"It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself for a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat." Theodore Roosevelt

Friday, January 20, 2012

Mountain Blood

"Assignment: Write a short story. No genre fiction."


I’ve decided that I will always live in the mountains. I finish clearing the tables in Ballroom C, now that the last guest is gone, and turn off the lights. I take off my name tag and check my pocket; its still there so I head out the back door of the kitchen and walk into the brisk, clear mountain air. For the first few months I hated the walk back to my cabin when my shift ended; it’s always pitch black on the mountain by this hour and the stars and moon seem to add more chill than warmth to the air. Now, the ten-minute walk back home is what I look forward to every day. The minutes of solitude amongst the trees and stars have become something sacred.

I crunch my way down the trail and my mind again grinds out the details of the one story I’ll never be able to erase: Julia, being carried out by the police, blood violently spilling from a gash across her forehead. She was screaming and the mascara mixed with the blood had dyed her blonde hair brown. She was beautiful as ever in that royal blue cocktail dress, but the screams that accompanied the memory of her beauty were now inseparable. We didn’t get on the bus for her senior Zeta Phi formal because she was the last intended victim. Well, the second to last. Somehow she had managed to fight him off. Her perfect past of white debutante balls and neon sorority socials was now stained by yellow police tape and the cold, red blood of four complete strangers. The families of the others hated her, but they hate me more.

“No. No, no, no. NO. Not Julia, not him, not Zeta Phi,” I remind myself as I step off the trail. Its silent as I turn into the clearing by the cabins clearly marked “STAFF.” I make my way down to the cabin painted with a big white “2” and pause by the glowing embers of the dying fire. I decide better safe than burnt alive and unzip my fly to help the embers accomplish the end of their orange lives.

“Dude, really? What would you do if the boss lady walked around the corner?” I turned my neck as the embers continued to hiss and laughed as my roommate from the mountain, Beau, shook his head and unlocked the door to our cabin.

“I’ll be inside in a few,” I said, “I jacked us some left-over whiskey from the 6 o’clock wedding.” Beau made a dramatic fist pump and closed the door behind him.

“It’s Friday night. Don’t give another night over to it. Have some fun Damnit.” I steeled myself mentally, took one last look at the stars, made sure the fire was sufficiently drowned and headed inside. I patted my pocket before I stepped in, it was still there.

“Bro, how much whiskey you got? Wanna invite the girls from cabin 4 to throw down? They’re only workin’ one more week before they’re gone and fresh meat comes in.” Beau came out of our bedroom in his boxers, mouth foaming with toothpaste and his green toothbrush. I’m not a modest person and neither is Beau so walking around in our boxers is normal life. It feels like I’m in college again. “College is where I met Julia…” I start to drift, my fingers reaching again into my pocket, but Beau’s twangy voice draws me back, “Open a window man I gotta cool off after that run.” He plops down on the one couch of our kitchen/living/dining/party room, cussing under his breath as he pulls out an old beer bottle that was wedged between the cushions.

I open the small kitchen window then slump down on the couch beside him, pulling out the handle of Jack Daniels Honey from my backpack on the floor,

“Let me get four shots deep and I’ll personally extend them an invitation myself.” Beau’s eyes widen as I take a long pull of the Whiskey and slam it down with a satisfied smirk, “Maybe I really am ready.”

“I’ve never seen you this, erm… excited man,” Beau reached across the table and grabbed the bottle, “you sure you’re ok?” He took an equally long swig.

“I’m tired of waiting to have fun man,” I take another long pull, “I can’t let that night stop me for one more second. Tonight is the night Chad Grune is reborn.” I take a twenty-second pull and not ten minutes later we’ve got the whiskey below the label.

“Shit bro, I’ve been waiting for this side of you to show up. Let me put on some clothes and let’s go invite the lucky college ladies of cabin 4 to join in.” Beau stumbled to the bedroom doorway and grabbed the first pair of jeans he saw.

