Parker was right; the rain was keeping the rats in where it was warm and dry. Usually we'd spot some of the braver locals peering down at us from shattered buildings, but motion- and heat-sensors picked up nothing. We rolled on into the rain and fog, Perry keeping the speed at a leisurely 35 mph.
"Let's do some ComSim work," I told the crew. "Load up 37B."
Dex pulled up the Combat Simulation exe, scrolling down to the scenario that had Shelob in a running gun battle with a similar-sized Armor (not that the Rats had anything like her - still, it was always good to be prepared for any eventuality). The weapons crew switched over from live to sim ammo, and soon all the weapons displays read locked and safe. Of course, since we were still in the field these could be overridden and reactivated with a simple slap of a switch on my console, but for the purposes of the simulation we'd refrain from live fire tonight.
"Sim commences in 30," I announced. Virtual enemies began appearing on my displays, showing on my monitor as red-haloed realtime renderings. The weapons crew would see only what appeared to be real adversaries, armed and threatening. RPG-armed rats in the wreckage, mines on the road...and a big old cobbled-together monster built of old-tech bits and pieces and carrying a big-ass cannon on top that looked like it could tear a serious chunk out of Shelob's shell.
"Three...two...aaaaand...live."
Parker and MacDonald began firing in unison, Parker strafing the buildings to clear the threat from above and MacDonald concentrating the big thirties on the enemy Armor. Dex watched ammo counts fall, initiating reloads when they got dangerously low. Powell slid Shelob around from side to side on the road, keeping her going on wheels for now. I knew she'd move to ambulatory soon - she preferred moving that way, said it felt more natural (she once told me, "If they wanted us to stay on wheels they'd have put us in a car"). For now we slewed back and forth across the increasingly devastated tarmac, now faster, now slower.
"Emplacement, eleven-thirty, low," I murmured to Parker. He switched from the rapid-fire Vulcans to the serious 20mm cannons and concentrated his fire on what appeared to be an artillery piece sheltered under a burned-out building face. The building exploded in a cloud of computer-generated dust and rubble, and the artillery ammo went up in a red and gold shower of flame and sparks.
"I could use a little assistance here," MacDonald muttered between gritted teeth. I checked our status and noted with a little annoyance that we'd sustained considerable hull damage, at least as far as the sim calculated it.
"Parker, thirties," I ordered, as Parker had the better shot on the Armor that had veered across the road in front of us.
"MacDonald, mortar. That building at three o'clock - bring it down."
MacDonald pumped five mortar rounds into the base of a teetering six storey building and the combined force of the explosions brought the wreckage down in a crash of concrete and rebar. The enemy Armor, which had been flying down the road at roughly our speed, suddenly found its path blocked. We felt a lurch as Shelob popped a few inches off the ground, then came down nimbly on her six powerful legs and she skittered up and over the top of the wreckage. The other Armor, unable to follow, stopped and began backtracking to try to follow us around the wreckage. I gave it just enough time to commit to the other direction, then gave the word and Powell crawled us back over the rubble and we had a clear line of fire into the Armor's backside. Parker and MacDonald toggled over to the thirties and opened up on the back of the enemy, and that was pretty much the end of that.
We pulled to a stop and all the simulated wreckage and fire disappeared. Everyone's display began running down their stats and evaluations of their performances.
"Well. That was a clusterfuck," Dex announced.
"Mmm," I agreed. "You know, 37B probably gives us the stupidest opponent we get in all of these ComSim routines, and yet we're at...lemme see...32 percent armor viability. What the hell happened back there?"
MacDonald bristled.
"Hey, I was trading fire with that thing while we're sliding up the middle of the road like we're in a goddam parade, and I'm getting no complementary fire from Mr. Parker over there."
"Parker?" I asked.
"Sorry, Cap, I figured those seven or eight rpg's in the building needed some attention."
"True. Powell?"
"This part of town sucks, Cap. No shelter. I tried to keep us swerving, but - well, you know Shelob doesn't change direction too fast - and she's a pretty easy target to hit."
"Also true. So what do we do about this? Granted, the premise is a bit of a stretch - only kind of Armor the rats have managed to put together routinely explodes when they try to start it up. Still. We need to work this one better."
"We'll work it in the debriefing when we get back to station."
At that point I returned to my monitors to take a look around at where we'd ended up. We'd gotten a fair distance into the Sprawl proper by this point, and all signs of civilization had been left behind; the rain and fog hid the glow of the OutCity that would normally be visible from here, leaving us in the full dark of the Sprawl at night.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Monday, September 11, 2006
The Big Write
This week we do our week-long piece.
Here's how it works. Each of us finds a pic and posts it (or if you're completely at a loss and/or like someone else's pic better you can use that) and writes the usual ten minutes or so on that pic.
The next day you pick up where you left off. Instead of a while new piece you're going to continue on with the piece you wrote the previous day. The following day, same thing, and so on until the end of the week when we'll each have wonderful five-day-long storyettes.
The consensus seems to be that appending new posts works best, so instead of the usual way of posting, create a new post (that way we can see each day's entry) and modify the time and date of posting so that it shows up right after the one before it.
Now: get to work, you slackers!
Here's how it works. Each of us finds a pic and posts it (or if you're completely at a loss and/or like someone else's pic better you can use that) and writes the usual ten minutes or so on that pic.
The next day you pick up where you left off. Instead of a while new piece you're going to continue on with the piece you wrote the previous day. The following day, same thing, and so on until the end of the week when we'll each have wonderful five-day-long storyettes.
The consensus seems to be that appending new posts works best, so instead of the usual way of posting, create a new post (that way we can see each day's entry) and modify the time and date of posting so that it shows up right after the one before it.
Now: get to work, you slackers!
Chapter 1: Statue of a Lady
1748 England - I lived in a time and place in which the greatest efforts of my nation were bent to dominating the seas. We at first took on this mission as an effort at self-preservation, but it quickly became evident that military dominance was but a prelude to commercial endeavors. The powers of Europe were bent on the same task. Spain was not the sea power she once was, but was still strong and France was reported to be spending large sums on expanding her fleet.To a large extent the new resources and markets provided by colonial expansion allowed all the powers to grow their economies and England in particular enjoyed this growth. Her colonies provided cotton which the textile mills turned into cloth and linen which was in turn shipped back to these same colonies as well as other countries. England's balance sheet was, as they say, heavily in the black. To keep up with the economic growth, the great shipbuilding yards in Bristol and Chatham were building scores more ships of commerce than warships. Not all the ship's keels were newly laid. In protecting her interests, England's navy was sometimes able to take prize ships which were sent to the shipyards for refitting and a new life under the Cross of St. George.
Without a doubt, life in most English seafaring towns revolved around the sea and Chatham was no exception. I can recollect the day on which the five arrived like it was yesterday. Five prizes taken at once was not a common event. Indeed, one by itself was an event. A prize ship was not only an addition to the fleet, but one less ship in another country's fleet. So it was with no surprise that, though the ships arrived with the dawn, they were greeted by a large part of the populace. The ships had all flags flying and cheer after cheer went up from the docks. This is where my story really begins.
In my opinion, Mary Aster was the loveliest young lady in Chatham. With blue eyes and hair like brushed gold, she stood out from her peers as the sun from the moon. Even so, it was wasn't without the proper introductions to well-placed persons that she was chosen as the sculpter's subject. Her mother had used every possible acquaintance in the effort and when the announcement was made she could not help but be insufferably pleased with herself. After all, the selection of her daughter as the model for Mr. Danglars was sure to place her in circles advantageous for marriage options. To be sure, Mr. Adam Danglars had been chosen by the Lord of the Admiralty himself for the honor of sculpting a new masthead for one of the prize ships that had been reported to be enroute. Befitting the persons involved, an unveiling was performed to the great pleasure of the city's socially elite and the masthead was generally expected to bring good luck to the ship that was refitted with it.
Chapter 2: Ship's boy
There had been considerable speculation as to which ship would be refitted with the masthead of Ms. Aster. After much discussion, the Admiralty decided that the former French ship Pluton would have the honor. She was a seventy-four gun ship of the line and finest of the five prize ships sent to the Chatham ship yards. She was not old as ships go, only five years since christening. As such most of the refitting work was aimed at matching her to the exacting standards of the British navy.The Admiralty had sent a Ship Master to oversee the installation of the new masthead and assume some basic administrative duties related to accepting supplies needed for the refit. However, it wasn't until a captain and officers were installed that the work began in earnest and there was much to do. The docks, which until now held mostly visitors, came alive with carpenters, craftsmen, and persons from the Admiralty. Crew selection was initiated and each day, as more sailors were signed, the work pace picked up. Some of the rigging had been damaged when the ship was captured, so the captain ordered that all of it should be replaced. Provisions and supplies were competely unloaded from the hold to allow an inventory be taken and the hold inspected. I had been around the yards and docks my entire life, but never felt the desire to be aboard a ship until now. As exciting as it was to watch the refitting effort go forward I could only imagine the feeling of pride which seemed to swell in the officers and crew as project after project was completed. She was a proud craft with beautiful lines and standing next to her I was awed by her size. The masts were so tall that sailors checking the rigging and working the top sails were sometimes obscured by low, early morning clouds.
I had become a fixture on the dock and increasingly an obstruction to the inventory and provisioning work being performed. "Boy!", called out an irritated Lieutenant. "I have ten tonnes of crates to move, check, and repack in the hold and you are starting to get in the way. Unless you are the Ship's Boy I will ask you to remove yourself from the docks." I was panicked at the thought of not being near the ship, so asked "Sir, do you have a Ship's Boy already?" The Lieutenant looked thoughtfully for a moment and said, "No. Not yet, but if you have a mind to offer yourself for that post the captain will require permission from your father."
So it was, that after a brief discussion with my father that the appropriate papers were signed and returned to the captain, and I became Ship's Boy. Wasting no time I thanked my father, hugged mother, and ran to my room. It did not take long to lay every possession on the bed. Two changes of clothes (other than what I had on), bible, brush, and a penny whistle. I was briefly concerned on discovering that I had no bag in which to pack my things, but mother anticipated the need and came in with my grandfather's seabag. Hugging her again I stuffed my things into the bag; filling barely a quarter of the space.
As I was preparing to leave Father came in. "Son, since we were unable to place you as an apprentice with any tradesmen your future here would have been bleak. That said, our family has always been around and aboard ships, so it is in your blood and as such I believe you have made a good choice. Be aware that you will face many dangers on the high seas and you must be brave. There is no place to run on a ship and she is only as strong as the people who sail her. When trouble comes and you want to run and hide - hold fast and do what you must!" With Father's words still in my thoughts I tossed the seabag over my shoulder and left the only house I had ever known.
Chapter 3 - Better Follow Orders
Now that I was officially a member of the crew, duties were assigned which I was obliged to carry out. Captain Kelson made certain I understood that orders were to be followed quickly, completely, and without question. The severity of his gaze told me that I would get no special treatment because of my age and there were to be no half measures or punishment could be expected.Having been part of a family with a seafaring tradition I already knew that the safety of a ship was in large part dependant on the discipline of her crew and captain. The British navy had rules and harsh punishments for breaking those rules, but failure to follow orders by neglect or incompetence were at the top of the list. For such an offense a seaman could expect a whipping with the cat-o-nine-tails. This was a whip with nine long pieces of leather, the ends of which were sometimes tipped with sharp metal. Once in a while an indolent person would join a crew and break the cardinal rule. Usually it just took one meeting with "the cat" to set that person straight as well as remind the rest of the crew what happens when a rule is broken. As you might guess, such a horrible instrument ensured that orders would almost always be followed.
While the ship was docked my duties generally consisted of running messages for the Captain or ship's master. To be identified as a member of a ship's crew I was given a blue jacket with copper buttons to wear over my clothes. I chuckled at the looks on the faces of the other boys who hung around the docks as I had. Each looked as though he would have given a sack of pennies to trade places. Often they would follow me from the ship to the offices of the Admiralty and back, but not wearing the uniform of Ship's Boy meant they could not pass the door of the offices nor the gangway of the ship. I believe that while a bit jealous, they still felt a certain pride in knowing that one of their own was Ship's Boy rather than some young stranger from Bristol or London.
Aboard, the work pace continued to mount. An entire crew had been assembled and was being drilled in various tasks by the Lieutenant's during both day and night. The Captain had ordered that the night time drills in particular should be flawlessly performed. At sea when there was no moon the only light would come from the stars and a few lanterns. The sailors also knew that on those moonless or cloudy nights, from high up in the rigging the lantern light would often be shaded by sails and it would be blacker than a Spaniard's heart. It might be windy too, so a man needed to know with confidence where to put his feet and hands.
Heavy Metal
The smell of hot metal filled the air as I walked through the hangar to the ops room. Didn't look like too much action today; a couple of semis up on lifts, a ground-effect shuttle with its guts spilled out in front of it, and a couple of one-man tanks getting what looked like routine maintenance tweaks. It was even quiet enough to hold a conversation, a rare state out on the floor. I mentioned it to Dex and he nodded agreement.
We carded in through the security door to ops and dropped our gear bags by the lockers. Dex went to check the duty rosters and I wandered over to where a couple of noncoms were doing system checks on Omni - the usual stuff, sensor feeds, network connections, clean self-diagnostics - all the things that kept our computerized coordinator running in prime order. I peered over their shoulders and got a quick strobe-view of a half-dozen active patrols - system status, vid from hull-mounted cameras, crew biometrics. Looked like a pretty quiet day out there.
The sound of maintenance work got briefly louder and I checked behind me and saw that Wilkes had come in. He walked straight to me with a suppressed smile on his face.
"When I was ten my brother hid a snake in my bed," I ribbed him, "He had that same look on his face while we were changing into our pjs."
"Well, sir, I have to say that you always provide me an opportunity to challenge my professional skills," he said in a broad Tidewater drawl. When Dex first met Wilkes he talked to him for a good ten minutes, after which he confided to me, "I think I understood maybe one word out of ten from that guy." The accent sounds curiously like a New England fisherman's speech, but it's all Virginia. Wilkes had spent his entire life in the Norfolk area, and had cut his teeth working on the big warships, carriers and the like. We had him now, and there wasn't an urban patrol vehicle he couldn't spank into shape.
"So is she ready?" I asked. I knew the answer, just wanted to give him the satisfaction of saying it.
"Only one way to find out," he replied.
I called Dex and the three of us headed back out onto the floor, down the corridor into the big bays, and out into one of the monster hangars where she was waiting for us.
I don't know whether or not Wilkes had told us to be there at that specific time because he knew the light was going to be just right but if he had I admired his sense of drama. Dex whistled low when he caught sight of her and we just stood there for a few minutes admiring her glowing in the hazy sunlight that slanted down through the high bay windows.
If your kid made a drawing of an MPAC-15 Urban Pacification Chassis you might guess it was some kind of bug - a sand flea, maybe, something along those lines. But the only bug you'd find this big would be in an old '50's horror movie where some atomic accident had bred giant, mutated ants. The MPAC stood about 22 feet at the crest and had six heavily armored legs that kept it moving and stable. She took the largest crew of the any vehicle in the force and at top speed she could go in one side of any building and out the other like pig fat through a goose and that wasn't even if she used any of her eight weapons systems.
She was beautiful, a monstrous metal work of art. And the last time I'd seen her she'd been about as bad off as I'd ever seen a vehicle that was still capable of moving under its own power - vast swaths of scorched metal, countless divots where shells had impacted the armor - and far too many holes where some of those shells had penetrated.
And, of course, the blood. Most of it not ours, but some of it Parker's. That thought brought my reverie of admiration up short.
"You've done the full diagnostics?" I grilled Wilkes, "Not just the system reinstall routine?"
"Sure did, Cap, and she checks out green on all boards."
Dex said, "Well, she sure looks fine."
"Anyone with a welding torch and a can of wax can make it look fine," I grunted.
Wilkes looked slightly miffed. "I can run another set of routines if it'll make you feel better Cap." He'd do it, too - but he'd be cranky about it. There's a right time to make your chief engineer cranky, but this wasn't it.
