Fiction Friday 19 Oct

This Week's Theme: Use this quote as the spark for anything you want. What happens when a character, while cleaning out a house before moving out, finds a roll of film? Frank lifted the last box to the bed of the huge twenty-seven foot rider truck and exhaled a steamy hot sigh of relief. He hated moving. He had only been in this house for about 2 years but the rent was too much and he didn't like the feel of the place. It was an old turn of the century house. Not this century mind you, last century. It was a collasal structure with white washed wood siding. The whole place felt drafty and it seemed the house was missing space in the floorplan. He thought it was a great house when Cindy and him had moved in. They had been extremely happy with the hard wood floors and the large rooms. But it didn't last long. Six months after they moved in Cindy had left. Not much of an explanation. She just grew more and more distracted. Like she was itching to get away. Then one day Frank came home from work and all her stuff was gone. There was a plate of dinner in foil in the oven and a note on the dining table saying she just didn't feel at home with Frank. Frank got over it, but still didn't really understand. That was a year and a half ago though. Frank had moved on but today was moving day. He was glad to be dropping the house now. The last memory could be wiped away and he could truely start fresh. Looking at the truck full of furniture and boxes Frank couldn't help but notice how his life could be captured in such a small space. The haphazzard stacking of boxes, furniture and knick knacks matched his life. Frank went back for one final sweep of the house. Looking for any lost treasures. Looking for any piece of his life left behind. He took and empty box and went along the whole house picking up stray envelopes. He had forgotten the towels hanging in one of the bathrooms. In the master bedroom closet he found an old roll of film. He was puzzled as the last film camera he owned had broken some three years before. Frank rolled it over between his fingers and shrugged his shoulders. It must be from the former tenant. Frank fought a little with himself as he was curoious what was on it, but felt like he was invading someone's privacy. He finally determined that the only way for him to find the owners was to develop it and the pictures might give him some idea of who it belonged to. He dropped the film off at a pharmacy with developing on his way to the new place. Frank was moving into a small apartment. it was Well within his means. He was after the community and friends he would make. Being the single guy in the large house did nothing for meeting the people next door. He was vainly hoping that the apartment co-residents would share a form of solidarity and he would have someone to talk to. Even if just occasionally. He spent the rest of the day moving in and unpacking what he could. He had to drop off all of the never used stuff at a rental storage place. Here he was compartmentalizing a part of his history. By the time he came back and opened it up, he would probably have forgotten completely all what was in here. Frank stopped back after dropping off the truck to pick up the pictures. It was a sizable sheaf of pictures and he paid some eleven dollars for it. He thought the clerk had looked at him accusingly as he left the store. Somehow the clerk knew the pictures weren't his. He got to his car peeled back the top of the envelope and lost himself in the pictures. They were all well focused and almost professional quality of himself and cindy entangled on top of his bed. He went through all of them and in at least half Cindy was looking directly at the unknown photographer...
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Fiction Friday Oct 12

This Week's Theme: Use this quote as the spark for anything you want. "I'm not one for sentimental endings. Not this time." There used to be a time when family was all important to me. I would rush home from work to be with my wife and sons but sometimes this change. I can't say exactly when it changed but I know it did. I stopped feeling lost without my familt. Instead I felt lost with them as well. I don't know if my family made this happen or if it was something internal in myself. I am not sure still if it was completely internal or if in some way something external made me change. But I guess the important fact is that something changed. Something neither good nor bad but something simply alien. I no longer care. It could be that maybe as I got older my view point matured. Maybe it was the inevitable that made it so. After all why would someone who is destined to shrivel up, die and decompose care about anyone else. There is no continuity to maintain. There is no family name that means anything more than historical trivia. This kind of thinking mind you is self defeating. It gets into a never ending loop that you cannot logically attack. If there isn't any thing to an after life, the only logical thing is there is no real pupose to this life. It is very hard to escape that thought. Most people look to the unknowable for the answer to this. They look towards musty old tomes of ramblings of what sound like madmen. The we take this for dogma, and live our lives by this. The people who think they are educated call themselves agnostic and think this means more than atheist. The religious people live through their lives believing in something that is unprovable. And the athiests usually take a gun to their head unless they become shallow and think not too deeply. So I guess it comes down to me asking you to excuse my inability to feel sad or sentimental here as I lay in my deathbed. The cancer has eaten all my innards up. They used to call cancer consumption because that is what it does. But as I look around my bedside at all the family sitting close. Ghoullike watching for the end with tears streaming down their faces. Letting my death remind them that we all await the same fate. Here I lay without a belief in god I cannot find a reason to be sentimental. I look forward to dieing and leaving this life and finding out what is next. If it is nothing...well that is just fitting. If there is something then I am gonna rage for a while and find out why it has to be a big god damn secret....
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Fiction Friday 5 Oct