“Damn man slow down. You don’t wanna black out do you?” Beau said as he zipped up his jeans. He sniffed the white shirt in his hand, deemed it to be clean, and slipped into it.

“Here get out of uniform and lets go,” he threw me another pair or jeans and sniffed shirt from the pile on the ground. We decided after a week that sharing all our clothes would be the easiest. I stepped out of my shoes and tripped as I pulled my left leg out of my black suit pants. Steadying myself on the couch I peel my right leg out of the pants and then I hear it hit the floor. A small clank but because of it’s shape, the noise spirals until it’s momentum is stilled. Shit.

“Dude…is that the—“ Beau started but before he could name it I hurriedly picked it up and stuffed it into the waistband of my briefs.

“Don’t worry about it.” I say and unbutton my work shirt. It’s cold now, the window’s been open to long and I can feel the mountain air creeping into my skin. I grab the pair of jeans beside me and step into them, left leg is a success but as I lift my right leg I feel the cold metal circle slipping out of my waistband. The room is spinning now. It’s almost slow motion as it falls out of my protection and again hits the cold floor, this time rolling instead of lying where it fell. Trapped in the net of my jeans and whiskey I fall to the floor as I lunge to grab it, my chin smacks the granite tabletop hard and I faintly hear Beau screaming at me as I lay down. Down, down, down, around, and spinning. It’s so dark but I’m warmer here so I don’t fight it.

“You’re Mr. Grune?”

“Yes sir, why—“

“I’m going to need you to come with me. Whatever you do son, do NOT look into that house. Do you hear me?”

“Officer, I’m confused. I’m just here to pick up my girlfriend Julia, she lives here. Where is she? Why are there so many cops lights? Is she ok? Is everything—“ I stopped talking as I heard her voice. I turned from the officer and back towards her house. The officer barked and grabbed my shoulders, pulling my face back away from her house. But not before I saw her. She looked absolutely beautiful. A royal blue dress, the red and blue lights that hit it extenuated her perfectly sculpted body and her angelic face. What my brain refused to believe was the red that poured from her forehead. Blood. Blood. Everywhere. Her hair was stained. Her dress was wet. Her eyes were wet. Tears?

“Son, I’m going to have to ask you to get into the car. Now.” I was shoved into a cop car and carted downtown. I am jello. I am not real.

A white room with a mirror, table, and two chairs.

Alone.

What.

The.

Hell.

They offered me bagels. They were stale. The coffee tasted like dirt. They are dirt. I bite nervous craters into my cheeks until the iron taste of blood fills my mouth. Blood. She was covered. Julia…

“He is what is known as a serial-murderer. She was his intended victim, you should be thankful she’s alive.” I sat in silence as the badges and moustaches told me how lucky she was to be living and how lucky I was compared to the other boyfriends. They told me the serial-murder’s niche was couples. He couldn’t stand happiness so he stole it from others. He had killed two other college girls and both their boyfriends. If she had been killed I would’ve been next. Do I understand how lucky I am? I say no. They tell me they are going to hold me for my own protection because he may have an accomplice. Its 4 a.m.

I’m wide-awake.

Its 7 a.m.

The badge with the deep voice comes in and sits beside me, offering me more dirt and staleness. I say no. He begins,

“She may not recover. He did not murder her but he did damage her. She was knocked out with a blunt weapon, the blow dented her skull and she’s in a coma. Do you understand?”

I nod. Jello again. Not human. Not real.

Three weeks pass and she gets worse. None of my friends look at me the same. My family has decided to live in town close to me until I graduate in May. Her parents cry. My parents cry. Then I decide to do it anyways.

I go to the hospital in a suit, my dad drives. Mom is sniffling in the front seat beside him and their hands are intertwined. We walk into her room and I get on one knee. She doesn’t answer but I slip the ring on her finger anyways. “Forever,” I whisper.

“CHAD WAKE UP.” Beau’s voice brought me back to reality. I was sprawled on the floor, pants around my feet, head throbbing but not bleeding. Then I remembered, “Where is it. Where is the ring?” Beau’s eyes turned to the one air vent on the floor of out cabin. They told us the first day that anything that goes down it goes into the heart of the mountain. Absolutely no way to get it back.