I sighed and said, "No, I know you've already checked her over. Besides, if I know you you've already taken her over the course, haven't you?"
The look in his eyes confirmed what I'd guessed; he'd already taken her out for a spin through the training and obstacle course out behind the hangars - probably wasn't hard to crew her up either, just offered a few of the other mechanics a chance to take her out for a jaunt.
He grinned a bit and drawled, "Well, had to make sure she was shipshape, y'know Cap?"
We carded in through the security door to ops and dropped our gear bags by the lockers. Dex went to check the duty rosters and I wandered over to where a couple of noncoms were doing system checks on Omni - the usual stuff, sensor feeds, network connections, clean self-diagnostics - all the things that kept our computerized coordinator running in prime order. I peered over their shoulders and got a quick strobe-view of a half-dozen active patrols - system status, vid from hull-mounted cameras, crew biometrics. Looked like a pretty quiet day out there.
The sound of maintenance work got briefly louder and I checked behind me and saw that Wilkes had come in. He walked straight to me with a suppressed smile on his face.
"When I was ten my brother hid a snake in my bed," I ribbed him, "He had that same look on his face while we were changing into our pjs."
"Well, sir, I have to say that you always provide me an opportunity to challenge my professional skills," he said in a broad Tidewater drawl. When Dex first met Wilkes he talked to him for a good ten minutes, after which he confided to me, "I think I understood maybe one word out of ten from that guy." The accent sounds curiously like a New England fisherman's speech, but it's all Virginia. Wilkes had spent his entire life in the Norfolk area, and had cut his teeth working on the big warships, carriers and the like. We had him now, and there wasn't an urban patrol vehicle he couldn't spank into shape.
"So is she ready?" I asked. I knew the answer, just wanted to give him the satisfaction of saying it.
"Only one way to find out," he replied.
I called Dex and the three of us headed back out onto the floor, down the corridor into the big bays, and out into one of the monster hangars where she was waiting for us.
I don't know whether or not Wilkes had told us to be there at that specific time because he knew the light was going to be just right but if he had I admired his sense of drama. Dex whistled low when he caught sight of her and we just stood there for a few minutes admiring her glowing in the hazy sunlight that slanted down through the high bay windows.
If your kid made a drawing of an MPAC-15 Urban Pacification Chassis you might guess it was some kind of bug - a sand flea, maybe, something along those lines. But the only bug you'd find this big would be in an old '50's horror movie where some atomic accident had bred giant, mutated ants. The MPAC stood about 22 feet at the crest and had six heavily armored legs that kept it moving and stable. She took the largest crew of the any vehicle in the force and at top speed she could go in one side of any building and out the other like pig fat through a goose and that wasn't even if she used any of her eight weapons systems.
She was beautiful, a monstrous metal work of art. And the last time I'd seen her she'd been about as bad off as I'd ever seen a vehicle that was still capable of moving under its own power - vast swaths of scorched metal, countless divots where shells had impacted the armor - and far too many holes where some of those shells had penetrated.
And, of course, the blood. Most of it not ours, but some of it Parker's. That thought brought my reverie of admiration up short.
"You've done the full diagnostics?" I grilled Wilkes, "Not just the system reinstall routine?"
"Sure did, Cap, and she checks out green on all boards."
Dex said, "Well, she sure looks fine."
"Anyone with a welding torch and a can of wax can make it look fine," I grunted.
Wilkes looked slightly miffed. "I can run another set of routines if it'll make you feel better Cap." He'd do it, too - but he'd be cranky about it. There's a right time to make your chief engineer cranky, but this wasn't it.
I sighed and said, "No, I know you've already checked her over. Besides, if I know you you've already taken her over the course, haven't you?"
The look in his eyes confirmed what I'd guessed; he'd already taken her out for a spin through the training and obstacle course out behind the hangars - probably wasn't hard to crew her up either, just offered a few of the other mechanics a chance to take her out for a jaunt.
He grinned a bit and drawled, "Well, had to make sure she was shipshape, y'know Cap?"
Heavy Metal Cont'd
-
While Dex went to the MPAC (her technical designation was MPAC-UPC08X929, but Parker had dubbed her "Shelob" and somehow the name stuck - he said it was from some book he'd read) and started unhooking fuel and data feeds, Wilkes booted the warmup sequence from the master panel. I remember the first time I heard that engine rev up - I expected something loud and growly, like a big old eighteen wheeler gearing for a drag or something, but instead it's a low, heavy whine as deep in her guts her nuclear powerplant spills engergy into the massive, magnetically-supported flywheel. There were a few higher pitched whines as corkscrew servos adjusted the tension on the legs and she shifted subtly, coming to life and finding her balance.
Wilkes jabbed at a flashing rectangle on the touchscreen and Shelob popped a small port open under her leading edge. I walked over and dropped a short ladder down and clambered up inside and into the cozy command pod. Unlike the old tank interiors Shelob was designed to keep her crew comfortable, albeit still tight. She had a noise cancelling system that kept the interior quiet enough to speak at a normal volume (except when the big thirty mikes were firing - then all conversation stopped!) and a climate control setup that kept the crew at a comfortable 72 degrees no matter how hot it got outside. The command seat was elevated above Dex's operations panel where he monitored all the life functions of Shelob, and between the two weapons stations. The nav system was behind my seat, back to my back. The driver's station was lowest and farthest forward, down a step in front of Dex's spot. My station was equipped primarily with numerous data monitors, where I could access info on whatever was happening in the vehicle, or choose to use vid feeds from the thirteen cameras scattered over the hull. I could even pop a small port over my head and stand on my seat and get a practical eye view from the top of Shelob if I wanted.
As I settled into my seat and began to configure the pod for my prefs, choosing seat orientation and monitor designation, Dex said,
"Here comes the fun bunch - cam six."
I toggled a touchscreen button on one of the vid-feed monitors and the display showed the view from one of the forward-facing cameras. The rest of Shelob's crew were arriving, clearly as awed by the sight of the repaired craft as Dex and I had been. I slid the mike headset over one ear and held down a switch on the arm of my chair, and my voice boomed out into the hangar,
"All right, don't just stand there with your jaws hangin' - we got work to do."
They hustled on in, squeezing up through the chin port one at a time. MacDonald on port weapons, Sharpe on starboard, Lambert on the nav console and Powell in the driver's seat. They settled into their seats, adjusting them to their preferences as I had and grumbling jokingly about what a half-ass job the tech guys had done putting her back together. I let them bellyache for a few minutes, then told them to zip it and get the beast operational.
Finally my panel showed green on all stations, and Lambert asked,
"So we gonna take her out on the course Cap, or we got a real gig today?"
They had all turned to look at me so when I replied, "We're taking her out on Patrol Six," I could see the grimaces that flashed across their faces. The banter stopped and they each turned back to their stations with a tension that had not been there moments earlier.
Patrol Six. Worst patrol route in our zone. The worst for cover, the worst for tactical advantage, and the most likely to have a raft of bad characters looking to do us some harm. It was out on Patrol Six that we'd taken so much damage the last time out, and it was on Patrol Six that we lost Parker.
While Dex went to the MPAC (her technical designation was MPAC-UPC08X929, but Parker had dubbed her "Shelob" and somehow the name stuck - he said it was from some book he'd read) and started unhooking fuel and data feeds, Wilkes booted the warmup sequence from the master panel. I remember the first time I heard that engine rev up - I expected something loud and growly, like a big old eighteen wheeler gearing for a drag or something, but instead it's a low, heavy whine as deep in her guts her nuclear powerplant spills engergy into the massive, magnetically-supported flywheel. There were a few higher pitched whines as corkscrew servos adjusted the tension on the legs and she shifted subtly, coming to life and finding her balance.
Wilkes jabbed at a flashing rectangle on the touchscreen and Shelob popped a small port open under her leading edge. I walked over and dropped a short ladder down and clambered up inside and into the cozy command pod. Unlike the old tank interiors Shelob was designed to keep her crew comfortable, albeit still tight. She had a noise cancelling system that kept the interior quiet enough to speak at a normal volume (except when the big thirty mikes were firing - then all conversation stopped!) and a climate control setup that kept the crew at a comfortable 72 degrees no matter how hot it got outside. The command seat was elevated above Dex's operations panel where he monitored all the life functions of Shelob, and between the two weapons stations. The nav system was behind my seat, back to my back. The driver's station was lowest and farthest forward, down a step in front of Dex's spot. My station was equipped primarily with numerous data monitors, where I could access info on whatever was happening in the vehicle, or choose to use vid feeds from the thirteen cameras scattered over the hull. I could even pop a small port over my head and stand on my seat and get a practical eye view from the top of Shelob if I wanted.
As I settled into my seat and began to configure the pod for my prefs, choosing seat orientation and monitor designation, Dex said,
"Here comes the fun bunch - cam six."
I toggled a touchscreen button on one of the vid-feed monitors and the display showed the view from one of the forward-facing cameras. The rest of Shelob's crew were arriving, clearly as awed by the sight of the repaired craft as Dex and I had been. I slid the mike headset over one ear and held down a switch on the arm of my chair, and my voice boomed out into the hangar,
"All right, don't just stand there with your jaws hangin' - we got work to do."
They hustled on in, squeezing up through the chin port one at a time. MacDonald on port weapons, Sharpe on starboard, Lambert on the nav console and Powell in the driver's seat. They settled into their seats, adjusting them to their preferences as I had and grumbling jokingly about what a half-ass job the tech guys had done putting her back together. I let them bellyache for a few minutes, then told them to zip it and get the beast operational.
Finally my panel showed green on all stations, and Lambert asked,
"So we gonna take her out on the course Cap, or we got a real gig today?"
They had all turned to look at me so when I replied, "We're taking her out on Patrol Six," I could see the grimaces that flashed across their faces. The banter stopped and they each turned back to their stations with a tension that had not been there moments earlier.
Patrol Six. Worst patrol route in our zone. The worst for cover, the worst for tactical advantage, and the most likely to have a raft of bad characters looking to do us some harm. It was out on Patrol Six that we'd taken so much damage the last time out, and it was on Patrol Six that we lost Parker.
Heavy Metal part 3
I scanned over my readouts to triple-check all the systems. As I surveyed all the status indicators Dex's private comm channel began flashing as he keyed me a private message.
*how did omni authorize us on p6 this soon?*
I'd thought about this all morning, ever since I'd checked the assignments and seen that they were throwing us right back into the fire.
*unsure. guess psych profiles recommend a "get back on the horse" approach*
I couldn't see Dex's face from my vantage but I knew he was rolling his eyes.
*did you say anything to anyone? did they even consider the cherries?*
Sharpe had joined Shelob's crew to fill Parker's seat and Powell had replaced Vance Perry, our last driver. Perry had requested a transer out of Urban Armor after the last mission. They were "cherries" - neither one had ridden in the MPAC on a real patrol, neither one had seen real fire yet. They performed fine in the sims, but the sims aren't the streets.
*omni must think they're ready. are we good for go yet?*
Dex dropped it and did a quick scan of his monitors, then gave me a thumbs-up. I checked through the crew for go/no go and, after getting the go-ahead from everyone, toggled my comm channel to Ops.
"Ops this is MPAC X Nine-two-niner, all systems go and green on all boards. Requesting permission to commence patrol."
"Roger nine-two-nine. We have confirmation on all systems. Please verify tac orders."
My mind flashed back to a morning two months ago when I'd heard those exact same words. That morning I'd replied eagerly; this time I found it a lot harder to respond. Finally I forced it out through my clenched teeth:
"Tac orders: follow patrol route six. Survey and pacify as needed."
There was a long moment of silence - longer than usual - then finally Ops came back.
"Roger nine-two-niner. You are cleared for patrol."
Ops clicked off and my rear-facing monitors showed the big bay door behind us starting to crawl up and open.
"Take us out," I ordered, and Powell executed a one-point turn that faced us out into the sunlight. She glanced over her shoulder at me for confirmation and, at my nod, slid the twin joysticks forward slightly and Shelob rolled out into the day.
*how did omni authorize us on p6 this soon?*
I'd thought about this all morning, ever since I'd checked the assignments and seen that they were throwing us right back into the fire.
*unsure. guess psych profiles recommend a "get back on the horse" approach*
I couldn't see Dex's face from my vantage but I knew he was rolling his eyes.
*did you say anything to anyone? did they even consider the cherries?*
Sharpe had joined Shelob's crew to fill Parker's seat and Powell had replaced Vance Perry, our last driver. Perry had requested a transer out of Urban Armor after the last mission. They were "cherries" - neither one had ridden in the MPAC on a real patrol, neither one had seen real fire yet. They performed fine in the sims, but the sims aren't the streets.
*omni must think they're ready. are we good for go yet?*
Dex dropped it and did a quick scan of his monitors, then gave me a thumbs-up. I checked through the crew for go/no go and, after getting the go-ahead from everyone, toggled my comm channel to Ops.
"Ops this is MPAC X Nine-two-niner, all systems go and green on all boards. Requesting permission to commence patrol."
"Roger nine-two-nine. We have confirmation on all systems. Please verify tac orders."
My mind flashed back to a morning two months ago when I'd heard those exact same words. That morning I'd replied eagerly; this time I found it a lot harder to respond. Finally I forced it out through my clenched teeth:
"Tac orders: follow patrol route six. Survey and pacify as needed."
There was a long moment of silence - longer than usual - then finally Ops came back.
"Roger nine-two-niner. You are cleared for patrol."
Ops clicked off and my rear-facing monitors showed the big bay door behind us starting to crawl up and open.
"Take us out," I ordered, and Powell executed a one-point turn that faced us out into the sunlight. She glanced over her shoulder at me for confirmation and, at my nod, slid the twin joysticks forward slightly and Shelob rolled out into the day.
Heavy Metal Part 4 - The Sprawl
Shelob rolled out into the dark and the rain, across the wet tarmac that cast specular reflections of the massive tower lights that surrounded the yard. We headed toward the lock-gates, Dex uttering a clearance-coded request to Omni that the gate be opened.
"Nice night," Parker murmured. I glanced over at him and he turned slightly to grin up at me, his dark face glowing warmly in the green glow of his nightscan monitors.
"Rain keeps the rats in," he clarified. I nodded agreement and turned back to watch the big gates sliding open on my main hud.
He was right - the rain would indeed keep the rats in, though there was likely little enough to worry about from them even without it. Increased ration drops over the city had dulled some of the freeform hostility that we usually ran into, and Intel and Recon reported that recent raids on weapons and ammo smuggling ops had reduced the sprawl rats' ability to inflict any real damage on us. I&R seemed confident that the threat level was low in the field, so any apprehension my crew had felt about drawing Patrol Route 6 was alleviated.
The enormous inner gates rumbled to a stop and Shelob slid smoothly into the space before the heavier, more armored outer gates that opened out into the sprawl. The lock was tight for Shelob; she was, after all, the biggest armored vehicle on the force. We caught a lot of ribbing from the crews of other smaller, lighter armors but they never seemed to mind Shelob's size when she rolled up, guns blazing, to help them out of a tight spot.
A red light flashed on my readout, then went solid as the inner gates closed again behind us, then an adjacent light began flashing green as the outer gates began to open. As they parted to the sides the hulking shape of the sprawl came into view on our nightvision displays.
Imagine Dresden after WWDos, or Beirut in the late 20th. Now imagine a whole new city had sprung up out of the ruins, only instead of clearing the wreckage they just scavenged it or built over it. Now: knock that city down. Repeat the process. Do it again. Repeat one more time and you've got the sprawl: the corpse of a major global city, now reduced to rubble and the husks of skyscrapers and malls and office parks. Any urban integrity this city had once held was gone; there was no business, no suburbs, no shopping. No infrastructure, no support, just a decaying pile of rubble stretching off dozens of miles in every direction.
And the inhabitants - the sprawl rats - were little more than feral scavengers. They organized into loose tribes, huddled for shelter in spaces they found or dug out of the ruins, and fought each other over territory, food, goods they dug out of the wreckage, and pretty much anything else that felt like a good reason for fighting at the moment. About the only thing they agreed on was us: they liked fighting us more than anything else. And they were surprisingly well armed: smugglers brought in a steady stream of arms and ammo, paid off in lost wealth the rats dug out from the rubble. It was not uncommon to see a naked, filthy child of ten aiming a state-of-the-art rpg at you.