This Week’s Theme: Use the first line of a nursery rhyme (your choice) to start your own story. "Peter Piper Picked a Peck of Pickled Peppers" was all the note said. There was no punctuation, address or signature. Just this simple line blazoned accross the face of a sticky note. Sarah came back from lunch to find it stuck to her computer monitor. The yellow standing out in her dark cubby of the corporate machine. She worried what it could mean of course. Was James playing with getting her attention again. James was a habitual flirt. He hung around her desk and would try to start small talk with the most inane subjects. "How is you day? Did you watch any TV last night? Did you read the paper this morning?" Truth be told James was annoying and if it weren't so innocent, Sarah would have long ago complained. This didn't feel like James though. Sarah wondered what it could be. Maybe it was a note for someone else. It was left under a simple guise but contained secret code of a corporate security leak. The people involved passing instructions back and forth in the guise of Nursary rhymes. Sarah felt a cold trickle go up her spine as she let her immagination run away on a trip of intrigue and idustrial espionage. She imagined one of the theives wounded, holding the blood under his coat trying to pass his last message and making a mistake and sticking the note to the wrong monitor. Sarah looked around her cubby to make sure there was no blood drips. Sarah starting giggling a little bit at how she could let her imagination trip her up like this. Laurance came around the corner just then. "Sarah, did you get my note?" Laurance was the new office manager. Sleek and robust, he went about his daily business like a force of nature. Everyone liked him even if he did come off as a bit concieted. All Sarah could say in response was, "your note?" "Yes my note. When I want to talk to somebody I leave a cryptic note figuring youo would come ask me what it meant faster than if I said come see me. Did you get it?"
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Exercise of Character

This is actually an exercise I am doing for a self paced writing workshop/book. I am posting these as I would like feedback.

Mina woke up to the early morning sunshine. Her head hurt like it had been stuffed full of razor blades. She couldn’t remember much of last night but that was life for Mina. She rolled over her body sore and her head pounding. She jumped a little bit as she found she wasn’t alone. The ebony skin of someone from the bar last night was poking out of the sheets. She looked down at her body, it was in tact, a few more bruises but no bite marks or other signs of abuse. Good this wasn’t like some of the other days. She crept out of bed and grabbed her underwear from the floor from among all the other stuff. She saw among the disorganized chaos of her bedroom floor that there were two empty whisky bottles that weren’t there before and a few of the assorted sex toys that her customers provided on an infrequent basis. She didn’t really mind but she wishes that she could remember the passion and satisfaction of her adventures in the bedroom. It always worked like that though, she never got into these situations sober. She ached for them while she was awake and alert, but couldn’t act on them.

She snuck out of the bedroom into her kitchen-living room of her two room. The bathroom was the first stop. She sat down and relieved herself, breathing slowly to let the needles sticking in her brain stop vibrating. Her brain wasn’t in good shape, she needed something today. She went to the bath spigot, turned on the water cold and preeceeded to wash the evidence of last night off of her. She inspected herself and found that she didn’t get hurt last night so it was better than most. After the quick washing she put her underwear on her wet body and then climbed into a running suit that was hanging on the back of the bathroom door, just for days like these.

