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September 23, 2010

From “Lights of New Providence” by Phil “Stonewall” Pixa

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“It was a lovely ceremony,” Patrick said. “He finally got in death what he lacked in life–respect and a decent suit of clothes.”

“Don’t, please,” said Tricia. “I’m finally starting to put things back together, and I don’t need your meanness making things worse.”

“And that’s exactly why I feel free to be frank, now that some time’s passed. I didn’t say anything at the funeral, after all, out of respect.”

“Stop it,” Tricia said.

“All right, all right,” Patrick’s face softened. “I can see you’re still too upset for me to be my usual crusty self.”

Tricia nodded. “A lot’s been going on.”

“Enough that you need a vacation, eh? Foreman’s been working you too hard?”

“No.”

“Well, then, I’m not going to beat around the bush, Trish. Why’re you here? It’s certainly not for the pleasure of your brother’s company, or the hard mattress in his guest room. The company doesn’t give days off lightly, especially when it means taking a skiff back mid-route.”

Tricia glanced downward, her hands on her stomach. She didn’t need to say anything; Patrick could read her face as if it were one of the Thoreau volumes on his nightstand.

“Oh my God,” he said. “How long?”

“Four months,” Tricia said. “At least, that’s the best the ship’s doctor could say.”

“Is it…?”

“Of course it’s his,” Tricia said. Seeing the look on her brother’s face, she continued. “We were engaged, Pat! ”

“It’s still a sin, Tricia, until the priest asks you that question!”

“Don’t be like that,” she said. “Please. I can’t take it.”

September 22, 2010

From “Whirlpools” by Sean Iversone

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As consistent as the flowing tides are, is that frail thing some call the human mind. A catch-all, a spiritual jar; look through it–you can’t imagine what you’ll find. I find, when i look deep into myself, objects forgotten, people and places.

All waiting for the right time to be heard.

This same time last week I spoke with a soul, and the conversation got out of hand. Our words took root and our heads took to flight and we spoke out our minds ’til dawn’s first light. From policies to fallacies and more, from jarred daffodils to gold dill pickles, from the weather report to the whether retort. Of hearts broken, aching, sometimes attacked, of knots and not-to-be’s, and honeybees, one idea melting into the next.

I’m always surprised at where we end up, but I never regret what I’ve said

Talks like these let you see the inside of another person; what makes them tick. You’ve shared a part of yourself; they have too

But I don’t have many talks like that anymore.

September 17, 2010

From “The Harrowing of Bernwald” by James P. Graham

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Maybe it was the way people walked, or the way their carts worked over the deeply rutted main street. Maybe it was the furtive glances from the children, or the long contemplative stared from the elderly. The general brownness of the place, perhaps, everything caked by dust and debris that would normally be brushed away in the course of daily life.

It could have been any one of those things, or even all of them; Reynald couldn’t be sure. But he felt one thing as clearly as if it were spelled out in stone on the local church.

Bernwald was a melancholy place.

Borne down by some weight, the heavy sadness was evident in every man, woman, and child Reynald could see.

September 16, 2010

From “Solveig’s Songbook” by Trond-Viggo Laarsen

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Solveig delighted in being unconventional, to the point that even her unconventionality defied convention. All the other unconventionalists on the Telthusbakken (and there were many that held themselves to be so) tended to behave in similar ways. They’d attend rallies for the same unpopular causes, wear the same unpopular clothing, indulge in the same trite ‘scandalous’ behavior. Solveig saw this as a roundabout way of the other girls calling attention to themselves and seeking to interest boys (and for more than one of the Telthusbakken girls it was probably an accurate impression).

But underneath it all they still conformed to the same rules and conventions that everyone else did. Solveig took particular delight in uncovering those mundane conventions and flouting them in subtle yet meaningful ways. Nothing ostentatious–to get too carried away was to become one of the others–but always very deliberate.

People drove on the right, and so tended to walk on the right. Solveig walked on the left, and forced people to detour around her.

People faced forward in elevators. Solveig faced the back to the great consternation of all persons boarding, riding, or disembarking.

People paid with debit cards, credit, or large bills. Solveig paid with 50 øre coins.

September 15, 2010

From “The Herringbone Effect” by Samantha Carter-Dixon

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I found Julian right where I thought he’d be: at the heart of the facility.

He’d couldn’t’ve been there a few moments, but the bastard had set up a small mirror to watch his back, in case Castiglio and Kearns failed. I didn’t see the thing until it was almost too late; two rounds from Julian’s pistol shattered the concrete where my head had been moments ago.

Luckily I’d drawn back. I’ve learned to be cautious when things seem too easy.

“Is that all you’ve got for me, Julian?” I shouted around the corner. “Not even a hello?”

“I gave you two of them,” he retorted. “You always were too self-centered, Max. It’s all about you. What did you expect me to do, give a speech?”

I eased my way toward a side hall, painfully aware of how unarmed and vulnerable I was. “I thought after all we’d been through you’d at least want to put a proper ending to it.”