So why we were even there? If it was so savage, what's the point of a Military/Police presence at all? That's a question constantly under debate in the House of Senators - the argument "for" is that the sprawl rats ARE well armed, and that if they were ever to unite or organize (as they did once before) they might present a real danger to the peace of the OutCity. Those opposed maintain that the walls that surround the sprawl are enough to keep it contained, that the MiliPolice presence could be redeployed to wall duty to strengthen its defenses, and that the threat of the sprawl dwellers could be undercut by more effect and aggressive action against the smugglers who arm them. It's a pretty standard election-year issue, hasn't changed much in the last twenty years or so. We pretty much just end up going where we're told to go, though I can say personally that I'd rather be here in my command seat than busting my dogs walking up and down that huge steel wall that stretches hundreds of miles around the ruins of the city.
The flashing green light on my display went solid as the gates stopped.
"Take us out, Perry," I said and we moved forward into the rain and the dark. I flicked a few toggles and Shelob's lights flared up, surrounding us in a cocoon of illumination that beat back the darkness for fifty yards on all sides. We moved out on what was left of roadway - not so bad here, close to the base, but which became progessively worse and worse until we'd have to switch from wheels to legs.
"You have your route, Mr. Perry - Patrol Six."
"Nice night," Parker murmured. I glanced over at him and he turned slightly to grin up at me, his dark face glowing warmly in the green glow of his nightscan monitors.
"Rain keeps the rats in," he clarified. I nodded agreement and turned back to watch the big gates sliding open on my main hud.
He was right - the rain would indeed keep the rats in, though there was likely little enough to worry about from them even without it. Increased ration drops over the city had dulled some of the freeform hostility that we usually ran into, and Intel and Recon reported that recent raids on weapons and ammo smuggling ops had reduced the sprawl rats' ability to inflict any real damage on us. I&R seemed confident that the threat level was low in the field, so any apprehension my crew had felt about drawing Patrol Route 6 was alleviated.
The enormous inner gates rumbled to a stop and Shelob slid smoothly into the space before the heavier, more armored outer gates that opened out into the sprawl. The lock was tight for Shelob; she was, after all, the biggest armored vehicle on the force. We caught a lot of ribbing from the crews of other smaller, lighter armors but they never seemed to mind Shelob's size when she rolled up, guns blazing, to help them out of a tight spot.
A red light flashed on my readout, then went solid as the inner gates closed again behind us, then an adjacent light began flashing green as the outer gates began to open. As they parted to the sides the hulking shape of the sprawl came into view on our nightvision displays.
Imagine Dresden after WWDos, or Beirut in the late 20th. Now imagine a whole new city had sprung up out of the ruins, only instead of clearing the wreckage they just scavenged it or built over it. Now: knock that city down. Repeat the process. Do it again. Repeat one more time and you've got the sprawl: the corpse of a major global city, now reduced to rubble and the husks of skyscrapers and malls and office parks. Any urban integrity this city had once held was gone; there was no business, no suburbs, no shopping. No infrastructure, no support, just a decaying pile of rubble stretching off dozens of miles in every direction.
And the inhabitants - the sprawl rats - were little more than feral scavengers. They organized into loose tribes, huddled for shelter in spaces they found or dug out of the ruins, and fought each other over territory, food, goods they dug out of the wreckage, and pretty much anything else that felt like a good reason for fighting at the moment. About the only thing they agreed on was us: they liked fighting us more than anything else. And they were surprisingly well armed: smugglers brought in a steady stream of arms and ammo, paid off in lost wealth the rats dug out from the rubble. It was not uncommon to see a naked, filthy child of ten aiming a state-of-the-art rpg at you.
So why we were even there? If it was so savage, what's the point of a Military/Police presence at all? That's a question constantly under debate in the House of Senators - the argument "for" is that the sprawl rats ARE well armed, and that if they were ever to unite or organize (as they did once before) they might present a real danger to the peace of the OutCity. Those opposed maintain that the walls that surround the sprawl are enough to keep it contained, that the MiliPolice presence could be redeployed to wall duty to strengthen its defenses, and that the threat of the sprawl dwellers could be undercut by more effect and aggressive action against the smugglers who arm them. It's a pretty standard election-year issue, hasn't changed much in the last twenty years or so. We pretty much just end up going where we're told to go, though I can say personally that I'd rather be here in my command seat than busting my dogs walking up and down that huge steel wall that stretches hundreds of miles around the ruins of the city.
The flashing green light on my display went solid as the gates stopped.
"Take us out, Perry," I said and we moved forward into the rain and the dark. I flicked a few toggles and Shelob's lights flared up, surrounding us in a cocoon of illumination that beat back the darkness for fifty yards on all sides. We moved out on what was left of roadway - not so bad here, close to the base, but which became progessively worse and worse until we'd have to switch from wheels to legs.
"You have your route, Mr. Perry - Patrol Six."
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Campaigners
Tavin stopped halfway through the entrance into the chamber and scanned it thoroughly from floor to lofty ceiling. It had the look of an ancient cell, though the girth of the enormous chains dangling from the ceiling and walls led Tavin to wonder what prisoners it was meant to hold. He felt a chill as he noted that some of the chains appeared to have been snapped off.
The room itself was small but high. A warm golden glow spilled into the chamber from somewhere above, the illumination welcome after the hours they'd spent picking their way along dark passages by torchlight. The floor was a screen of thick oaken beams - seemingly strong, but with a large opening in the middle. Whether it descended to another chamber or to a vast drop Tavin could not tell.
At his back Halbarad shifted and muttered,
"If we do not hasten my beard will be long and grey before we reach our prize!"
Tavin glanced briefly back with a scowl and returned,
"If your wish is to find all the traps and pitfalls in our path, by all means proceed with good speed!"
Halbarad grumbled but stood where he was, his broadaxe planted between his wide feet. Behind him Pikolo smirked but stayed silent - the thief had no desire to antagonize the hulking northman again.
Tavin returned his attention to the chamber. The doorway that left the room stood midway along the adjacent wall, the orange glow of a torch beckoning, but Tavin's instints had him wary and on edge. Something was wrong.
He closed his eyes briefly, performed a quick three-breath clearing ritual, and muttered a low incantation.
When he opened his eyes the room swam in a haze, as if he were observing through clear winter ice. As he turned his focus to parts of the chamber they snapped into clarity far sharper than any normal vision - every spot, every scratch, every stain standing out and crying for his notice.
He moved his gaze through the room trying to isolate that which had him so nervous. A skull. A metal plate. A massive, heavy chain.
And finally, there it was. Not something that bothered him; rather, something missing.
He allowed the focus spell to disperse and scanned the room to verify what he'd thought: every chain, every wall sconce, even the bars of the gate that blocked the next corrider, were covered in a noticeable layer of ash and dust.
The floor, however, was bare and clean.
Just as he was about to speak Halbarad exploded, "Enough! The room is safe!" and began to move towards the opposite door.
Tavin slapped a barring arm across his leather breastplate and brought the burly warrior up short.
"Look!" he whispered.
Halbarad seemed to shrink as Tavin pointed out the unnaturally clean beams; the tiny, almost imperceptable wires that held all the seemingly random debris on the floor in place; and the thin, innocuous seam that ran from one corner of the floor to the opposite wall.
Tavin stood, quietly pleased with his discovery.
"Proceed if you must, Master Halbarad, but I must warn you: as soon as you open that rough gate beyond, I am quite certain this floor will drop from under you like the deck of a ship on stormy seas."
"And I feel confident that you will not like what you find below."
The room itself was small but high. A warm golden glow spilled into the chamber from somewhere above, the illumination welcome after the hours they'd spent picking their way along dark passages by torchlight. The floor was a screen of thick oaken beams - seemingly strong, but with a large opening in the middle. Whether it descended to another chamber or to a vast drop Tavin could not tell.
At his back Halbarad shifted and muttered,
"If we do not hasten my beard will be long and grey before we reach our prize!"
Tavin glanced briefly back with a scowl and returned,
"If your wish is to find all the traps and pitfalls in our path, by all means proceed with good speed!"
Halbarad grumbled but stood where he was, his broadaxe planted between his wide feet. Behind him Pikolo smirked but stayed silent - the thief had no desire to antagonize the hulking northman again.
Tavin returned his attention to the chamber. The doorway that left the room stood midway along the adjacent wall, the orange glow of a torch beckoning, but Tavin's instints had him wary and on edge. Something was wrong.
He closed his eyes briefly, performed a quick three-breath clearing ritual, and muttered a low incantation.
When he opened his eyes the room swam in a haze, as if he were observing through clear winter ice. As he turned his focus to parts of the chamber they snapped into clarity far sharper than any normal vision - every spot, every scratch, every stain standing out and crying for his notice.
He moved his gaze through the room trying to isolate that which had him so nervous. A skull. A metal plate. A massive, heavy chain.
And finally, there it was. Not something that bothered him; rather, something missing.
He allowed the focus spell to disperse and scanned the room to verify what he'd thought: every chain, every wall sconce, even the bars of the gate that blocked the next corrider, were covered in a noticeable layer of ash and dust.
The floor, however, was bare and clean.
Just as he was about to speak Halbarad exploded, "Enough! The room is safe!" and began to move towards the opposite door.
Tavin slapped a barring arm across his leather breastplate and brought the burly warrior up short.
"Look!" he whispered.
Halbarad seemed to shrink as Tavin pointed out the unnaturally clean beams; the tiny, almost imperceptable wires that held all the seemingly random debris on the floor in place; and the thin, innocuous seam that ran from one corner of the floor to the opposite wall.
Tavin stood, quietly pleased with his discovery.
"Proceed if you must, Master Halbarad, but I must warn you: as soon as you open that rough gate beyond, I am quite certain this floor will drop from under you like the deck of a ship on stormy seas."
"And I feel confident that you will not like what you find below."
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Rebuilding
A few months before the place had been a wreck. Buildings had been changed from places of work and living space to great piles of bomb-blasted concrete and twisted rebar. The smell was what really got to you though. The concussion of the blasts had broken underground pipes allowing raw sewage to bubble and flow up to the street level. Worse, somewhere under the heaps, dead people and animals rotted away. Everyone working clean up wore surgical masks. They didn't keep out the smell, but did a good job with the flies.
All that was starting to change though. Once the inhabitants had died or run off, the insurgents also left. I guess they didn't like not having people to hide behind. It certainly took away the one advantage they enjoyed. Soldiers were now abundantly evident. Martial law was the only way to keep the place under control, so patrols were constant and a curfew for the workers was enforced.
It had taken an incredible amount of effort, but the thousands of tons of wrecked buildings had been removed or crushed to create the foundation for new structures. As part of the effort massive stone blocks had been trucked in and were stacked along the dirt road through the construction area. In the distance I could see a concrete minaret being constructed. For the first time since arriving I started to feel things would work out okay.
All that was starting to change though. Once the inhabitants had died or run off, the insurgents also left. I guess they didn't like not having people to hide behind. It certainly took away the one advantage they enjoyed. Soldiers were now abundantly evident. Martial law was the only way to keep the place under control, so patrols were constant and a curfew for the workers was enforced.
It had taken an incredible amount of effort, but the thousands of tons of wrecked buildings had been removed or crushed to create the foundation for new structures. As part of the effort massive stone blocks had been trucked in and were stacked along the dirt road through the construction area. In the distance I could see a concrete minaret being constructed. For the first time since arriving I started to feel things would work out okay.
We
The wall that lined the road to the Factory was built of square blocks roughly stacked. They had the look of something churned out in vast quantities by equipment ancient and decrepit; though less than twenty years old they were pocked and chipped as if by decades of weather and wear.
The road itself was hardly any better - a rutted dirt track, at times kicking up vast dust clouds and at others a filthy mud trail.
The road curved around and between the barren slopes that surrounded the Factory. Grigor often thought that those hills looked like manifestations of his state: humble, low, and bent. Even so, he always tried to position himself by the tailgate of the military-surplus truck that ferried him and his fellow workers to the Factory, just so he could look at something other than the worn and dejected faces of his comrades. He would spend the entire trip to the Factory - the whole hour and a half ride - staring out at the bleak scenery. No trees, only the occasional nondescript shrub. More often than not the weather was grim too; cloudy but not storming, just a persistent, even, drenching rain. But still Grigor would stare out over the landscape and dream. Until the Factory came into view.
Though the road led to the Factory, its route was so curving that on at least half a dozen points on the road they would be travelling directly away from the hulking building. The first few turns revealed only the chimney, that single heavy column that belched black filth into the sky night and day, but then the Factory itself would rise above a hillside and Grigor would feel the fear settle into his heart again, as it had every day for the last eight years.
When the truck would finally rumble to a stop in the weed-strewn yard Grigor would be the first out, though he was likely the least eager to enter the Factory. He would turn to face the building: a broad face, stained with the acid rain created by its own waste, grime-sheeted windows (many broken or cracked) mocking the notion of transparency. Grigor would wait until the last man had passed and would join the line that slumped through the massive iron gate to their twelve hours of toil.
The road itself was hardly any better - a rutted dirt track, at times kicking up vast dust clouds and at others a filthy mud trail.
The road curved around and between the barren slopes that surrounded the Factory. Grigor often thought that those hills looked like manifestations of his state: humble, low, and bent. Even so, he always tried to position himself by the tailgate of the military-surplus truck that ferried him and his fellow workers to the Factory, just so he could look at something other than the worn and dejected faces of his comrades. He would spend the entire trip to the Factory - the whole hour and a half ride - staring out at the bleak scenery. No trees, only the occasional nondescript shrub. More often than not the weather was grim too; cloudy but not storming, just a persistent, even, drenching rain. But still Grigor would stare out over the landscape and dream. Until the Factory came into view.
Though the road led to the Factory, its route was so curving that on at least half a dozen points on the road they would be travelling directly away from the hulking building. The first few turns revealed only the chimney, that single heavy column that belched black filth into the sky night and day, but then the Factory itself would rise above a hillside and Grigor would feel the fear settle into his heart again, as it had every day for the last eight years.
When the truck would finally rumble to a stop in the weed-strewn yard Grigor would be the first out, though he was likely the least eager to enter the Factory. He would turn to face the building: a broad face, stained with the acid rain created by its own waste, grime-sheeted windows (many broken or cracked) mocking the notion of transparency. Grigor would wait until the last man had passed and would join the line that slumped through the massive iron gate to their twelve hours of toil.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
1000 yard stare
Remember that we are not starting the long form until NEXT week. Just 10-minute efforts for this week. Welcome to the group Skipernicus!
Shell Shock
I don't know of a single field surgeon who hasn't seen shell shock, at least none who've served under fire. Sometimes they're catatonic, sometimes they're rocking back and forth screaming or crying for their mothers. It's all the same - overload, the mind snaps under the burden of what a soldier's been through. And I don't care how many movies you've seen, unless you've been there with shells blasting sand into your eyes and nose and mouth and ears, unless you've stepped in a pile of guts that are spilling out of a Kansas farm boy who's still alive, you don't know anything about it. At some point it's just too much and the thinking, rational part of your brain shuts off and you go somewhere else.
I remember the kid with the faraway eyes. It was day three on Tarawa, on the beach at Red two - the bodies were piled up and the trees were blown down and every man on that beach knew they'd seen horrors beyond anything they'd experienced in that whole war, and most of them had served in the Pacific theater for months at that point. I was crabbing along the trenches - or what was serving as trenches given the constant fire we were under - trying to fix up who I could. Evac was flat impossible at that point and field surgery was more dangerous nine times out of ten than whatever wound the marine was suffering - they'd either end up with sand caked deeper in their wound, or with a deep septic infection that would set in and rot them out from the inside. The best I could do was douse the wounds with sulfa and bandage them as tight and thick as I could.
The kid was sitting with his back up against a palm stump. There was a small thicket out on the beach and though most of it had been blasted away by nip 50 cal, there was enough trunk left that four or five guys huddled behind it for shelter. One of them was screaming for a medic so I scuttled over to check on him. He'd taken a round through the meat of his calf - painful but in this place not much more than a paper cut. I hit him with the sulfa, jabbed a morphine styrette into his leg, and started to wrap his leg in bandage.