The running suit was a trifle too large and the extra material helped to remove her identity. She once left dressed in her work clothes and ran into customers from nights before. She had been so embarrassed that she went shopping for this gray and blue tent that was her normal morning work clothes. She emerged from the bathroom and took a long draught from the kettle of cold tea on the stove and then eased her self out the front door, slipping on a pair of abused running shoes without socks. They were stretched out from always being pulled on and off without the courtesy of acknowledging the tie strings. Mina hoped that the customer from last night would be gone when she returned. She wasn’t worried about him stealing anything as she didn’t have much. Her workclothes, a few sex toys, her makeup, and a few pots and pans weren’t enough to risk confrontation that she had to go, so she left out with her keys jangling in the running suit pocket and her largish brown purse of valuables.

Mina stopped at a drug store first thing. She had to pull the maniac out of her head or she was going to be a royal bitch to everyone today. Her drug store knew her well and they had an understanding. She walked in the bells on the door jingling with a light airy tuneless happiness that belied the ritual. The druggist, a tall thin balding middle aged man with a beer paunch stood behind the counter. His eyes twinkled behind his old beat up wire frame glasses as he saw who it was. He winked at Mina who smiled a guilty smile as she came to the counter. His eyes followed her as she came close. His hands were busy getting a small white envelope of a few pills together as he looked up, not paying much attention to what looked like a haphazard array of pills. “Bad night eh?”, he said in his gravelly nasal voice the interest and wantonness catching in his words.

“Yea, they seem to come more often now…” Mina responded her words coming as not more than a croak, cracking out of her parchment dry throat. As she came closer she grabbed a liter bottle of water and put two twenties on the counter. He placed the envelope on the counter. She grabbed the envelope in a claw like grasp crushing the pristine smooth white paper with its promise of relief inside. The man swept the two bills from the counter to disappear into his pants pocket. Mina turned to go and the druggist called out, “Be around five again?”

“Yea, probably around five, be ready I have to go to work by six tonight.” She responded lifelessly.

“No problem, my son will be here to watch the counter then.” He said without any catch in his voice anymore. He was standing tall and watching her go, his hands knuckled on the white countertop and a relaxed air of a man in charge of his domain.
Mina left remembering the first time she went to him. He wasn’t near as bald nor as forward. She was in control then. She asked him for help with her hangovers, he gave her one white pill and asked only that she not tell anyone. Later he dropped hints and made comments and eventually the ritual of stopping by at five became reality. The first time he was nervous and looking around even though he had locked his office door. He even turned the picture frame of his wife and son to face the wall. Now he keeps it in plain view and will even answer the phone. A few weeks ago it was his wife and since then it seems she calls more often than not. Mina wasn’t sure if she suspected anything or if he had arranged the phone calls for his own enjoyment, but it was how Mina survived.

Mina tore the top of the envelope off as she hurried down the street. She dumped the contents in her mouth and poured about a third of the bottle of water after them. She waited at the bus stop for her ride. The bus pulled up and she climbed aboard. She dropped her fare into the box and went to a seat mostly towards the back. She loved the anonymity of the bus. Everyone on the bus had their own story and problems and no one asked anyone for anything or about anything. It was like a galaxy of individuals each in their own vacuum of reality. None crossing the lines of intrusion, it was a place where she gathered her thoughts and courage to face another day. She watched the scenery go by as the pharmaceutical relief started to course through her system and she felt the nails pulled from her head one by one. This was all most a daily routine for Mina and she drew comfort from the isolation of the bus.

Mina’s mind went dead like a timeout. She stopped thinking about anything and her mind blanked while the medication did its job. She mechanically sipped on her water bottle as the universe went zipping by with her stable in her seat. She came too after the bus stopped at her stop. She quickly got up from her seat bringing her mind back to the front of her head. The pain was gone as always and she got off the bus in a rather desolate section of the city. The concrete rose up on all sides, in what used to be a pretty affluent business sector. But the old hotels were now less hotels and more than half the shops were boarded up as the city outgrew their usefulness. The brick and concrete fronts of the buildings looked tired and sad at their passed heyday. Like an elderly grandfather in the style of his day looking on from a bench in the mall at the younger men and young boys in their own unique style. The buildings in their brick a gray eyelessly looked over themselves at the glass and steel of today’s affluence. Every world has room for its elderly though.