“Chad, I’m sorry. You fell so hard and I went to help you before I realized what you were lunging after. I thought you were just drunk… I’m sorry brother, its gone.” His eyes were filled with concern and I was reminded of the moustache’s pity, my mother’s tears, and Julia’s father’s silence.

“So, um, I guess you don’t feel to much like partyin’ any more?” Beau said. The concern in his voice couldn’t mask the hope of still having fun.

“You go on man. I just need to be alone.” I groaned as I stood up, pulled my pants on, and walked to the door still not wearing a shirt.

“Where are you going bro? Chad?”

I didn’t respond and leave the door open as I again entered the night. I stood at the fire pit, now stagnant with ash and urine, and looked into the depths above. My eyes stung. I blame the smell. My fingers fumble blindly in the emptiness that is now my pocket. I hear sticks crunching and the chattering of teeth coming in my direction.

“Chad, I’m not gunna get drunk tonight without you.” I turn and Beau is behind me, Jack in hand. “Pull,” he says, “then we talk. You gotta move on bro. Aint that the whole reason you’re livin up here in the first place? Here, put a shirt on or you’ll catch a cold.” I grab the shirt he throws at me and take a pull of Jack to appease both Beau and my throbbing head. I’m thankful for him, he’s a better friend than I give him credit for being, so I begin,

“It was the last part of her I had Beau. I know it was just a ring, but its all I had left. It meant our future. That night, at the formal, we would’ve danced to Ella Fitzgerald and at the last note I was going to dip her down low, kiss her, then get on one knee.” My voice began to quiver, “I was sweating when I went to pick her up, I was so excited and nervous. The cops thought it was because I felt guilty.” My voice cracked but I continued, “Guilty? Me? How could they ever imagine for one second I could hurt her? My beautiful Julia. She’s dead Beau. Damnit…” Tears were flowing freely now, “She. Is. Dead. She’s gone and I’ve accepted that but I just can’t get over the core question. What makes a man so screwed up that he could ever justify actions like that? Is it a part of all of us? Could that have been me?” I slow to take another pull of Jack and restructure my breathing before I begin again, this time in a whisper, “I’ve asked myself these questions every day for two years, they haunt me. Not because my answer is yes, but because it’s no. I can’t think of any situation that could make me so broken that I turn to murdering. He didn’t just kill people he murdered joy!”

We sat in silence, the stars singing, my heart skipping, the whiskey slithering.

“It’s gone man,” Beau’s voice again interrupts, “I can’t get your ring outta that pipe in the mountain. I can’t tell you why you lived and she died, but I know you are alive. Look at me Chad,” I look up and finally see eyes that care without pity, “this world’s a crazy place. That’s just it. It don’t get any easier or harder. You can spend the rest of your life askin yourself why he did it and if you’re evil but that’s not much of a life. He was a broken lunatic and so am I. So are you. So was Julia.” His voice faded off after saying her name and I looked again into his eyes. No pity still, just hope.

We finished the bottle of Jack in silence and stumbled back to the cabin together after a few hours of chatter and thought. I’m thankful for Beau and I’m sure he knows it. I’ve seen the depths of depravity but I’ve also seen into the secret veil of love. It doesn’t make sense but I know I’ve got to keep on going in this world and do my best to make it a better place because that’s what Julia would want. There is beauty even amidst the brokenness and after tonight I’ve decided to stop questioning the dark and start pursuing the light.

“Beau?”

“Yea?”

“Thank you.”

I hear him shuffle around in his bed and breathe a sigh of contentment. The stars singing stopped a while ago and as I turn my covers into a cocoon I see the whispers of morning paint the sky. Light will always triumph darkness.

