly hear the displeasing qualities in her voice, and he glanced at the imperfections in her body as his considerable gut brushed the counter as he rung up her order.

As he handed her the receipt, he smiled and said, "You have a good day now. She only said, "Thanks", not wishing him one in return, grabbed her bags and drink tray and left. He was sullen for the rest of the day.

Story #309: "It's Yours If You Like" (283 words)

2011-04-06T12:22:00.000-07:00

He is lounging on the rooftop of his apartment building in the hot summer day, reading a forgettable mystery novel he found in the dining car of the train on his last visit home, sitting on a table with a note addressed to everyone and no one saying, "I'm finished. It's yours if you like." It is trite and cliched, but his last read was that one best seller that was a critical darling, and all his friends loved it, but it was also ungodly depressing. In its wake, he welcomes this junk food for the brain, characters he can easily shrug off and care nothing about no matter how many asinine plot turns the story takes.

As mediocre as the book is, though, it is captivating in the moment, so much so that he has not taken notice of the storm clouds rolling in above him until the thunder clap startles him, he jumps, and the paperback folds shut. There are no sprinkles; the downpour is immediate.

His instinct is to jump up, run for the stairwell, which he makes a brief move towards, but he stops himself, realizes the damage has been done, and he already is as wet as he can possibly be.

Another long, low rumble of thunder echos through the sky, an almost kind, fatherly reassurance. "Everything's going to be okay."

He regards the mystery novel he still holds in his hands, ruined now beyond any reasonable measure, but still readable. He reminds himself he has nowhere to be today, and it's been a damn long time since he let himself be carefree in the rain. He flips back to page 138, and rejoins the lead detective in the middle of a harrowing shootout.

Story #308: "Phineas Leaves Early" (396 words)

2011-04-05T14:17:00.000-07:00

Phineas had three hours left of the day, but he was absolutely, unequivocally done. His last task he could easily stretch through the rest of this Tuesday, but it was so mind-numbingly boring he considered it an insult to the intelligence for any person to be forced to execute. His supervisor was absent yet again, and the rest of the staff sat comatose in front of their monitors, and Phineas's decision to leave early wasn't just a good decision, it was a humane one: If he stayed one minute longer, he might go postal and kill them all.

He expected his foul mood to be alleviated once he stepped out onto the street, like a deep sea diver coming up for much needed fresh air, but no relief came, and he saw every single car and person and traffic light as an obstacle on his long commute home, where a cold beer, his recliner, and a two-hour catnap waited. Seeing them as such, he spent all of his senses deftly navigating this quagmire of dumb, his den of peace his much deserved price at the end. And it was this hyper awareness that saved Gregg Cole's life.

Phineas stood at the edge of the sidewalk, waiting anxiously for the bus he could see a half block away, and in his line of sight came strolling Gregg, aiming to cross the street, but all but completely lost in typing on his Blackberry. So distracted he was, he didn't see he had taken two crucial steps out into the intersection, nor did he see the bus speeding through the light towards him. Phineas did, and sprinted fifteen feet in a speed that shocked him, pulling Gregg by his sports coat out of the way just in time.

In an instant, Gregg saw how quickly his life almost ended, and his bladder released, but he didn't notice. All his attention was focused on his savior.

"Oh, my God!” He grabbed Phineas with both hands. "Thank you so, so much. You saved my life!"

Phineas jerked away. "I wasn't saving you, you ass! I was saving my bus!" With that, he was gone and aboard the #146.

Gregg then noticed his wet trousers, and his phone laying in three distinct pieces on the ground. He collected them, and as he (safely this time) began crossing the street, the tears came.

Story #307: "Visions" (254 words)

2011-04-04T13:38:00.000-07:00

Were it not for the crippling pain it foreshadowed, the phenomena that filled George's vision every few days would be spectacular. On the rare occasions he didn't immediately gulp down a Diet Coke and four Excedrin (he refused to get a prescription) and lock himself in a pitch black room, he would allow himself to get lost in the peculiar and bright patterns that floated before him, invisible to the rest of the world.