Mina went into a non-descript wooden door with its once brilliant blue paint weathered dark and cracked. The glass window of the door having some worn out gold lettering talking about some law firm but there was nothing lawful about this place anymore. Mina ascended the narrow steps that were kept clean and safe. The handrail on both sides of the stairway was burnished bronze in the old fashioned light fixtures above from long continuous use. She got to the top and went through with familiarity the baby blue steel door with its several deadbolt locks and the words Notherday Women’s Shelter in a plain but elegant typescript emblazoned on the door in a rainbow color.

As Mina entered the difference in atmosphere was astounding. The room within was adorned with nice new sofas and beautiful golden hued wooden coffee tables. Several green house plants adorned the interior and a soft relaxing music played from somewhere unseen. There was a reception window to the office and a doorway with a multicolored bead curtail leading to the interior. The reception window was tinted dark so the fluorescent office lights wouldn’t intrude into the lamp fed lobby. Mina waved through the window with familiarity and went through the beads, her smile like a beacon as she arrived at her other work. Mina spent everyday here helping to nurse those women who couldn’t stand up for themselves. She held their hands, cleaned their wounds and overall was a friend to these women whose choices led them to a life that they couldn’t survive in. Mina felt it was her duty since she could survive to help those that struggled.

Memoire of my father

My father used to tell me stories about his life in the military. He had joined the US army when he was young. It always seemed that the way he told the story he must have been 19 years old and a hell raiser. But I know just because he had grown up in Germany, then come to the States and became a citizen on his own that he, at the earliest, was about 23 or so. This doesn't really detract from the stories but does chip his enamel that he learned all life's lessons while young. I know that he wasn't yet perfect while he was an adult. His stories also all seem to have a stain of humor in them. I mean this in a good way. His humor, like my own, is unusual, not bad or debased but very human, very staining. What I mean by staining is that it leaves an indelible mark on those who partake. His time in the 82nd airborne must have been good as everything was a joke.

He told stories about teaching his commanding colonel German in his spare time. This was the relationship that gave him the leverage for many good things that were going to happen in his service. He also bought two Leica camera's from pawn shops around his base. The Leica camera being a fine instrument with perfect lenses. They were old though. To his credit he still has both of these cameras. They look like something from Micheal Angelo's workbench to my 20-21st century sensibilities. He tells of how he would take pictures of his platoon mates for 25 cents a shot on the shady side of their barracks. The camera was in the shade with the fellow standing in the full hot North Carolina sun. I love that story and if you follow the advice and take pictures the same way, you do get a great picture even on some horrible cameras. This was only one of his odd jobs as he also gave haircuts on Saturdays also. His haircutting must be correct as he had an old set of electric clippers that have given many a crew cut in their time. At least in my time they cut my hair often. Many a crew cut was given for free to me and my brother, I am glad I didn't have to pay for those haircuts. Dad definitely was not a salon man. But it was one of the many thriftsome ways he had to save a dollar or two.

I truly respect my dad's thrifty ways. He spent his life telling me how when in WWII Germany they would use every part of a Hog they slaughtered except the squeal. And the hundreds of uses of bacon grease from making biscuits to styling hair. I never followed much of this advice. He was a different generation and European. I don't know that that makes so much of a difference but I am X generation American. I grew up in a culture of disposables. Everything from our diapers to our cars are only good for one use to a few years and then you need new. The Y generation has it worse. Some of their disposables, like a 70 dollar video game, last only a week or so. But my dad's thriftiness has enabled him to have the money when needed to take care of himself and mother.