As I worked I looked at the other marines huddled there. Two or three of the others were alert, scanning the jungle line for telltale muzzle flashes and opening fire on anything they saw, but there was another, a kid, who sat with his back to the stump staring out at the sea. At first I though he was looking at the armor abandoned on the reef, tanks mired in sand and water, but as I worked on the other guy's leg I saw that the kid wasn't blinking. He wasn't looking around, he wasn't flinching when a mortar shell went off, wasn't showing any signs of movement at all. In fact I'd reached the assumption that he was dead when a fly landed on his cheek and an involuntary muscle spasm twitched the fly away.
The fellow I was working on had calmed down, sinking into a morphine cocoon, and I asked him,
"Who's the kid?"
He looked over at the catatonic marine and shrugged.
"Dunno. He was here when me and the boys dug in back here."
"How about you boys, any of you know this guy here?" I asked the others.
They all glanced briefly at him, then shook their heads.
Done with the bandaging, I reached over and checked the kid's tags.
Pfc Will Stewart. That was his name.
I remember the kid with the faraway eyes. It was day three on Tarawa, on the beach at Red two - the bodies were piled up and the trees were blown down and every man on that beach knew they'd seen horrors beyond anything they'd experienced in that whole war, and most of them had served in the Pacific theater for months at that point. I was crabbing along the trenches - or what was serving as trenches given the constant fire we were under - trying to fix up who I could. Evac was flat impossible at that point and field surgery was more dangerous nine times out of ten than whatever wound the marine was suffering - they'd either end up with sand caked deeper in their wound, or with a deep septic infection that would set in and rot them out from the inside. The best I could do was douse the wounds with sulfa and bandage them as tight and thick as I could.
The kid was sitting with his back up against a palm stump. There was a small thicket out on the beach and though most of it had been blasted away by nip 50 cal, there was enough trunk left that four or five guys huddled behind it for shelter. One of them was screaming for a medic so I scuttled over to check on him. He'd taken a round through the meat of his calf - painful but in this place not much more than a paper cut. I hit him with the sulfa, jabbed a morphine styrette into his leg, and started to wrap his leg in bandage.
As I worked I looked at the other marines huddled there. Two or three of the others were alert, scanning the jungle line for telltale muzzle flashes and opening fire on anything they saw, but there was another, a kid, who sat with his back to the stump staring out at the sea. At first I though he was looking at the armor abandoned on the reef, tanks mired in sand and water, but as I worked on the other guy's leg I saw that the kid wasn't blinking. He wasn't looking around, he wasn't flinching when a mortar shell went off, wasn't showing any signs of movement at all. In fact I'd reached the assumption that he was dead when a fly landed on his cheek and an involuntary muscle spasm twitched the fly away.
The fellow I was working on had calmed down, sinking into a morphine cocoon, and I asked him,
"Who's the kid?"
He looked over at the catatonic marine and shrugged.
"Dunno. He was here when me and the boys dug in back here."
"How about you boys, any of you know this guy here?" I asked the others.
They all glanced briefly at him, then shook their heads.
Done with the bandaging, I reached over and checked the kid's tags.
Pfc Will Stewart. That was his name.
The Hero
What a crappy couple of weeks. A motorpool was a dicey place almost by definition, but add the word Army in front and it became downright scary. It wasn't that the vehicles came back shot up; this was Biloxi for christsake. Okay maybe they did come back shot up once in a while, but that was just dumb yahoos feeling their soldierly oats. The point is that the vehicles were always in bad shape. We never had enough parts, let alone the right kind. The only stuff we had in abundance were creative mechanics, baling wire, and some wonderfully sticky tape.
We needed that stuff too. Two weeks ago for instance. The general's jeep needed a new fuel filter; the old one was so clogged the engine wouldn't start. We hadn't changed it for a couple of years cause there was never one around when it came in for service. Well the captain that towed it in said the general wanted it fixed chop chop. I told him there wasn't a filter available and you want to know what that SOB did? He walks over to the shelf I've got all my filters on and grabs one off and tosses it to me. The box label says Fuel Filter - Sherman Tank. "Uh, sir....", but he cuts me off with a glare, says "Make it work and that's an order", and stomps off to the Officer's Mess.
Funny thing about orders. The best ones usually give some leeway in how to perform a task to the guy who will actually execute the work. That said, specific orders aren't necessarily bad and dumb orders by themselves aren't necessarily bad; specific AND dumb orders though... Well, you know its bound to go wrong.
To make a long story short the tank filter was a damn site too big so I had to take a cutting torch to the jeep hood. Some baling wire and a couple rolls of that sticky tape made the thing stay in place, but boy it leaked like a sieve. It looked kind of funny with four inches of fuel filter coming out of a hole in the hood, but all in all it seemed to fit.
The captain came back after a couple of hours and I thought he was gonna have a heart attack while looking at the hood. Next thing you know the air raid sirens are shrieking and people start running around in a panic! The captain jumps in the jeep, starts the engine, and gets about five feet before the engine catches fire. He stands up in the seat and knocks the hinged windshield right on the filter which was made of glass and of course shatters and causes a small explosion from all the fuel in it! The captain catches more smoke than fire, but after jumping out of the jeep and rolling in the dirt he looked a serious mess.
Well, finally the air raid sirens got turned off; seems it was just a drill put on for a Movietone camera crew. Well these camera boys followed the firetrucks to the jeep and start taking shots of the captain and filming the jeep. I didn't see too much more because some MP's marched me straight to the stockade; never mind it was that damn captain's fault. Two weeks I was in there before they let me out. The capper of this shitty story was catching today's Stars And Stripes. There's a shot of that captain's dirty mug topped by the headline "BILOXI HERO FOILS NAZIS". Seems the propaganda guys were short on news with the war just about over so they wrote up this bullshit story. Now that SOB captain is scheduled to go around selling war bonds with Audie Murphy. Goddam army.
We needed that stuff too. Two weeks ago for instance. The general's jeep needed a new fuel filter; the old one was so clogged the engine wouldn't start. We hadn't changed it for a couple of years cause there was never one around when it came in for service. Well the captain that towed it in said the general wanted it fixed chop chop. I told him there wasn't a filter available and you want to know what that SOB did? He walks over to the shelf I've got all my filters on and grabs one off and tosses it to me. The box label says Fuel Filter - Sherman Tank. "Uh, sir....", but he cuts me off with a glare, says "Make it work and that's an order", and stomps off to the Officer's Mess.
Funny thing about orders. The best ones usually give some leeway in how to perform a task to the guy who will actually execute the work. That said, specific orders aren't necessarily bad and dumb orders by themselves aren't necessarily bad; specific AND dumb orders though... Well, you know its bound to go wrong.
To make a long story short the tank filter was a damn site too big so I had to take a cutting torch to the jeep hood. Some baling wire and a couple rolls of that sticky tape made the thing stay in place, but boy it leaked like a sieve. It looked kind of funny with four inches of fuel filter coming out of a hole in the hood, but all in all it seemed to fit.
The captain came back after a couple of hours and I thought he was gonna have a heart attack while looking at the hood. Next thing you know the air raid sirens are shrieking and people start running around in a panic! The captain jumps in the jeep, starts the engine, and gets about five feet before the engine catches fire. He stands up in the seat and knocks the hinged windshield right on the filter which was made of glass and of course shatters and causes a small explosion from all the fuel in it! The captain catches more smoke than fire, but after jumping out of the jeep and rolling in the dirt he looked a serious mess.
Well, finally the air raid sirens got turned off; seems it was just a drill put on for a Movietone camera crew. Well these camera boys followed the firetrucks to the jeep and start taking shots of the captain and filming the jeep. I didn't see too much more because some MP's marched me straight to the stockade; never mind it was that damn captain's fault. Two weeks I was in there before they let me out. The capper of this shitty story was catching today's Stars And Stripes. There's a shot of that captain's dirty mug topped by the headline "BILOXI HERO FOILS NAZIS". Seems the propaganda guys were short on news with the war just about over so they wrote up this bullshit story. Now that SOB captain is scheduled to go around selling war bonds with Audie Murphy. Goddam army.
Friday, September 01, 2006
Gentlemen (and lady!), prepare your engines.
First things first: welcome our newest member, Skipernicus, known to some (including the IRS) as Mike Sonesen. Skip-dog was the feller who first introduced me to Mike Kaluta, without even knowing that Mr. K and I are almost relatives from Way Back When.
Skip's thrown down his first piece, and is now a Fellow of the Order of People Trying to Be Real Writers (or some such).
A brief history: Mike Brown and I conceived this project at Opal Divine's in Austin after a night of beer and darts. We had reached the point of the evening where thoughts turned deep and serious (or at least as deep as you're capable of after a pitcher or three of 1554) and we found common ground in our dissatisfaction with what we perceived as a lack of lasting achievement. We both found that we'd thought we had the chops to be writers if we ever got off our expanding duffs and did something about it, and thus the concept was born.
Initially the project was conducted via email; Mike and I would send each other a pic each day and commit to ten minutes of writing. Though we began by just opening the image and typing madly away, we both soon found that we were looking at the picture, then spending some time thinking about it. After a few weeks we discovered that we were starting to really think of each assignment as a short, contained piece (as opposed to the simple story-excerpt feeling we'd had with the early pieces).
Our initial notion evolved to where we would pick one story piece a week that we particularly liked, and flesh it out in outline form as if it were to be written up as a full story. Then, once a month, we would actually pick one of the outlines and go ahead and write that puppy up.
Noble dreams...sadly unseen. So far, only one of us (ahem) has finished a full short story, and perhaps the best thing that can be said about it is...it's finished.
So we've developed a new approach, one which we will premiere this coming week: since we appear to be intimidated by long-form pieces we are going to try to back into it instead. We will each pick a picture, one per person, and instead of writing ten minutes and being done, we are going to use that as the story basis for the entire week. Each day we will write ten MORE minutes continuing the story we started, and hopefully after a few iterations of this we'll be more comfortable with longer-form pieces.
Since we had a new member, no one expects that Skip will hop right into this (unless Skip wants to). Otherwise, starting Tuesday...long form begins!
Skip's thrown down his first piece, and is now a Fellow of the Order of People Trying to Be Real Writers (or some such).
A brief history: Mike Brown and I conceived this project at Opal Divine's in Austin after a night of beer and darts. We had reached the point of the evening where thoughts turned deep and serious (or at least as deep as you're capable of after a pitcher or three of 1554) and we found common ground in our dissatisfaction with what we perceived as a lack of lasting achievement. We both found that we'd thought we had the chops to be writers if we ever got off our expanding duffs and did something about it, and thus the concept was born.
Initially the project was conducted via email; Mike and I would send each other a pic each day and commit to ten minutes of writing. Though we began by just opening the image and typing madly away, we both soon found that we were looking at the picture, then spending some time thinking about it. After a few weeks we discovered that we were starting to really think of each assignment as a short, contained piece (as opposed to the simple story-excerpt feeling we'd had with the early pieces).
Our initial notion evolved to where we would pick one story piece a week that we particularly liked, and flesh it out in outline form as if it were to be written up as a full story. Then, once a month, we would actually pick one of the outlines and go ahead and write that puppy up.
Noble dreams...sadly unseen. So far, only one of us (ahem) has finished a full short story, and perhaps the best thing that can be said about it is...it's finished.
So we've developed a new approach, one which we will premiere this coming week: since we appear to be intimidated by long-form pieces we are going to try to back into it instead. We will each pick a picture, one per person, and instead of writing ten minutes and being done, we are going to use that as the story basis for the entire week. Each day we will write ten MORE minutes continuing the story we started, and hopefully after a few iterations of this we'll be more comfortable with longer-form pieces.
Since we had a new member, no one expects that Skip will hop right into this (unless Skip wants to). Otherwise, starting Tuesday...long form begins!
Monday, August 28, 2006
Dream Big, Kiddo
It was murder, living in rural Kansas - to be 12 years old, surrounded by the whole world, and to have nothing, absolutely nothing to do. Carolyn wore that burden like a weight around her neck, dragging her miserable self to the events of her mudane life... Early in the morning, feeding the chickens, picking out the firewood, inspecting fences, always the same. At least it wasn't winter yet, and she could walk the perimeter of the property. When the snow comes, she knew, she'd be confined to the house, with hours or even days to kill.
"I'm drowning", she thought "drowning in a cup of water". Her father had been a farmer for a long as she could remember, and her mother a botanist - it's easy to see why they were a team... Dad with his shovel and mom with her soil samples - they never had much to say outside of their jobs, and this isolated Carolyn even more so. it was a struggle to sit at the dinner table, her mind racing back and forth, ignoring every other word, and looking for any distraction.
It's a hard life, being 12 years old and alone. But every 34 days, she found solace. Her father put her in the special chair, while her mother fiddled with the diagnotics machine.
"It is now Thursday the 11th, 8:45 pm" her father said. "Program will resume in 12 hours". Her mother flicked a switch, and everything went dim "a 12 hour charge should carry her at least another month" her mother said, her voice elongating into a long deep drone. Dreaming at the speed of light, 12 hours could be several lifetimes. During the recharge she would be reborn, dream of traveling the galaxy, and growing old, of new friends and falling in love - the things a robot never sees in the waking world.
"Jim", the mother said. Her turned from the girl and looked at her without expression. "Jim, when we go home, let's have real children".
"I'm drowning", she thought "drowning in a cup of water". Her father had been a farmer for a long as she could remember, and her mother a botanist - it's easy to see why they were a team... Dad with his shovel and mom with her soil samples - they never had much to say outside of their jobs, and this isolated Carolyn even more so. it was a struggle to sit at the dinner table, her mind racing back and forth, ignoring every other word, and looking for any distraction.
It's a hard life, being 12 years old and alone. But every 34 days, she found solace. Her father put her in the special chair, while her mother fiddled with the diagnotics machine.
"It is now Thursday the 11th, 8:45 pm" her father said. "Program will resume in 12 hours". Her mother flicked a switch, and everything went dim "a 12 hour charge should carry her at least another month" her mother said, her voice elongating into a long deep drone. Dreaming at the speed of light, 12 hours could be several lifetimes. During the recharge she would be reborn, dream of traveling the galaxy, and growing old, of new friends and falling in love - the things a robot never sees in the waking world.
"Jim", the mother said. Her turned from the girl and looked at her without expression. "Jim, when we go home, let's have real children".
Dreaming
I am dreaming. I'm not dreaming something conjured up by my unconcious though. I am having a lucid dream - a dream in which a person knows it is a dream and can direct the dream. Harness the power of the subconcious if you will.
"I'd like to be, under the sea..."
Water is surrounding me. It is warm, comfortable, and safe. I can breath underwater or maybe it's that I don't need to breath at all. No matter, it is a non-essential detail so my dream just skips past that. No one else is here. I'm not lonely, but I want some company.
"Come with me, my love
To the sea, the sea of love "
There is a beautiful woman walking barefooted up above on the surface. She knows I am here, but is content to just walk around and let me watch her. Kicking my feet, I send ripples to the surface that expand in all directions. The surface is churned just enough for her to lose her balance and slip beneath the water. Smiling all the while, her long black hair smooths out along her body. Not a dolphin, but moving gracefully like one, she comes in close and rubs the stubble on top of my head for luck and laughter bubbles from both of us. We race around together until I decide to go ashore. Resting on the moonlit sand it takes some moments to notice she did not arrive with me.
"Walking on a wave she came...."
I am aware of the sound of waves now. Looking out at the water I see her. She is riding into shore on the crest of a wave. Stepping from the wave to the shore, for a moment she is silhouetted against the full moon. Again she smiles and offers me a small jeweled box.
"I'd like to be, under the sea..."
Water is surrounding me. It is warm, comfortable, and safe. I can breath underwater or maybe it's that I don't need to breath at all. No matter, it is a non-essential detail so my dream just skips past that. No one else is here. I'm not lonely, but I want some company.