There were the shapeless voids that simply blanked out parts of his vision, perhaps eliminating his wife's chin and leaving the rest of her cherub face, ever youthful and patient, intact. There were the overlapping triangles that he regarded as a strange armada of spaceships, and those were threatened by the pulsating orbs he regarded as exploding super novas. One time, he described these phantasms as they formed to his seven-year-old son, and later that afternoon, as he kneeled in front of the commode to empty the contents of his stomach, he worried the boy might later experience all of this himself, and on a regular basis just like his old man. He prayed for this not to be the case, to a God he questioned for allowing such useless, constant paint to exist in the world.

More times than not, these bouts ended with hours of restless, sweaty sleep. When he awoke to the much diminished pain, with the faint sounds of his family being otherwise occupied elsewhere in home, waiting for his return, he would cry in relief.

Story #306: "A Few Mornings After" (319 words)

2011-04-03T00:06:00.000-07:00

I woke up a few mornings after, feeling like I might go mad. The first few days were surreal, but easier than I expected. Some of that was the shock, I suppose, but probably more the busyness of it all. All the visitors, all that there was to do. I stayed at your sister's and didn't mind the chill draft in her guest bedroom. It was better than the alternative.

She said I could stay as long as I wanted, but I didn't wish to be a burden, and staying with her would only delay the inevitable. Might as well start facing my new life and all that. The morning I woke up having an anxiety attack, so warm I had to strip off every inch of clothing, hyperventilating, and then, screaming into a pillow I bit into even though if I hadn't no one would have heard me anyway, this all happened on the living room couch because I didn't dare yet try to sleep in our bed.

My bed.

The worst of it passed in minutes, but I wasn't in the clear. This was the lull in the thunderstorm that any second could come back to life with brutal force. I lay on the floor in front of the couch, the carpet prickly against my naked body, waiting for the wave of panic to return.

Then with no logical thought, simply out of a self-flagellating need to whip the rain and wind up again, I reached up on the end table and grabbed my cell phone. Through tears welling in my eyes, I called you. It rang and rang. Then I heard your voice, and began sobbing. Another voice then: “After the tone, please record your message…” The phone dropped out of my hand and slipped to the floor without disconnecting.

The storm returned, and its punishment of me was the last thing recorded in your voicemail.

Story #305: "Close Call" (395 words)

2011-04-02T00:09:00.000-07:00

One Friday night, as Trent and his friends were wrapping up their poker game in the back room of the pizza joint, Mel, their usual waitress, just a couple years out of school, asked if one of them would stick around and make sure she got to her car safe - A bad breakup, an ex who couldn't let go, and a closing manager she didn't trust to not try to take advantage of her.

"The only one left here is Troy," is all Mel had to say, and the guys uniformly nodded. Any one of them would have been willing, but all had wives at home, none of which would understand, except for Trent's.

"No problem,” he said.

They fell into a conversation when he walked her to her Cavalier that lasted a half-hour.

"I'm so sorry," Mel said. "I should let you go.”

Without thinking, he offered, "Do you want me to follow you? Make sure you get home safe. I mean, he could be waiting."

"Sure," she replied, and as they started their cars, both knew a line was being crossed, but still, they proceeded. When she pulled into the drive of her duplex, he watched as she unlocked her front door, waved, and went inside.

Trent told his wife everything the next morning, but was surprised when he adjusted the story so Mel was the one who asked if he would follow her home. This was troublesome, but not enough for him to skip out on the poker game the next Friday, and it didn't stop him from asking her at the end of the night if she needed the favor again.

The guys shot Trent odd looks, none approving, which he ignored.

When their conversation by her car reached two hours, Trent knew he would have some explaining to do when he got home. He said, "I should probably get going."

Mel apologized again for keeping him so long.

He said it was okay. Then they fell silent, staring at each other. Ten seconds passed.

Trent said, "I should go."

"Okay," she said.

They left.

That was it. Trent was able to explain it away the next morning, and every Friday night after, until Mel quit a few months later, they kept the talk small, and only around the poker table. His friends were good guys; they never once asked.