“You’ve got guts, Max. I could’ve used somebody like you. Herringbone, he never saw the potential, but I did. If you’d been a little smarter we could have avoided all this.”

I silently unhooked a fire extinguisher from the wall. “Maybe we still can. It doesn’t have to be like this.”

“I think things are pretty well set on their course by now,” Julian said. “And I sure as hell am not going to listen to you when you try to get me reminiscing for tactical advantage. You leave now, maybe there’s still a chance, but if we come face to face the last thing you’re gonna see is me smiling.”

September 12, 2010

From “On Hypocrisy” by R. J. T. Dunstone

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Jane shrugged. “Hypocrisy is unavoidable in modern life.”

“That’s a rather dim view to take, don’t you think?” said Paul.

“It’s a sensible one,” Jane said. “All but the most careful people will eventually contradict themselves, and nearly everyone holds others to higher standards than they hold themselves–it’s just human nature.”

“Don’t you think it would just be easier for everyone if we said what we felt?” said Paul, pushing a little.

“I don’t necessarily believe that the disguising of one’s feelings is hypocrisy. If everyone openly displayed their feelings and was completely, brutally honest, I hate to think of what the world would be like.”

“Oh come on,” Paul said. “I don’t know that it would be so bad.”

“Tell me, if you thought a woman was ugly as a warthog, would you tell her when she asked?” Jane pressed. “If you were in a lousy mood, would you make sure everyone knew? ‘How are you doing?’ ‘Lousy, you piece of crap! Piss off and leave me alone.'”

“Well, no,” Paul said sheepishly.

“See? That’s not hypocrisy. Hiding one’s feelings isn’t always best, but it does serve a purpose, and more importantly, it’s not a contradiction that others can see. I could be smiling on the outside and sullen on the inside, but who could tell? People could guess, but I would rarely, if ever, state my true feelings if I was hiding them.”

September 11, 2010

From “The Bernstein Fragments” by Marion W. Reilling

Posted by alexp01 under Excerpt | Tags: death, drama, emotion, fiction, funeral, story |
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Our neighborhood was in the oldest part of our town, with houses nearing or over the century mark. We’d been the first new family to move in for years, and once we kids arrived, we found a willing audience in the many elderly widows next door. They tended to enjoy our antics, and kept large dishes bright with gumdrops on their tables for when we visited.

One by one, as the years went by, they all passed away. New families moved in and the old houses were painted and refinished. The house on one corner had its beautiful stand of pine trees cut down while a bevy of modern garages went up in backyards previously left fallow.

In the end, there was only one home left with its original coat of paint and owner, on the far corner of the block.

The end came suddenly, without the lengthy buildup of an illness. While my mother was out of town, the old lady died peacefully, napping in the chair in her living room. The housekeeper found her the next day.

There was no way for my mother to make it home in time to see her friend off, so it fell to our family to go in her stead. It was the first funeral we had attended in years, perhaps the first since I’d gained a more mature understanding of death. The waxy figure barely resembled the woman I’d known.

We met—for the first time, at least that I could remember—her son and daughter, and their children. The son is an overweight man with a tussled comb-over who mumbles a few words before taking a seat. The daughter was much more vibrant, dark-haired and slim.

“We’re really sorry our mother couldn’t come,” I said. “They’d been spending a lot of time together.”

“Oh really?” the daughter said. “What did they do?”

“Just talked, mostly,” I said. “They visited a lot, sometimes did a little cooking together. I think she saw your mother as sort a maternal figure.” I see that as the greatest compliment someone can give; surrogate or not, those relationships are worth a lot.

It makes the daughter uncomfortable. “No, I just think they were friends. Very good friends,” she said, shortly before excusing herself. It’s clear she was uncomfortable with the idea of her mother seeing anyone but her as a daughter figure.

Maybe it was telling that the first time they’d visited in years was to attend the funeral.

September 5, 2010

From “Speaking with Dead Leaves” by Van Bullock

Posted by alexp01 under Blog Chain | Tags: assassin, autumn, drama, emotion, fall, fiction, humor, love, seasons, spring, story |
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This post is part of the September Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s theme is seasons as a metaphor for an aspect of one’s writing.

A little late-season drizzle trickled onto Peter’s car as it crawled through the morass of city traffic during rush hour, just enough to get the wipers moving.

“Another lovely fall day,” said Sedena from the passenger seat. “I do wish Littleton & Associates would find somewhere tropical to send me during this time of year.”

“Sure it’s a little rainy now,” Peter said. “But in a day or two it’ll be all blue and crisp out, and all the park trees will be lit up like Chinese New Year. People sometimes drive up north to get a good gander at fall, but we’ve got all the fall you could want right here. I love it.”

Sedena sighed. “I can’t stand autumn,” she said. “I don’t want to seem needlessly contrary, but I hate it and spring. They tear at me, cloud things, make them difficult.”