"Come with me, my love
To the sea, the sea of love "
There is a beautiful woman walking barefooted up above on the surface. She knows I am here, but is content to just walk around and let me watch her. Kicking my feet, I send ripples to the surface that expand in all directions. The surface is churned just enough for her to lose her balance and slip beneath the water. Smiling all the while, her long black hair smooths out along her body. Not a dolphin, but moving gracefully like one, she comes in close and rubs the stubble on top of my head for luck and laughter bubbles from both of us. We race around together until I decide to go ashore. Resting on the moonlit sand it takes some moments to notice she did not arrive with me.
"Walking on a wave she came...."
I am aware of the sound of waves now. Looking out at the water I see her. She is riding into shore on the crest of a wave. Stepping from the wave to the shore, for a moment she is silhouetted against the full moon. Again she smiles and offers me a small jeweled box.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
What's in the box, Jeremy?
Jeremy Gordon had a secret, one that would have gotten him locked away for a very long time if the wrong people ever learned of it.
He kept his secret hidden within another secret: a small room behind a false wall he'd built in his bedroom closet.
Building the room had not been easy; he had to buy all of the supplies in tiny quantities, bit by bit. A stick of lumber here, a small box of nails there. Everything in amounts small enough that he could still legally use cash; anything over twenty dollars and he would have to use his government-issued finance card. And that put him at risk of setting off behavior-pattern alarms; inevitably he would have a visit from a faceless man in a clean suit and a neat haircut who would politely ask him why an accountant needed homebuilding equipment.
And so Jeremy had gathered his seditious supplies, hiding them under a huge pile of old clothes in his attic. When he had enough he began working - quietly! - creating a secret room in the back of his large walk-in closet. He worked late at night using only difficult-to-find hand tools - excessive power usage at odd hours would also attract curiosity from bureaucratic monitors. He used only screws instead of nails so as not to attract attention with the sound of hammering. And in the mornings his back would ache from the long, slow strokes he used to saw his wood to length.
He lived in a state of constant anxiety for the two months he worked on his project. If any officials from Homeland Security had visited he would have been found out immediately; he could think of no way to conceal the construction as it was ongoing. But finally it was finished, and when he had hung the last piece of clothing on the rack that concealed the false wall and checked it with a critical eye, he could feel the stress easing from his back and shoulders.
He waited a week before he met with his contact and told him he was ready. They made a plan to have Jeremy's secret delivered, and the following weekend a truck pulled up in front of Jeremy's house and delivered what appeared to be a government-manufactured widescreen television (two hundred channels of Homeland-approved programming!). The delivery men (who either spoke no english or merely chose not to reply when Jeremy spoke to them) brought the heavy box into his living room and left silently.
Jeremy drew the curtains and dimmed the lights. His heart began pounding as he contemplated the crime he was about to commit. Finally he opened the box and gazed on the contents with a mixture of fear and joy. He reached in and removed one of the offending items and brought it to his face. He breathed in the musty odor of ancient pulpy paper, his eyes wandering over the fading but still garish colors of the magazine's cover, savoring the sound of the title: "Future Fiction". He looked at the piles of magazines in the box - "Fantastic Adventures", " Amazing Stories", "Weird Tales" and dozens of other titles, each volume a tiny treason against the state.
After a moment Jeremy reached back into the box and lifted out a heavy stack of magazines. He began to carry them back into his secret reading room.
He kept his secret hidden within another secret: a small room behind a false wall he'd built in his bedroom closet.
Building the room had not been easy; he had to buy all of the supplies in tiny quantities, bit by bit. A stick of lumber here, a small box of nails there. Everything in amounts small enough that he could still legally use cash; anything over twenty dollars and he would have to use his government-issued finance card. And that put him at risk of setting off behavior-pattern alarms; inevitably he would have a visit from a faceless man in a clean suit and a neat haircut who would politely ask him why an accountant needed homebuilding equipment.
And so Jeremy had gathered his seditious supplies, hiding them under a huge pile of old clothes in his attic. When he had enough he began working - quietly! - creating a secret room in the back of his large walk-in closet. He worked late at night using only difficult-to-find hand tools - excessive power usage at odd hours would also attract curiosity from bureaucratic monitors. He used only screws instead of nails so as not to attract attention with the sound of hammering. And in the mornings his back would ache from the long, slow strokes he used to saw his wood to length.
He lived in a state of constant anxiety for the two months he worked on his project. If any officials from Homeland Security had visited he would have been found out immediately; he could think of no way to conceal the construction as it was ongoing. But finally it was finished, and when he had hung the last piece of clothing on the rack that concealed the false wall and checked it with a critical eye, he could feel the stress easing from his back and shoulders.
He waited a week before he met with his contact and told him he was ready. They made a plan to have Jeremy's secret delivered, and the following weekend a truck pulled up in front of Jeremy's house and delivered what appeared to be a government-manufactured widescreen television (two hundred channels of Homeland-approved programming!). The delivery men (who either spoke no english or merely chose not to reply when Jeremy spoke to them) brought the heavy box into his living room and left silently.
Jeremy drew the curtains and dimmed the lights. His heart began pounding as he contemplated the crime he was about to commit. Finally he opened the box and gazed on the contents with a mixture of fear and joy. He reached in and removed one of the offending items and brought it to his face. He breathed in the musty odor of ancient pulpy paper, his eyes wandering over the fading but still garish colors of the magazine's cover, savoring the sound of the title: "Future Fiction". He looked at the piles of magazines in the box - "Fantastic Adventures", " Amazing Stories", "Weird Tales" and dozens of other titles, each volume a tiny treason against the state.
After a moment Jeremy reached back into the box and lifted out a heavy stack of magazines. He began to carry them back into his secret reading room.
Amazing, fantastic, astounding, startling, future planet adventure
"As requested, this is the science fiction and mystery room", he said while opening the door.
"Thanks. Give me some time to look things over", I said.
I entered a the room and the door was pulled shut behind me. The room was circular and about ten feet in diameter. The room had been purpose built to showcase the walls. There was a mixture of recessed and overhead light for perfect viewing and in the center of the room was a recliner on a small dais. The dais had an electric mechanism which was set so that the recliner would experience a very slow three hundred-sixty degree view of the walls. The walls themselves were completely obscured by thousands of science fiction magazine covers. I'm sure it wasn't every cover ever published, but it was a heck of a lot of them covering a time period from about the forties to now. It was so cool. I sat down in the recliner and relaxed back. This was expensive and I wanted to make the most of it, but there was so much to look at.
It took about five minutes for the dais to complete one revolution and by now I had gone around at least nine times without deciding on a cover. I slipped out of the chair thinking that a closer look at the covers would help and it did. This wall section had a nice grouping of the good 'ol "Amazing Stories" and "Fantastic Adventures". This was what I considered the golden age of sci-fi pulp mags. You knew that every story would be replete with lasers, beautiful girls, and heroic success. The door quietly opened behind me and the host walked in.
"Well, Mr. Stevenson" he said, "Have you made a selection?"
"Yeah. I think so. I think I will choose Fantastic Adventures #17. I remember reading it when I was a kid."
"An excellent choice Mr. Stevenson."
"Uh, Mr. Roark?"
"Yes Mr. Stevenson?"
"If I get into any trouble..."
"Now Mr. Stevenson. I've already explained the rules. Once the fantasy is set in motion there is very little I can do to stop it."
"Okay. I'm still ready to do this."
"Very well. Tattoo, take Mr. Stevenson to the changing room."
"Yes Meester Roark. Dees way eef you please."
"Thanks. Give me some time to look things over", I said.
I entered a the room and the door was pulled shut behind me. The room was circular and about ten feet in diameter. The room had been purpose built to showcase the walls. There was a mixture of recessed and overhead light for perfect viewing and in the center of the room was a recliner on a small dais. The dais had an electric mechanism which was set so that the recliner would experience a very slow three hundred-sixty degree view of the walls. The walls themselves were completely obscured by thousands of science fiction magazine covers. I'm sure it wasn't every cover ever published, but it was a heck of a lot of them covering a time period from about the forties to now. It was so cool. I sat down in the recliner and relaxed back. This was expensive and I wanted to make the most of it, but there was so much to look at.
It took about five minutes for the dais to complete one revolution and by now I had gone around at least nine times without deciding on a cover. I slipped out of the chair thinking that a closer look at the covers would help and it did. This wall section had a nice grouping of the good 'ol "Amazing Stories" and "Fantastic Adventures". This was what I considered the golden age of sci-fi pulp mags. You knew that every story would be replete with lasers, beautiful girls, and heroic success. The door quietly opened behind me and the host walked in.
"Well, Mr. Stevenson" he said, "Have you made a selection?"
"Yeah. I think so. I think I will choose Fantastic Adventures #17. I remember reading it when I was a kid."
"An excellent choice Mr. Stevenson."
"Uh, Mr. Roark?"
"Yes Mr. Stevenson?"
"If I get into any trouble..."
"Now Mr. Stevenson. I've already explained the rules. Once the fantasy is set in motion there is very little I can do to stop it."
"Okay. I'm still ready to do this."
"Very well. Tattoo, take Mr. Stevenson to the changing room."
"Yes Meester Roark. Dees way eef you please."
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Grandmother's house
Shelley Raye was angry, and when Shelley Raye was angry everyone suffered.
She dunked the cat in the toilet, then set all the milk and eggs out on the back porch in the 98-degree heat. By the time her mother found them there, island-sized chunks floated in the milk. She put a red crayon in the dryer; all her father's white work shirts came out bright pink. She devised a thousand tiny torments to inflict on her family, each one a pointy reminder of her displeasure.
She had not wanted to come to her grandmother's house. She had wanted to stay in her own home where she could play with her own toys, her own friends, and sleep in her own bed. But her parents had told her over and over, in calm and soothing voices, that they had to be out of the house for several weeks while the builders were tearing out part of the house and putting up a new addition. Her grandmother lived halfway across the state, and the drive there had been a barrage of heavy sighs, pouts, and shrieking outbursts. And time had not cooled Shelley Raye's ire; if anything each passing day saw her anger building.
Her father had tried to be stern with her at one point, but he wore the role uncomfortably. Shelley Raye had merely scowled at him the entire duration of his lecture and he eventually went away, shaking his head. Her mother tried to bribe her with trips to the zoo and the ice cream store, with new clothes and candy, but nothing would calm Shelley Raye's fire. And her grandmother simply sat and watched her, with eyes sharp and clear.
Monday morning had been the worst - Shelley had destroyed breakfast for the entire family, and came close to setting her grandmother's house on fire. Her mother had been close to tears when Shelley Raye's grandmother took her aside and handed her the keys to her ancient Cadillac that slept under a cloth in the garage and told her to take the car and "do something nice for herself", and to not come back until dinnertime. Shelley Raye's mother nearly tripped over the mat in her rush to escape.
Shelley Raye was unsure what to make of this development; she had spent little time alone with her grandmother and was uncertain how she would handle her. As she pondered how to gauge the old woman's mettle her grandmother came to her and asked,
"Would you like to see my dollhouse?"
Shelley Raye contemplated this for a moment, then nodded cautiously. If nothing else, she could smash it and reduce the old woman to tears.
Her grandmother led her up the broad staircase to the second floor, then stopped in front of a door Shelley Raye had never seen opened in the weeks she had been there. Her grandmother reached into a pocket in her dress and withdrew a key - and old-timey key of a kind Shelley Raye had only seen in her mother's ancient children's books. It was iron and adorned with curls and loops that seemed to form some kind of elaborate letter, only the shape of the character was so lost in the elaborate whorls and curlicues she could not make out what it might be.
Her grandmother slid the key into the door lock and turned it with a click that was loud, but smooth and oiled. The door opened with a groan and a smell of dust and dry air spilled out into the hallway. Her grandmother started up the steps, then turned to Shelley Raye.
"Be careful up here," she said, and was that a smile trying to tug at the corners of her mouth? Shelley Raye decided then that she would indeed destroy whatever treasure her grandmother intended to show her, but her grandmother continued,
"Some things up here bite."
What? What did she mean by that? There was only one animal in this house: her grandmother's obese siamese that had, until Shelley Raye's arrival, lived a life of indolent sloth and had never, as far as Shelley Raye knew, bitten anything other than kitty chow.
Her curiosity piqued, Shelley Raye followed her grandmother up the creaking steps into the attic. A swath of early morning sunlight cut through a dormer window, reflecting a golden glow into the shadowed corners that crowded with forgotten artifacts. The attic was crowded with old trunks, framed portraits of family members long dead, and several pieces of wooden furniture - dressers and a chest-of-drawers and a wardrobe that reminded Shelley Raye of the doorway to Narnia that her mother had read to her about. All were of a deep burnished wood so dark that Shelley Raye thought for a moment that they were drinking the sunlight.
"Here it is," her grandmother said simply, and Shelley Raye turned to look at the dollhouse.
As soon as she saw it all thoughts of damaging the dollhouse left her.
It sat on the floor, sprawling and majestic. If it had been a real house, it would have been the finest mansion Shelley Raye had ever seen. A broad miniature porch encompassed the structure, held up by exquisitely turned pillars and decorated with a spiderweb filligree. Each window looked to be a tiny work of stained glass, peaked at the top like church arches.
Shelley Raye walked slowly around the dollhouse, drinking in the detail - each gable, every dormer devised with love and cunning.
She reached the corner where a tall octagonal tower stood out from the house, reaching almost to her eye level. At the top of the tower a miniscule balcony ran above four intricately-wrought windows. Shelley Raye started to lean forward then stopped, oddly uncertain, and looked at her grandmother. Her grandmother nodded with that contained smile threatening to break free, and Shelley Raye leaned in to peer through one of the tiny tower windows.
As she had known it would be, the inside was as exquisite as the exterior. She was looking down the shaft of the tower, along the well of a spiral stairway that fell to a polished wooden floor below. Shelley felt almost dizzy as she gazed through the window: the detail on the stairway bannisters was so fine, the individual planks of the hardwood floor so clear, that she suddenly felt as if she were floating in the air above a real house, looking down not two or three feet, but instead a hundred feet to the floor below.
And then Shelley saw something that made her jerk upright and stumble back into a pile of old clothes and hats, and fall to the floor in a tangled heap. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart leaped up to the top of her chest, trying to escape. Shelley Raye stared at the dollhouse for a long moment, then turned to see her grandmother still standing a short ways away, that smile now full and open on her face, her eyes still sharp and clear.
"You saw, didn't you?" her grandmother asked softly.
Shelley nodded numbly.
What she had seen was this: as she had gazed down that stairwell, noting the detail on the tiny carpet and the almost imperceptable grain on the wood, as she had marvelled at the fantastic detail in this most wonderful dollhouse, quite abruptly at the bottom of the stairwell, striding with quiet purpose, a tiny little man had walked across the floor.
She dunked the cat in the toilet, then set all the milk and eggs out on the back porch in the 98-degree heat. By the time her mother found them there, island-sized chunks floated in the milk. She put a red crayon in the dryer; all her father's white work shirts came out bright pink. She devised a thousand tiny torments to inflict on her family, each one a pointy reminder of her displeasure.
She had not wanted to come to her grandmother's house. She had wanted to stay in her own home where she could play with her own toys, her own friends, and sleep in her own bed. But her parents had told her over and over, in calm and soothing voices, that they had to be out of the house for several weeks while the builders were tearing out part of the house and putting up a new addition. Her grandmother lived halfway across the state, and the drive there had been a barrage of heavy sighs, pouts, and shrieking outbursts. And time had not cooled Shelley Raye's ire; if anything each passing day saw her anger building.
Her father had tried to be stern with her at one point, but he wore the role uncomfortably. Shelley Raye had merely scowled at him the entire duration of his lecture and he eventually went away, shaking his head. Her mother tried to bribe her with trips to the zoo and the ice cream store, with new clothes and candy, but nothing would calm Shelley Raye's fire. And her grandmother simply sat and watched her, with eyes sharp and clear.