They had such great plans. After retirement they were going to travel all over. It seemed that they had done well, religiously deposited in the IRA so that at 65 they could live a good life and travel Europe, Asia, Australia, and the Americas. Mother got sick at about 62 though. The doctors said she needed a surgery or she could drop dead at any moment. They called it elephant trunk surgery. The plan was to replace the whole length of her aorta from the heart through her body with Teflon tubing. Sounded easy and seemed like a good risk. They claimed it would add years to her life. After the surgery she was paralyzed from the waist down. She spent the rest of 5 years under treatment fighting infections that never went away and finally gave up the ghost of life as the promise of retired bliss had escaped her. I still remember vividly the last time I visited with mother. She confided in me that she wanted to die. Of course I was outraged and stammered such to her, but she was adamant that if she hadn't gotten the surgery, her and father could have had maybe a few months or a year of what they worked their entire life to achieve. Instead she got a surgery and pain, and suffering. She felt she had failed father as she didn't keep her end of the deal. They couldn't travel. She wished she could die to give father peace. The Confucian teaching of filial piety never had a more succinct expression. Pretty good for an old staunchly catholic family. My mom so supported dad through her entire life, I too wish she wouldn't have had the surgery, a quick painful death would have been much preferred over the emotional torture I watched my parents live under. My dad lost a lot of his humor when mom became so sick, but still I remember fondly many of dad's stories.

The funniest of dad's stories was when he was working in the mess hall. It was custom that the big silver stainless steel pictures would be set on the counter full of coffee. This was an everyday thing. Everyday the big black Sergeant Major would come in and get his coffee from these big silver pictures. The way dad tells it the Sergeant Major was a man who was big and his voice and mannerisms were bigger. The Sergeant Major would dress down the new guys at a drop of a hat and was quite the character around the platoon and mess tent. Well the story goes that one day they had put bacon grease off of the sheets of oven cooked bacon into one of these same silver pictures, you know the grease with hundreds of uses, this is one of them. My dad explains that the picture wound up on the counter where the coffee belonged simply by accident. The funniest part is that dad said the Sergeant Major didn't even mention it, simply drank his coffee and went on. Sounds like things were a give and take relationship down there in the 82nd. I would love to someday find one of dad's platoon mates and find out one of the other sides to these hyjinx. Being in the military I know that there would be no way to keep composure with a big mouthful of bacon grease, especially if I was a Sergeant Major. But that is the military now. It is different than when I came in some 20 years ago, and that was different than when my Dad was in 50 years ago. Human nature has that things change, but surprisingly some things are always the same as well.

When I first joined the US Air Force in 1986 my dad guffawed that I was going to be one of the 'fly-boys.' That was his pet name for the men in the air force of the late sixties. I came in, expecting the things my Dad told me about the US Army. He had done his two years and his opinion was that the military could do nothing but good for someone. That it was a character builder. Well I was tired of school and I wanted a break. I wanted the good times my Dad told me about at the dinner table while we ate mom's famous pot roast. The camaraderie and male bonding were something that, while present at home, did not hit the same mark as my Dad's glorious stories. So off I go and enlist in the Air Force while Ronald Reagan was president and I was 17. My Mom and Dad had to sign for me to enlist. My Mom worried and my Dad argued that it builds character. So Dad won out and 3 weeks after graduation I am on a plane for basic training expecting basic training to be a veritable hell where they were going to beat me daily until I lost my personality and became one of the masses. Well basic training for the Air Force was simply structured routine and learning to hold your tongue while doing EXACTLY what one was told. Thankfully I had plenty of practice at doing EXACTLY what I was told. As I was growing up I was often under the care of my big brothers and sisters. I learned early that they weren't as worldly as mom and dad and that they were just a prone to mistakes as anyone in my peer group. So when they told me to do something, I did EXACTLY what they told me. This usually wound up as fun for me and not fun for them. I remember one time my oldest sister Debbie/Debra(she had changed her name at one point and I don't remember which it was at the time of the incident) was really fed up with me. I was young and probably bugging the shit out of her. So in frustration she told me to "go play in the mud." She was pretty upset and dealing with Debbie/Debra when she is upset is never much fun and it doesn't get you very far either. So in my adolescent mind I decided that since she was an 'elder' I had to do what she said. So I went out back of the house. This was before dad and I had installed a patio. I took the hose, turned the spigot and made a huge puddle of wet dirt, commonly referred to as mud. It was warm out and the cool earth with its loamy smell and coolness was pretty fun to play in. I was making mud pies and little caves. I remember playing that I had the cave from the Planet of the Apes movies in my mud and had a grand adventure there in my own little world. As the day wore on the sun became less strong and I got chilled in the wet mud, so decided I had played in the mud long enough. That surely I had achieved the goal of giving Debbie/Debra the peace she had desired and went inside.