A car ahead tried to exploit a gap in the traffic; rather then ruthlessly cut them off, Peter waved them ahead. “What’s to hate? Fall is about beautiful colors, mild temperatures, and that hearty bite to the air before things get too cold. And spring’s a marvelous season of flowers and rebirth after a long winter. I don’t want to seem needlessly contrary either, but I don’t see how anyone couldn’t appreciate that.”

“Not appreciate the highly variable weather patterns that make them a nightmare for people in my line of work?” Sedena said. The driver ahead repaid Peter’s kindness with an obscene gesture, which Sedena returned with gusto. “Autumn is all about death, everything growing gray and cold and the streets choked with photosynthetic corpses. I don’t like to be reminded of that. And spring…granted, there’s new life, but you also get to see the world at its most dead uncovered by snow. Spring for me is soot-choked piles of lingering snow and barren branches with nothing to beautify them.”

Peter’s knuckles whitened around the wheel. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to stir up any bad memories.”

Sedena shrugged. “Forget about it. More than a little of that is my father talking, anyway. The part of me that’d criticize an artist into giving up his craft and then berate him for quitting.”

Check out this month’s other bloggers, all of whom have posted or will post an entry of their own about a seasons as metaphors for aspects of writing:

September 1, 2010

From “Gazebo Memories” by Peter K. Leiding

Posted by alexp01 under Excerpt | Tags: drama, emotion, fiction, first person, gazebo, humor, love |
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It wasn’t the safest place, or the warmest, or the one that stirred the most memories. Those were all spoken for.

But, nonetheless, it was my place.

I sat in the gazebo swing, watching tiny clouds of rust thrown up as the long-still chains moved–as silently as when they were new and freshly oiled. The early autumn sun came in streamers through the trees above and the gaps in the old wooden roof, illuminating a ballet of dust motes that swirled around me.

As a youngster, I’d never been able to understand Dad’s fascination with the gazebo–the long summer afternoons he spent building it, painting it, lovingly planting the trees that now dwarfed it. It had been many things for me growing up: a rocket ship, a fortress, a pirate schooner. But never just a gazebo in the furthest corner of our yard.

It wasn’t until he was gone that I got a better sense of the place. When the time came to clean out his things, Mom had let me do it–too many memories, she said–and I’d found a picture of Dad with his parents. He couldn’t have been more than four or five, and they were posing together on an old gazebo, the very twin of the one I now sat in.

They’d had to sell that house when things had gotten rough after the war, but Dad had seen to it that I had the chance for the same lazy summer memories that he did.

August 28, 2010

From “Reed Dolls of the Soul” by Nokin Kobayashi, translated and adapted by Irene York

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It so happened that the farm of Yuan Wei Tao grew prosperous in a fertile river valley. This prosperity gave Wei Tao the opportunity to indulge in his passions of basketry, pottery, and calligraphy. He was particularly adept at creating dolls out of reeds, which he would give small clay faces and wrap in a poem. Sold at the market in the nearby city, Wei Tao’s dolls were regarded as good luck charms and made particularly favored gifts for teachers, scholars, and firstborn sons. Despite success with his art, Wei Tao always considered himself a farmer first, and always worked his time in the fields before he would allow himself to indulge his fancies.

Wei Tao had a young wife named Xue Ying, and it was for her that the greatest and most intricate of the farmer’s creations were reserved. Though childless, they shared a great and noble love and could often be seen working the fields together alongside laborers and cousins. Xue Ying’s beauty was renowned throughout the river valley, as was the overwhelming devotion she showed for her husband and neighbors. But one day it came to pass that an ox broke free of its plow and trampled Xue Ying beneath his hooves, killing her instantly.

Distraught, Wei Tao withdrew himself from the world. He concealed Xue Ying’s death, convincing others that she was merely badly injured and under his care. In his despair, Wei Tao crafted the finest doll he had ever created and offered it to the Heavenly Grandfather with a poem begging to be honorably reunited with his beloved. His devotion moved the heavens, and a celestial doll appeared on Wei Tao’s doorstep wrapped in instructions.

Wei Tao created a reed doll in the shape and form of Xue Ying, and filled it with poems of the highest quality describing her life and nature. Then, using a process revealed to him by the Heavenly Grandfather, Wei Tao covered the doll in living clay. This new Xue Ying awoke, was to the eyes of Wei Tao as she had ever been. But the celestial doll had borne a warning: though possessing her form and imbued with her spirit, the new Xue Ying was still but straw and clay.

Wei Tao and Xue Ying lived their lives as they had before, but Wei Tao did not heed the Heavenly Grandfather’s caution and once again worked the fields with his beloved. As she carried heavy burdens, the living clay on Xue Ying’s back gradually thinned until a laborer noticed the bare reeds poking out from beneath her clothing. Thus was the doll’s nature revealed to the valley and also to Xue Ying herself.

Excerpts From Nonexistent Books