Monday morning had been the worst - Shelley had destroyed breakfast for the entire family, and came close to setting her grandmother's house on fire. Her mother had been close to tears when Shelley Raye's grandmother took her aside and handed her the keys to her ancient Cadillac that slept under a cloth in the garage and told her to take the car and "do something nice for herself", and to not come back until dinnertime. Shelley Raye's mother nearly tripped over the mat in her rush to escape.
Shelley Raye was unsure what to make of this development; she had spent little time alone with her grandmother and was uncertain how she would handle her. As she pondered how to gauge the old woman's mettle her grandmother came to her and asked,
"Would you like to see my dollhouse?"
Shelley Raye contemplated this for a moment, then nodded cautiously. If nothing else, she could smash it and reduce the old woman to tears.
Her grandmother led her up the broad staircase to the second floor, then stopped in front of a door Shelley Raye had never seen opened in the weeks she had been there. Her grandmother reached into a pocket in her dress and withdrew a key - and old-timey key of a kind Shelley Raye had only seen in her mother's ancient children's books. It was iron and adorned with curls and loops that seemed to form some kind of elaborate letter, only the shape of the character was so lost in the elaborate whorls and curlicues she could not make out what it might be.
Her grandmother slid the key into the door lock and turned it with a click that was loud, but smooth and oiled. The door opened with a groan and a smell of dust and dry air spilled out into the hallway. Her grandmother started up the steps, then turned to Shelley Raye.
"Be careful up here," she said, and was that a smile trying to tug at the corners of her mouth? Shelley Raye decided then that she would indeed destroy whatever treasure her grandmother intended to show her, but her grandmother continued,
"Some things up here bite."
What? What did she mean by that? There was only one animal in this house: her grandmother's obese siamese that had, until Shelley Raye's arrival, lived a life of indolent sloth and had never, as far as Shelley Raye knew, bitten anything other than kitty chow.
Her curiosity piqued, Shelley Raye followed her grandmother up the creaking steps into the attic. A swath of early morning sunlight cut through a dormer window, reflecting a golden glow into the shadowed corners that crowded with forgotten artifacts. The attic was crowded with old trunks, framed portraits of family members long dead, and several pieces of wooden furniture - dressers and a chest-of-drawers and a wardrobe that reminded Shelley Raye of the doorway to Narnia that her mother had read to her about. All were of a deep burnished wood so dark that Shelley Raye thought for a moment that they were drinking the sunlight.
"Here it is," her grandmother said simply, and Shelley Raye turned to look at the dollhouse.
As soon as she saw it all thoughts of damaging the dollhouse left her.
It sat on the floor, sprawling and majestic. If it had been a real house, it would have been the finest mansion Shelley Raye had ever seen. A broad miniature porch encompassed the structure, held up by exquisitely turned pillars and decorated with a spiderweb filligree. Each window looked to be a tiny work of stained glass, peaked at the top like church arches.
Shelley Raye walked slowly around the dollhouse, drinking in the detail - each gable, every dormer devised with love and cunning.
She reached the corner where a tall octagonal tower stood out from the house, reaching almost to her eye level. At the top of the tower a miniscule balcony ran above four intricately-wrought windows. Shelley Raye started to lean forward then stopped, oddly uncertain, and looked at her grandmother. Her grandmother nodded with that contained smile threatening to break free, and Shelley Raye leaned in to peer through one of the tiny tower windows.
As she had known it would be, the inside was as exquisite as the exterior. She was looking down the shaft of the tower, along the well of a spiral stairway that fell to a polished wooden floor below. Shelley felt almost dizzy as she gazed through the window: the detail on the stairway bannisters was so fine, the individual planks of the hardwood floor so clear, that she suddenly felt as if she were floating in the air above a real house, looking down not two or three feet, but instead a hundred feet to the floor below.
And then Shelley saw something that made her jerk upright and stumble back into a pile of old clothes and hats, and fall to the floor in a tangled heap. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart leaped up to the top of her chest, trying to escape. Shelley Raye stared at the dollhouse for a long moment, then turned to see her grandmother still standing a short ways away, that smile now full and open on her face, her eyes still sharp and clear.
"You saw, didn't you?" her grandmother asked softly.
Shelley nodded numbly.
What she had seen was this: as she had gazed down that stairwell, noting the detail on the tiny carpet and the almost imperceptable grain on the wood, as she had marvelled at the fantastic detail in this most wonderful dollhouse, quite abruptly at the bottom of the stairwell, striding with quiet purpose, a tiny little man had walked across the floor.
Day dreaming
Like a lot of kids William could daydream for hours on end. Unlike most of those kids was the way that William would daydream. I don't mean in what was happening in his dreams; that was all the usual fun stuff with heroes, and flying, or maybe pretending to be an animal. It was literally in the way he would go about it.
Just to give some background, William's parents were exceptionally fond of their local library and spent quite a bit of time there. It was an old library with that old library smell. The floors were wood and warm near the windows where sunlight spilled in and there were nooks to sit in and big tables to spread books out on. It even had a big sign up front reminding people to be quiet. You don't see those signs too much any more. William's parents went so far as to put bumperstickers on their car that said things like "Books, they're the right thing to do and a good way to do it!" and "Support your local library".
Well this library had two sets of winding staircases leading up to the second floor or down to the first depending on which way you were going. The really cool thing was that one of the staircases was tucked away. It was obscured by an odd architectural bend in the building, so very few people ever bothered to use it. So William would slowly climb up one staircase to the second floor and, when no one was looking, would meander to the back staircase and quietly mount the bannister. Slowly, to not to attract attention, he would quietly slide down the long winding pole to the bottom. He never looked down, always up. He didn't do it in order to see where he had been, but more in order not to see anything at all. Seeing often requires reaction or thought and that was no way to start a daydream.
Just to give some background, William's parents were exceptionally fond of their local library and spent quite a bit of time there. It was an old library with that old library smell. The floors were wood and warm near the windows where sunlight spilled in and there were nooks to sit in and big tables to spread books out on. It even had a big sign up front reminding people to be quiet. You don't see those signs too much any more. William's parents went so far as to put bumperstickers on their car that said things like "Books, they're the right thing to do and a good way to do it!" and "Support your local library".
Well this library had two sets of winding staircases leading up to the second floor or down to the first depending on which way you were going. The really cool thing was that one of the staircases was tucked away. It was obscured by an odd architectural bend in the building, so very few people ever bothered to use it. So William would slowly climb up one staircase to the second floor and, when no one was looking, would meander to the back staircase and quietly mount the bannister. Slowly, to not to attract attention, he would quietly slide down the long winding pole to the bottom. He never looked down, always up. He didn't do it in order to see where he had been, but more in order not to see anything at all. Seeing often requires reaction or thought and that was no way to start a daydream.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Pulpy
I know squat about shoes, but the pair hanging off the toes of the corpse in the bathtub looked expensive. Like, expensive with three zeroes after it. I could feel my stomach start to roil, looking at those shoes - these big-money cases always cause a major pain in my backside. There's always someone threatening to "have your job" or trying to grease your palm to overlook some nasty little habit you dug up. These rich types - they literally make me sick.
I backed out of the bathroom - money or not, this was Manhattan and bathrooms are still tiny - and checked over the bedroom. It wasn't pretty; the super had blundered around the room in a panic trying to find the phone after he discovered the body of his high-rent tenant, and the beat cops who'd showed up first hadn't done much better. They give these guys training on how to handle a crime scene like this, but walking the beat and shaking down street vendors is about the most they can be expected to handle.
I walked to the balcony door and checked it. Locked. Outside I could see a small balcony decorated with dozens of plants and a bunch of trinkets that looked like they probably came from South America somewhere. Probably the kind of stuff that was made by grubby villagers and sold down there for a buck a piece, but up here rich ladies paid hundreds for it.
I was about to turn away when I noticed that one plant had been knocked over and the pot had cracked on the tile floor of the balcony. I unlocked the door and slid it open with a soft rumble and stepped out.
The noise and smell hit me right away. You spend time on the street, you stop noticing after a while but the apartment had top-end air treatment equipment and the contract between the fresh, conditioned air inside and the muggy stench outside brought home again how much of a toilet this town is. No matter how high above it you get, the smell alway reaches you.
I bent to look at the pot - a small thing, maybe a bit larger than a softball. Some kind of cactus or something had been in it, but now it lay on the tile in a sprinkle of dirt. I checked above to see where it had been sitting and found a brown waterstain ring on a low shelf maybe two feet off the floor. Definitely the right size; looked like that was where the pot had been sitting. But the edges of the shelf were raised; it didn't look like you could just accidentally knock anything off it, at least nothing as small as the pot had been.
"Detective?" Walker was standing in the doorway, a memo pad in his hand. "They need you in the hall."
I looked at the pot again. Probably nothing. I stood and followed Walker through the balcony door and turned to slide it shut. As I turned back Walker asked,
"So waddya think? She do herself?"
These guys.
"Well, let me ask you this," I replied. "When was the last time you saw someone eat a bullet, then lay the gun neatly down on the toilet beside the tub?"
I backed out of the bathroom - money or not, this was Manhattan and bathrooms are still tiny - and checked over the bedroom. It wasn't pretty; the super had blundered around the room in a panic trying to find the phone after he discovered the body of his high-rent tenant, and the beat cops who'd showed up first hadn't done much better. They give these guys training on how to handle a crime scene like this, but walking the beat and shaking down street vendors is about the most they can be expected to handle.
I walked to the balcony door and checked it. Locked. Outside I could see a small balcony decorated with dozens of plants and a bunch of trinkets that looked like they probably came from South America somewhere. Probably the kind of stuff that was made by grubby villagers and sold down there for a buck a piece, but up here rich ladies paid hundreds for it.
I was about to turn away when I noticed that one plant had been knocked over and the pot had cracked on the tile floor of the balcony. I unlocked the door and slid it open with a soft rumble and stepped out.
The noise and smell hit me right away. You spend time on the street, you stop noticing after a while but the apartment had top-end air treatment equipment and the contract between the fresh, conditioned air inside and the muggy stench outside brought home again how much of a toilet this town is. No matter how high above it you get, the smell alway reaches you.
I bent to look at the pot - a small thing, maybe a bit larger than a softball. Some kind of cactus or something had been in it, but now it lay on the tile in a sprinkle of dirt. I checked above to see where it had been sitting and found a brown waterstain ring on a low shelf maybe two feet off the floor. Definitely the right size; looked like that was where the pot had been sitting. But the edges of the shelf were raised; it didn't look like you could just accidentally knock anything off it, at least nothing as small as the pot had been.
"Detective?" Walker was standing in the doorway, a memo pad in his hand. "They need you in the hall."
I looked at the pot again. Probably nothing. I stood and followed Walker through the balcony door and turned to slide it shut. As I turned back Walker asked,
"So waddya think? She do herself?"
These guys.
"Well, let me ask you this," I replied. "When was the last time you saw someone eat a bullet, then lay the gun neatly down on the toilet beside the tub?"
Point of view
Point of view is a funny thing. In writing it is a measure of either omniscience or personal view. For me though it is purely visual. I knew something was wrong even before I opened my eyes. I was horizontal and my cheek was pressed against something cold and wet.
My lids cracked open, but focus wasn't part of the deal. Raising my head a little allowed my two wandering eyes to center on what turned out to be an elaborately tiled floor with a helluva lot of something wet on it. From the position of my head and the location of the wetness on my cheek I made a guess that it was spit. The way my head pounded I guess I had been passed out there all night and so reasonably just proceeded to drool all over the floor; not the first time that had happened, but the last time had been in college.
I swiped my cheek against my shoulder to dry it off and then looked up past the floor. Right on eye-level was a shoe. In fact it was a ladies shoe and attached to it was a foot followed by a nicely shaped calf. The end point of the calf was obscured by the fact of it disappearing into a tub and I was still prone on the floor. I could see another not altogether unexpected shoe and it's friends close to the first one. I have to admit to being a bit more interested now and figured on exploring just where these two items led.
Dragging myself on my elbows a bit closer I reached up and with my finger traced the outline of the nearest calf all the way to the tub. Still a bit too far away and too headachy to want to stand up I just grabbed the edge of the tub and pulled myself up. I was not ready for what I saw. She had a face that was the perfect compliment to those perfect calfs. The rest of her though was covered by ice.
"Uh, Miss?" I said.
Her eyes fluttered open, but it was clear that she was in bad shape. Her eyes took in face and then focused on random parts of the room. She gaze stopped at a point somewhere above and behind me. Her face went from relatively blank to a look of horror and her mouth parted soundlessly. She moved one of her arms from beneath the cubes of ice brought up a hand covered in blood. I went from prone inaction to stand up and wide awake in about a half a second. Looking behind me I could see the bathroom mirror with a note written on it in red lipstick.
"Call 911. I have taken one of your kidneys, but don't want you to die. I just need it more than you do."
Oh, shit.
My lids cracked open, but focus wasn't part of the deal. Raising my head a little allowed my two wandering eyes to center on what turned out to be an elaborately tiled floor with a helluva lot of something wet on it. From the position of my head and the location of the wetness on my cheek I made a guess that it was spit. The way my head pounded I guess I had been passed out there all night and so reasonably just proceeded to drool all over the floor; not the first time that had happened, but the last time had been in college.
I swiped my cheek against my shoulder to dry it off and then looked up past the floor. Right on eye-level was a shoe. In fact it was a ladies shoe and attached to it was a foot followed by a nicely shaped calf. The end point of the calf was obscured by the fact of it disappearing into a tub and I was still prone on the floor. I could see another not altogether unexpected shoe and it's friends close to the first one. I have to admit to being a bit more interested now and figured on exploring just where these two items led.
Dragging myself on my elbows a bit closer I reached up and with my finger traced the outline of the nearest calf all the way to the tub. Still a bit too far away and too headachy to want to stand up I just grabbed the edge of the tub and pulled myself up. I was not ready for what I saw. She had a face that was the perfect compliment to those perfect calfs. The rest of her though was covered by ice.
"Uh, Miss?" I said.
Her eyes fluttered open, but it was clear that she was in bad shape. Her eyes took in face and then focused on random parts of the room. She gaze stopped at a point somewhere above and behind me. Her face went from relatively blank to a look of horror and her mouth parted soundlessly. She moved one of her arms from beneath the cubes of ice brought up a hand covered in blood. I went from prone inaction to stand up and wide awake in about a half a second. Looking behind me I could see the bathroom mirror with a note written on it in red lipstick.
"Call 911. I have taken one of your kidneys, but don't want you to die. I just need it more than you do."
Oh, shit.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Flight
The old rat behind the bar slams another cracked glass down in front of me and the railroad spike behind my left eye digs a little deeper. I wrap my hands around the glass, pulling it to me and sheltering it even though I'm the only one sitting here - everyone else is scrambling outside, trying to find some way out of this mess. I can hear them squawking like a bunch of frightened geese.
"You pay now!" the bartender croaks, "I leaving! You pay now, you go!"
I pull a twenty out of my shirt pocket and wave it in front of him.
"Go ahead, take off." He eyes the bill hungrily. "But leave the bottle."
Old reflexes make him uninclined to accept, but we both know that a twenty might mean the difference between bribing the right guy and getting a seat on one of the last few crates out of here, or being left behind to face the guerrilas that are closing in on this hilltop village even as we sit here dicking around.
Finally he snatches it out of my hand, thrusts the bottle at me, and rushes out the door, stopping only to grab a weathered bag bulging with clothes and trinkets. He shoulders past Wilmer, who enters with a scowl on his face.
"What the hell are you still doing here? I told you to meet me at the plane - I don't think I can hold your seat much longer! You know how much they're paying out there for a spot? Cash money?" He stands by me, agitating nervously.
I drain the glass in one long pull and lean back in my chair. The headache dulls for a moment, but I know it'll be back - worse.
"Think they'll let me take the bottle?" I ask. He rolls his eyes and turns to fight his way to the plane.
"You pay now!" the bartender croaks, "I leaving! You pay now, you go!"
I pull a twenty out of my shirt pocket and wave it in front of him.
"Go ahead, take off." He eyes the bill hungrily. "But leave the bottle."
Old reflexes make him uninclined to accept, but we both know that a twenty might mean the difference between bribing the right guy and getting a seat on one of the last few crates out of here, or being left behind to face the guerrilas that are closing in on this hilltop village even as we sit here dicking around.