As you can imagine my mom was uniquely appreciative of my state of being. I was encrusted with the archival diggings of adventure on the Planet of the Apes and when questioned in a most military manner, replied instantly that Debbie/Debra had told me to go play in the mud. I don't specifically remember but I don't think my mom kept a straight face. I seem to remember her kind of chuckling as she shoed me upstairs to bathe. Debbie/Debra was fit to be tied. She dealt with mom and I took a bath. The warm water was great and helped to clean off what the filthy apes had left on me. This story became an ancestral anecdote for mom. She always told it with a smile and I think Debbie/Debra still twitches upon recitation. This wasn't the only run in I had with Debbie/Debra.

I also remember mom and dad both worked at the shop which at the time was about a 40 minute drive. They worked till 5 or 6 pm so after school I needed someone to watch after me. Debbie/Debra was married and living not to far away, so I was deposited at Debbie/Debra's house each afternoon to await pick up by mom. Debbie/Debra was married to some guys names Chip. Didn't seem like the best choice but it was what Debbie/Debra wanted. She had a little girl and everything was difficult. This is a characteristic that Debbie/Debra to this day still has. Everything is difficult and dramatic. Well I don't remember the specifics but Debbie/Debra was raging at me and told me that I should "…just get lost!" Well Debbie/Debra's house was close to a local lake/park. So off I go, running away to the park. I had another grand adventure playing on the swingset and slide. I guess after a while Debbie/Debra looked for me her and her husband Chip canvassed the neighborhood calling out their car windows for me. I remember seeing them drive by the park and yelling out for me, but I had been told to get lost and being obedient I did not answer or make myself known. I simply waited for them to drive by. Later when close to when mom would be returning I started back to Debbie/Debra's house to meet mom and go home. I am unclear who found me first mom or Debbie/Debra but I know is I didn't spend too many days at Debbie/Debra's house. I guess I was somewhat of a pain in the arse.

I wasn't the most joyous kid as I grew up. I hated school. I remember in 5th grade for some reason they had displaced my school class. We could not go to school in our normal school we had to bus to school and then get on another bus to go to a different school. This was annoying, problematic and an opportunity. It is during this time that two memorable things happened. One I broke my little finger. It is till this day still misshapen from that. And two, I went truant from school for close to 3 weeks. As I said my parents worked and they left sometime close to when I left. So I turned my daily routine to be leave the house on time. Walk down the driveway, which was supposed by trees and then enter the woods and hide out until Mom left for work. Then I would go back to the house and do whatever I wanted to until mom came back. I was careful of getting caught. I ate the lunch she had packed and threw the trash from lunch away in the outside garbage can. I made little to no mess and mostly watched The Price is Right and Win Lose or Draw. There were other favorite shows like Love American Style and That Girl, but that is all nostalgia. Of course eventually I got busted.

After about 3 weeks of this I was doing my routine and little did I know that our elderly neighbor was worried about little Fred. She had seen me not at the bus stop for a long time and then one morning she saw me go out of the house, then later turn around and enter the woods. She though I went back to the house. Mom was furious. She found me trying to be very small and took me to school. My teacher Ms Dolittle asked if I should be allowed to catch up as there was a math test that day. My mother went hard line and said, no way. I was to take my bad grade like a man. I got an A. I should have gotten a C or D as the A I got scolded for a long time over.



Continued Later