Finally he snatches it out of my hand, thrusts the bottle at me, and rushes out the door, stopping only to grab a weathered bag bulging with clothes and trinkets. He shoulders past Wilmer, who enters with a scowl on his face.
"What the hell are you still doing here? I told you to meet me at the plane - I don't think I can hold your seat much longer! You know how much they're paying out there for a spot? Cash money?" He stands by me, agitating nervously.
I drain the glass in one long pull and lean back in my chair. The headache dulls for a moment, but I know it'll be back - worse.
"Think they'll let me take the bottle?" I ask. He rolls his eyes and turns to fight his way to the plane.
Friday, August 11, 2006
Finished
Craig stepped back from the canvas at last and pored over the piece. He'd been looking at it for the last twelve days, of course - sometimes from across the room and sometimes from as close as two or three inches, but now he tried to see the whole thing; not just an individual brush stroke, or whether his color choice made the shadows lay convincingly on the surface of the snow, or whether the perspective on a bench was right. Now he tried to see the painting as a complete, finished work.
He stared for long minutes, his eyes at times darting here and there over the surface, other times lingering on a particular area. He even allowed his eyes to unfocus and his vision to blur to see how the overall contrast worked.
Eventually he walked to his sink and dropped his brush into a paint-spattered jar full of muddy thinner, then washed the worst of the paint splotches off his hands. After drying them on a thin, faded hand towel he stepped from his studio into the kitchen, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and walked out onto the back porch where he lowered himself slowly onto the creaking wooden steps. Standing for hours at a time took its toll on his lower back, and he'd been doing it for almost two weeks straight. He cracked his beer open, then lit a cigarette and took a long, deep draw.
He heard the screen door creak open behind him and close softly as Helen joined him. He grinned at that - she was the only person he knew who bothered to close the door gently; everyone else just let the thing slam shut with a crash.
"So is it done?" she asked.
Craig looked out over the trees and hills at the nickel-colored sky.
"I do believe it is." He took a draw of his beer, savoring the cold clean taste.
"Can I see it?"
"Soon," Craig said, "Let's just sit out here a bit. It's not going anywhere."
He stared for long minutes, his eyes at times darting here and there over the surface, other times lingering on a particular area. He even allowed his eyes to unfocus and his vision to blur to see how the overall contrast worked.
Eventually he walked to his sink and dropped his brush into a paint-spattered jar full of muddy thinner, then washed the worst of the paint splotches off his hands. After drying them on a thin, faded hand towel he stepped from his studio into the kitchen, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and walked out onto the back porch where he lowered himself slowly onto the creaking wooden steps. Standing for hours at a time took its toll on his lower back, and he'd been doing it for almost two weeks straight. He cracked his beer open, then lit a cigarette and took a long, deep draw.
He heard the screen door creak open behind him and close softly as Helen joined him. He grinned at that - she was the only person he knew who bothered to close the door gently; everyone else just let the thing slam shut with a crash.
"So is it done?" she asked.
Craig looked out over the trees and hills at the nickel-colored sky.
"I do believe it is." He took a draw of his beer, savoring the cold clean taste.
"Can I see it?"
"Soon," Craig said, "Let's just sit out here a bit. It's not going anywhere."
The crime
"There's no one here", said Luka.
Snow was piled several inches on top of every flat surface in sight; benches, trees, everything. It was cold too, but there wasn't any wind. That helped, but it also left things eerily still. Even the sounds of the city were muted to almost nothing. The gas lamps could only must a pale yellow glow over the park benches. Footprints meandered around the benches where bums had been and gone. No one who was worth anything was out here now though.
"Why the hell should there be anyone here?" Said Benny. He was an unapologetic complainer. There wasn't anything happening in the world that he couldn't find something to gripe about. This time though he had a point.
"Look Luka. Bugsy and Meyer have pulled out of this town; moved on to bigger and better things. You just can't expect stuff to stay the same forever."
"I miss the good old days though. There was something about shaking down the good kids and taking their dough."
"Heh, you are talking about a long time ago. So why the hell are we hanging out here anyway?"
The look on Luka's face was one of deep thought. An impressive feat for someone of his low IQ.
"This is where I first met Meyer Lansky. He believed in me. Thought I would have a place in his organization."
"Luka, you know he meant it. Whatever Meyer may have done in his life he always kept his word."
"Yeah, but he ain't around here anymore."
"We shouldn't be around here either. Let's go shake down some of those good kids you were talking about."
Snow was piled several inches on top of every flat surface in sight; benches, trees, everything. It was cold too, but there wasn't any wind. That helped, but it also left things eerily still. Even the sounds of the city were muted to almost nothing. The gas lamps could only must a pale yellow glow over the park benches. Footprints meandered around the benches where bums had been and gone. No one who was worth anything was out here now though.
"Why the hell should there be anyone here?" Said Benny. He was an unapologetic complainer. There wasn't anything happening in the world that he couldn't find something to gripe about. This time though he had a point.
"Look Luka. Bugsy and Meyer have pulled out of this town; moved on to bigger and better things. You just can't expect stuff to stay the same forever."
"I miss the good old days though. There was something about shaking down the good kids and taking their dough."
"Heh, you are talking about a long time ago. So why the hell are we hanging out here anyway?"
The look on Luka's face was one of deep thought. An impressive feat for someone of his low IQ.
"This is where I first met Meyer Lansky. He believed in me. Thought I would have a place in his organization."
"Luka, you know he meant it. Whatever Meyer may have done in his life he always kept his word."
"Yeah, but he ain't around here anymore."
"We shouldn't be around here either. Let's go shake down some of those good kids you were talking about."
Monday, August 07, 2006
Can't think
I can't think of anything to say and by God I'm gonna state that. You'd think there would be a plethora of things to write about, but sometimes you can sit down at the keyboard with the best of intentions and.... mental silence. Funny, I read a lot of Carlos Castaneda some years ago and the characters in those books talked about "stopping the world"; forcing your mind to complete and utter silence. These guys spent years perfecting their techniques and rituals in order to perform this one act. It took me five minutes and four of those minutes were my laptop booting. I guess that I'm a lousy writer, but a helluva Shaman. Hmm. Where are those peyote buttons....
Friday, August 04, 2006
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
walking
I was walking down a road. Not sure where it was or why I was there, but I was walking sure enough. Both sides are bordered by a nice split-rail fence. You could tell that during a good rain the water would pool in the slight gullies between the fence and the road. It is a hot summer day though with just enough wind to keep it from being too uncomfortable. Once in a while a lazy dust-devil pops up nearby for just long enough to let me know it was there before laying back down on the dusty road for an afternoon nap. Overhead it is mostly blue with a few cotton clouds floating by.
Shading my eyes I can see that up ahead the road winds through a shaded lane and I can hear cicadas buzzing in the branches of the trees. The smell of fresh-cut hay, still drying in the fields next to the road, fills my nose with the most wonderful of scent and tops off the feeling of summer.
I stop to take it all in. All I can hear are the sounds of wind and insects. Not a soul in sight. Walking to the side of the road I snatch up a small stalk of sorghum to chew on, set one foot on the lowest fence railing and lean comfortably. It is a perfect day and one that I'll remember when I'm old.
Shading my eyes I can see that up ahead the road winds through a shaded lane and I can hear cicadas buzzing in the branches of the trees. The smell of fresh-cut hay, still drying in the fields next to the road, fills my nose with the most wonderful of scent and tops off the feeling of summer.
I stop to take it all in. All I can hear are the sounds of wind and insects. Not a soul in sight. Walking to the side of the road I snatch up a small stalk of sorghum to chew on, set one foot on the lowest fence railing and lean comfortably. It is a perfect day and one that I'll remember when I'm old.
Monday, July 31, 2006
kids
Her eyes are huge. My wife said to "Ask your father", so she is looking intently at me for any sign of a decision. I remember moments like this when I was a kid. I looked up to my parents and never had a reason to think that they would not have an answer to any problem or want I could come up with. My Dad was the disciplinarian and Mom was the classic loving mother-type.
I always knew that Mom would be on my side when it came time to convince my father to support this or that decision. For problems within the family she could always be counted on. But you know, when the chips were down and I really needed help for a problem outside the family it was Dad I went to first. He was the big gun and that force which would make the rest of the world do what I wanted.
Until now, I had not really thought about those days and what it meant to be a kid whose parent hung the moon for them. It meant so much to me then and I want to be that for my kid now. Tripping back to the now, she is still looking at me intently with those big beautiful eyes.
"You bet darlin'. It is such a hot day I think some ice cream would be great."
I always knew that Mom would be on my side when it came time to convince my father to support this or that decision. For problems within the family she could always be counted on. But you know, when the chips were down and I really needed help for a problem outside the family it was Dad I went to first. He was the big gun and that force which would make the rest of the world do what I wanted.
Until now, I had not really thought about those days and what it meant to be a kid whose parent hung the moon for them. It meant so much to me then and I want to be that for my kid now. Tripping back to the now, she is still looking at me intently with those big beautiful eyes.
"You bet darlin'. It is such a hot day I think some ice cream would be great."
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Going home.
It's hard to imagine this neighborhood ever having been inhabited; harder still to envision a time when it was crowded with families and kids. Now it's shit. The buildings are gutted and empty; a few have some floors still but mostly they're just walls and windows surrounded by fields of rubble and glass.
Tommy and I stood on the sidewalk in front of our old apartment. He couldn't seem to bring himself to look at it, but I couldn't take my eyes off it. Just looking at it brought back so many memories, flooding back like ghosts. Meanwhile Tommy stood, hands in his pockets, kicking at the weeds that grew out of the cracks in the sidewalk, looking anywhere but behind him at the skeletal building that glowered over us. Neither one of us could find anything to say, either, so we stood silent.
Finally Alex arrived. He pulled his Beamer in between Tommy's dirty Ford pickup and my Civic and got out. He stood at the driver's side for a moment, looking up at the building with his hand shading his eyes, then came over and gave Tommy and me each a quick, stiff embrace. We still couldn't seem to find words that didn't seem out of place and awkward, so we just stood there for a moment not saying anything at all.
Finally we turned back to the building. Tommy was the last one to look at it and even after he turned, he kept his eyes down several seconds before finally lifting them to confront it.
It was weird, that moment: the three of us standing on the sidewalk looking at that old burned out husk. I've never held much truck with people trying to make things out like humans (Alex once told me there was a word for that, "anthropomorphising") but it sure felt like those empty windows were staring at us, accusing us. It was quiet, too - quiet enough that I could hear a plane lifting off from the airport across the bay and a distant boat horn. Nothing else though. It felt like everything was waiting.
Tommy broke the silence.
"I've got a bolt cutter in the truck. I'll grab it."
He seemed eager to move away from the building, even if just to take a few steps to his old truck where he lifted a long-handled cutter, a pry bar and a couple of small spades from the back. We approached the rusted gate that stood in front of the front steps and Tommy snapped the padlock with a loud popping sound that made us all look around nervously. Force of habit I guess - it'd been ages since any of us broke into anyplace but you never lose that guilty sense when you cut a lock you didn't put there yourself. Tommy swung the gate open with a shriek of hinges that hadn't moved in years, and we walked through and up the steps and between the busted doors that hung crookedly from the beaten doorframe.
I got a strange chill as I stood in the entryway; it felt like it hadn't really changed much at all. I wish I could say it was because it hadn't suffered too badly but the truth was it had always been a dump. Half the mail slot doors had been broken out and grafitti covered almost every wall. Rubble was strewn all over the floor, and there were piles in the corners that we had learned as children were better left unidentified.
We walked through the entryway and back to the stairwell. I wouldn't have tried to go up those shattered stairs for half of Bill Gates's fortune, but the way down looked pretty intact and relatively safe. We snapped on our flashlights and began carefully descending.
The first floor below ground level was more apartments - they were only about three quarters underground and had little windows in wells on the street level that let some light in - or at least they did before they were boarded up. Tommy once told us when we were kids about how he'd climbed down into one of those window wells and watched Mrs. Trevino taking a shower - and how she'd known he was there and had given him a real show. Of course we knew Tommy was full of shit - if anything, he probably caught a glimpse of a bra strap and crapped himself and ran. Tommy was always good at turning bullshit into a good story.
We kept moving down, deeper into the darkness. Pretty soon we reached the basement. There was about an inch of water standing in the stairwell, oily and dark. We waded through it (and I noticed that Alex didn't even seem to care that his polished Bostonians were pretty much getting ruined) over to the boiler room where Tommy rolled the thick metal door open.
There are times when darkness can seem like more than just the absence of light, when it can feel like a thick and present thing, like fog. Nights at my Aunt and Uncle's place upstate, out in the country, it would feel like the darkness was oozing out from between the trees like a vapor. It felt the same way in that boiler room - it felt like the darkness there was so thick that the only thing that might cut through it would be to peel the building back like a rotten log and let the full midday sun shine on all the creeping things that lived there in the blackness. As it was, I felt somehow certain that there were corners in that room that would stay black and shadowed even if I shined my flashlight right directly into them.
"Shit," Alex muttered, then repeated, "Shit."
"Come on, let's go," Tommy said, a little too loud for my preference. He clutched the pry bar in front of him like a weapon and advanced into the room. We followed him in and we all moved to the back corner of the room where the hatch was.
There have been plenty of things in my life I haven't wanted to do. I remember having to climb out of a helicopter in Viet Nam with artillery shells thundering overhead and AK-47 fire raining down from the hillside overlooking the LZ - my legs were rubbery and my head felt far away and faint. It took all my willpower to not just sit down right where I stood and flop over to one side, but I managed to get my ass in gear and run to a nearby foxhole.
This was worse.
As we moved into that hellish room where the shadows ate our light I could feel my heart trying to break free of my chest. I don't know how I made myself go over to that coal hatch; I know sure as I'm alive that if Tommy and Alex hadn't been there at my side I could no more have taken two steps into that darkness than I could walk on water. But somehow we made it to the hatch.
It was pretty much like we remembered it: rusted an unused, it probably hadn't been opened since the last time we went through it, forty years ago. As we stopped at the hatch Tommy moaned,
"Oh man, I don't want to go in there, I don't want to."
I reached over and grasped his big shoulder (as much to comfort myself as him) then fumbled down to give his calloused hand a quick squeeze.
"It's gonna be okay, Tommy" I said, though I knew it was going to be anything but okay. Not by a long shot.
"I know," he replied, "But damn, man - I'm so..." he trailed off, too ashamed to say what we were all feeling.
"Come on," Alex said, and took the pry bar from Tommy's shaking hands. He tried to lever the hatch open but the years had sealed it with rust and grime. Tommy and I grabbed the end of the pry bar and added our weight to it, and the hatch popped with a shower of rusty flakes.
We had to kneel to get through the hatch. When we'd come out the last time it had been a lot easier for us - no aching joints or lower back pain, only the crushing weight of our own guilt. Alex went through first, the filthy floor shredding the knees of his slacks. I went through next, but only after making sure Tommy was going to follow.
The coal well was like an iron silo built into the bottom floors of the apartment. Somewhere up above on the street level was another hatch where trucks would back up and dump whole loads of coal down into the darkness, but the building had stopped burning coal back before any of us were born and the well had gone unused. The floor was a thick bed of crushed coal powder; it seemed hard as concrete but once you broke through the crust it was soft as chalk. Easy to dig into. Easy to bury something in.
Alex and I handed Tommy our flashlights and took the two small shovels and walked to the far edge of the well. The rusted wall and black floor reflected almost no light from the flashlights, but I could just make out Alex's face staring back at me.
"You okay to do this?" I asked him.
"No, I don't think I am," he replied, but then he bent to start digging. I joined him, and we quickly broke through the thick glasslike crust and began lifting shovelfulls of the ancient coal dust.
It didn't take long. I caught a glimpse of a dark swatch of cloth and told Alex to hold up. We knelt and cleared the rest by hand, moving the dust off the ratty blanket that I had stolen off one of the clothes lines behind the building. It had been stained black by the coal. Pretty soon we had it completely clear, but I found I couldn't go any further and I stood up fast and dropped the spade.
Alex looked up at us with anguish in his eyes but neither Tommy nor I could move. Finally Alex reached down and slowly peeled back the blanket to reveal the fragile bones wrapped in a faded polka-dotted dress.
Behind me in the darkness Tommy let out a gulping sob.
Tommy and I stood on the sidewalk in front of our old apartment. He couldn't seem to bring himself to look at it, but I couldn't take my eyes off it. Just looking at it brought back so many memories, flooding back like ghosts. Meanwhile Tommy stood, hands in his pockets, kicking at the weeds that grew out of the cracks in the sidewalk, looking anywhere but behind him at the skeletal building that glowered over us. Neither one of us could find anything to say, either, so we stood silent.
Finally Alex arrived. He pulled his Beamer in between Tommy's dirty Ford pickup and my Civic and got out. He stood at the driver's side for a moment, looking up at the building with his hand shading his eyes, then came over and gave Tommy and me each a quick, stiff embrace. We still couldn't seem to find words that didn't seem out of place and awkward, so we just stood there for a moment not saying anything at all.
Finally we turned back to the building. Tommy was the last one to look at it and even after he turned, he kept his eyes down several seconds before finally lifting them to confront it.
It was weird, that moment: the three of us standing on the sidewalk looking at that old burned out husk. I've never held much truck with people trying to make things out like humans (Alex once told me there was a word for that, "anthropomorphising") but it sure felt like those empty windows were staring at us, accusing us. It was quiet, too - quiet enough that I could hear a plane lifting off from the airport across the bay and a distant boat horn. Nothing else though. It felt like everything was waiting.
Tommy broke the silence.
"I've got a bolt cutter in the truck. I'll grab it."
He seemed eager to move away from the building, even if just to take a few steps to his old truck where he lifted a long-handled cutter, a pry bar and a couple of small spades from the back. We approached the rusted gate that stood in front of the front steps and Tommy snapped the padlock with a loud popping sound that made us all look around nervously. Force of habit I guess - it'd been ages since any of us broke into anyplace but you never lose that guilty sense when you cut a lock you didn't put there yourself. Tommy swung the gate open with a shriek of hinges that hadn't moved in years, and we walked through and up the steps and between the busted doors that hung crookedly from the beaten doorframe.
I got a strange chill as I stood in the entryway; it felt like it hadn't really changed much at all. I wish I could say it was because it hadn't suffered too badly but the truth was it had always been a dump. Half the mail slot doors had been broken out and grafitti covered almost every wall. Rubble was strewn all over the floor, and there were piles in the corners that we had learned as children were better left unidentified.
We walked through the entryway and back to the stairwell. I wouldn't have tried to go up those shattered stairs for half of Bill Gates's fortune, but the way down looked pretty intact and relatively safe. We snapped on our flashlights and began carefully descending.
The first floor below ground level was more apartments - they were only about three quarters underground and had little windows in wells on the street level that let some light in - or at least they did before they were boarded up. Tommy once told us when we were kids about how he'd climbed down into one of those window wells and watched Mrs. Trevino taking a shower - and how she'd known he was there and had given him a real show. Of course we knew Tommy was full of shit - if anything, he probably caught a glimpse of a bra strap and crapped himself and ran. Tommy was always good at turning bullshit into a good story.
We kept moving down, deeper into the darkness. Pretty soon we reached the basement. There was about an inch of water standing in the stairwell, oily and dark. We waded through it (and I noticed that Alex didn't even seem to care that his polished Bostonians were pretty much getting ruined) over to the boiler room where Tommy rolled the thick metal door open.
There are times when darkness can seem like more than just the absence of light, when it can feel like a thick and present thing, like fog. Nights at my Aunt and Uncle's place upstate, out in the country, it would feel like the darkness was oozing out from between the trees like a vapor. It felt the same way in that boiler room - it felt like the darkness there was so thick that the only thing that might cut through it would be to peel the building back like a rotten log and let the full midday sun shine on all the creeping things that lived there in the blackness. As it was, I felt somehow certain that there were corners in that room that would stay black and shadowed even if I shined my flashlight right directly into them.
"Shit," Alex muttered, then repeated, "Shit."
"Come on, let's go," Tommy said, a little too loud for my preference. He clutched the pry bar in front of him like a weapon and advanced into the room. We followed him in and we all moved to the back corner of the room where the hatch was.
There have been plenty of things in my life I haven't wanted to do. I remember having to climb out of a helicopter in Viet Nam with artillery shells thundering overhead and AK-47 fire raining down from the hillside overlooking the LZ - my legs were rubbery and my head felt far away and faint. It took all my willpower to not just sit down right where I stood and flop over to one side, but I managed to get my ass in gear and run to a nearby foxhole.
This was worse.
As we moved into that hellish room where the shadows ate our light I could feel my heart trying to break free of my chest. I don't know how I made myself go over to that coal hatch; I know sure as I'm alive that if Tommy and Alex hadn't been there at my side I could no more have taken two steps into that darkness than I could walk on water. But somehow we made it to the hatch.
It was pretty much like we remembered it: rusted an unused, it probably hadn't been opened since the last time we went through it, forty years ago. As we stopped at the hatch Tommy moaned,
"Oh man, I don't want to go in there, I don't want to."
I reached over and grasped his big shoulder (as much to comfort myself as him) then fumbled down to give his calloused hand a quick squeeze.
"It's gonna be okay, Tommy" I said, though I knew it was going to be anything but okay. Not by a long shot.
"I know," he replied, "But damn, man - I'm so..." he trailed off, too ashamed to say what we were all feeling.
"Come on," Alex said, and took the pry bar from Tommy's shaking hands. He tried to lever the hatch open but the years had sealed it with rust and grime. Tommy and I grabbed the end of the pry bar and added our weight to it, and the hatch popped with a shower of rusty flakes.
We had to kneel to get through the hatch. When we'd come out the last time it had been a lot easier for us - no aching joints or lower back pain, only the crushing weight of our own guilt. Alex went through first, the filthy floor shredding the knees of his slacks. I went through next, but only after making sure Tommy was going to follow.
The coal well was like an iron silo built into the bottom floors of the apartment. Somewhere up above on the street level was another hatch where trucks would back up and dump whole loads of coal down into the darkness, but the building had stopped burning coal back before any of us were born and the well had gone unused. The floor was a thick bed of crushed coal powder; it seemed hard as concrete but once you broke through the crust it was soft as chalk. Easy to dig into. Easy to bury something in.
Alex and I handed Tommy our flashlights and took the two small shovels and walked to the far edge of the well. The rusted wall and black floor reflected almost no light from the flashlights, but I could just make out Alex's face staring back at me.
"You okay to do this?" I asked him.
"No, I don't think I am," he replied, but then he bent to start digging. I joined him, and we quickly broke through the thick glasslike crust and began lifting shovelfulls of the ancient coal dust.
It didn't take long. I caught a glimpse of a dark swatch of cloth and told Alex to hold up. We knelt and cleared the rest by hand, moving the dust off the ratty blanket that I had stolen off one of the clothes lines behind the building. It had been stained black by the coal. Pretty soon we had it completely clear, but I found I couldn't go any further and I stood up fast and dropped the spade.
Alex looked up at us with anguish in his eyes but neither Tommy nor I could move. Finally Alex reached down and slowly peeled back the blanket to reveal the fragile bones wrapped in a faded polka-dotted dress.
Behind me in the darkness Tommy let out a gulping sob.
"What do you think Trevor?", asked Bill.
"I think it's ridiculous."
"Why?"
"Because so much time and effort went into building it. If someone had just bought it, put some dollars into it for remodeling, and made little condo apartments the thing would be worth something."
At that moment a piece of the brick and mortar fell from one of the collapsing windows. Both men were silent as they watched it fall. With a thud it hit with the ground fragmented. Possibly a trick of the light, the structure itself seemed to be leaning. Dilapidated, it looked to Bill like a hopeless case.
Bill looked at Trevor sarcastically.
"Oh, yeah. Just a few bucks to remodel it. Right."
Trevor grinned as he pressed the button.
Deep inside the building explosions could be heard. The building tottered briefly before imploding on itself.
"I think it's ridiculous."
"Why?"
"Because so much time and effort went into building it. If someone had just bought it, put some dollars into it for remodeling, and made little condo apartments the thing would be worth something."
At that moment a piece of the brick and mortar fell from one of the collapsing windows. Both men were silent as they watched it fall. With a thud it hit with the ground fragmented. Possibly a trick of the light, the structure itself seemed to be leaning. Dilapidated, it looked to Bill like a hopeless case.
Bill looked at Trevor sarcastically.
"Oh, yeah. Just a few bucks to remodel it. Right."
Trevor grinned as he pressed the button.
Deep inside the building explosions could be heard. The building tottered briefly before imploding on itself.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Come to Jeebus....
Hm. Wednesday afternoon. Just got a post up this morning - for Monday's picture. And I note with some dismay that the last picture post was last Wednesday. "Daily" seems to have devolved into "weekly", with the old assignments of story-outlines and fully-developed pieces left behind in the dust. And I am as guilty as any...
Anyway, not really going anywhere with this other than to note that our original mandate on this thing was to try to get in at least ten minutes a day, whether we were inspired or not, creative or not, busy or not. I know I need a little swift-kick action to the backside to get me back up to speed.
Just thinkin'...
Anyway, not really going anywhere with this other than to note that our original mandate on this thing was to try to get in at least ten minutes a day, whether we were inspired or not, creative or not, busy or not. I know I need a little swift-kick action to the backside to get me back up to speed.
Just thinkin'...
Monday, July 24, 2006
Cattle call
The studio was bare. Hard wood floors and mirrored walls, so the music thumping from the ridiculously overbuilt boom box filled the room with harsh echoes. A single folding table had been erected below the high windows that spilled in midday light that seemed to be both overly bright and yet somehow watery and thin.
Roberto stood in line. Again. He was quite certain that even if he seriously put his mind to it, there was no way he could count how many times he's stood in lines like this, how many cattle calls he'd answered - and how many times he'd been turned away. Before and behind him stood the typical crop of fresh-faced hopefuls, eager to show their stuff, certain they had a special something that would catch a director or producer's eye. Roberto had done this too many times to have any such illusions: he knew what they were looking for - a well-trained monkey. Those stony souls sitting with their asses smarting on the metal folding chairs weren't looking for the Next Big Thing - they wanted bodies to fill a line, nothing more. They wanted perfectly-functioning animatronic zombies that could move just as they were told, and tired muscles and sore joints and bad days and money problem be damned. They didn't want people, they wanted dancers.
The eager young man in front of Roberto stepped up to the table when called and placed his 8x10 photo and bio on the table, announced his name, then pranced to his spot and waited for the music cue. He began an explosive move, then faltered and stopped when he realized that the song was the wrong one. He scurried over to the boom box and reset the cd, apologizing all the while to the suits behind the table, but Roberto could tell it was too late; they'd already dismissed this kid. Roberto watched him finish his routine; solid enough, and if he had the stuff to handle the constant rejection and keep at it, he'd probably get his turn eventually. But not this time.
The suits thanked the young man perfunctorily, assured him they'd be in touch, then called, "Next!".
Roberto stepped forward to his spot, photo in hand - and stopped. He stood staring at the men in suits, his routine running through his head - every step, every turn, every move that had been modified to avoid his bad knee, every jump that had been lowered to keep from reinjuring his trick ankle. He felt the ache in his lower back and the throb in his left shoulder. And above all, he felt tired. Bone-deep, can't-hold-your-head-up tired.
"Well?", one of the suits asked, "You got anything for us?"
Roberto looked at the man for a second, then replied,
"You know what? I don't believe I do."
He turned and walked out of the room.
Roberto stood in line. Again. He was quite certain that even if he seriously put his mind to it, there was no way he could count how many times he's stood in lines like this, how many cattle calls he'd answered - and how many times he'd been turned away. Before and behind him stood the typical crop of fresh-faced hopefuls, eager to show their stuff, certain they had a special something that would catch a director or producer's eye. Roberto had done this too many times to have any such illusions: he knew what they were looking for - a well-trained monkey. Those stony souls sitting with their asses smarting on the metal folding chairs weren't looking for the Next Big Thing - they wanted bodies to fill a line, nothing more. They wanted perfectly-functioning animatronic zombies that could move just as they were told, and tired muscles and sore joints and bad days and money problem be damned. They didn't want people, they wanted dancers.
The eager young man in front of Roberto stepped up to the table when called and placed his 8x10 photo and bio on the table, announced his name, then pranced to his spot and waited for the music cue. He began an explosive move, then faltered and stopped when he realized that the song was the wrong one. He scurried over to the boom box and reset the cd, apologizing all the while to the suits behind the table, but Roberto could tell it was too late; they'd already dismissed this kid. Roberto watched him finish his routine; solid enough, and if he had the stuff to handle the constant rejection and keep at it, he'd probably get his turn eventually. But not this time.
The suits thanked the young man perfunctorily, assured him they'd be in touch, then called, "Next!".
Roberto stepped forward to his spot, photo in hand - and stopped. He stood staring at the men in suits, his routine running through his head - every step, every turn, every move that had been modified to avoid his bad knee, every jump that had been lowered to keep from reinjuring his trick ankle. He felt the ache in his lower back and the throb in his left shoulder. And above all, he felt tired. Bone-deep, can't-hold-your-head-up tired.
"Well?", one of the suits asked, "You got anything for us?"
Roberto looked at the man for a second, then replied,
"You know what? I don't believe I do."
He turned and walked out of the room.
5..6..7..8
"What are you people doing? You are walking around without any purpose", said the director who happened to be name Stefan, but preferred to be called Alice by his friends.
Stefan passed his critical gaze over the group.
"You... Mr.-third-from-the-back. No, not you - the other guy. The boy with the bangs and orange ensemble. You are the only one doing this right. Would you please come up front and demonstrate for these other people?"
As Mr. Orange Ensemble demonstrated, Stefan felt the stess begin smothering him.
"Anton take over for me while I take a break. I can't stand watching these people making such a mess."
Stefan slipped upstairs to the rooftop to relax and have a smoke. This was a favorite haven because students were not allowed. Smoking wasn't allowed either, but no one who frequented the roof bothered to follow that rule. His friend Jeffery appeared from the stairwell a few moments later.
"Stefan... or should I call you Alice since we are alone?"
Jeffery smiled, but Stefan would have none of his humor.
"Shut up Jeffery. We have a performance in less than two weeks. These people will never get this down and I haven't even added in the music yet."
"Stefan do you think that you are stressing just a bit much?"
"I can't help it if I am a perfectionist."
"But Stefan, this is a marching band performance, not a Broadway play."
"Jeffery you just don't understand. You may see a bunch of pimply-faced band geeks, but I see prose in motion and the writer is stringing the words one yard at a time."
"You're just a big old fairy aren't you?", Jeffery said.
"Takes one to know one."
Stefan passed his critical gaze over the group.
"You... Mr.-third-from-the-back. No, not you - the other guy. The boy with the bangs and orange ensemble. You are the only one doing this right. Would you please come up front and demonstrate for these other people?"
As Mr. Orange Ensemble demonstrated, Stefan felt the stess begin smothering him.
"Anton take over for me while I take a break. I can't stand watching these people making such a mess."
Stefan slipped upstairs to the rooftop to relax and have a smoke. This was a favorite haven because students were not allowed. Smoking wasn't allowed either, but no one who frequented the roof bothered to follow that rule. His friend Jeffery appeared from the stairwell a few moments later.
"Stefan... or should I call you Alice since we are alone?"
Jeffery smiled, but Stefan would have none of his humor.
"Shut up Jeffery. We have a performance in less than two weeks. These people will never get this down and I haven't even added in the music yet."
"Stefan do you think that you are stressing just a bit much?"
"I can't help it if I am a perfectionist."
"But Stefan, this is a marching band performance, not a Broadway play."
"Jeffery you just don't understand. You may see a bunch of pimply-faced band geeks, but I see prose in motion and the writer is stringing the words one yard at a time."
"You're just a big old fairy aren't you?", Jeffery said.
"Takes one to know one."
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