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Response to “Emergency” by Dennis Johnson

Wow. A beautiful example of not trying to hard but having language that portrays so much. From the very beginning it is obvious the characters are not in their right state of mind but it’s not just another “drug trip” or “drunk night” kind of story. Johnson uses the pills that, “taste like urine” to define his characters in a way that giving detailed descriptions would fail.

The fact that they work in a hospital, assumedly steal drugs, and also assumedly the entire staff of the hospital knows tells so much of exactly who the two are. They are either respected or ignored, but the importance lies in the fact that they are there in spite of the feelings others have about them. Johnson also avoids the stereotypical “General Hospital” or “Grey’s Anatomy” feeling by allowing the hospital to be a setting and nothing more. It is a job. There are benefits (such as the stolen drugs) and pitfalls (such as having to sleep on a gurney in the nurses station).

When the two protagonists leave after taking the knife out of the married man’s cheating eye they go on quite a journey. Where they both feel called to go tells us so much about them. Johnson doesn’t have to say one is called to religion, possibly alluding to a lifetime in the church while the other craves a carnival possibly alluding to a ‘Peter Pan never wanna grow up’ mentality. We get this information but he shows us without telling us. The mark of true art and a true author.

The rabbits and the hitchhiker also elaborate on the characters. The fact they would go back for the road kill and gut it on the side of the road shows they are either insane and drugged, resourceful and hunters, or a strange combination of the two. The fact the babies are squished shows good intentions murdered by laziness and apathy. The hitchhiker shows juxtaposes a similar question; are they just to drugged up to realize the dangers of driving a hitchhiker or are they kind souls who truly want to help humanity? As Georgie says at the end, his job is saving lives.

Johnson is a master of developing characters through setting, a skill which I hope emulate.

Read his story here:

http://www.newyorker.com/archive/1991/09/16/1991_09_16_031_TNY_CARDS_000358114

Post Card Assignment

"Assignment: Handwrite a story onto a postcard and mail it to a friend. Don't waste space explaining it, just begin your story."


She wore black except the white heels and pearl earrings. Coughing would show weakness. She swigs her water. The subway-car slows to a stop, “STATION A-4” and Blythe glides out into the underground bustle. It’s routine now to be ignored. A laughing blonde on her pink iPhone bumps Blythe and gives a startled yelp. Blythe pierces the Barbie with a glare and starts up the stairs to the office. A clock reads 7:57. Late. Again. She rounds the corner and sees the sign, “Cound Industries- over 100 years of family service.” Pushing in the wooden door and ignoring security she marches to the IV floor. Marketing. No one says hello or acknowledges her presence. She is phantom. Everyone knows its terminal and that she’s the last of the Cound family line. “Three months, max. It’s a very aggressive cancer.” The doctor told her that at Christmas and it’s now Valentine’s Day. She shut herself in her office. Blythe sighed for the first time. She took out her kerchief and coughed. Blood spots. The red blood was not the only red she planned to see this Valentine’s Day. Today, Blythe Cound decided to take her life and make it immortal. Steeling herself with a vodka shot she tucked the bloody rag back into her coat which she then removed to reveal a flowing white dress. “Maybe it will be Owen, he has ideas on how to fix this place. No more charity to start with.” The whispers of her “friends and coworkers” filled her mind as she observed herself in the mirror. Ninety pounds, hollow cheeks, and the wedding dress of her grandma baggy and yellowed. She coughed up blood again, this time on her hand. The urgency hit her. Re-dressing in her long coat she left the office for the last time. Ever. Twenty minutes later she entered the soup kitchen. She sat in the back observing the scene. She chose the young boy, maybe in his thirties. She approached him and grabbed his hand. “Come with me son.” Her voice was harsh now. He obeyed. They went left three blocks to the Courthouse. They entered the probate judges office, signed the papers, and “Cound Inc” officially had a new successor. She died two weeks later. The boy she married was named Cyril. He abused his power and eventually was deemed by those in black ties to be, “mentally insufficient for such a stress-inducing position.” But, Blythe’s plan worked. The news ate the story up. You should’ve seen the headlines. They say “Cound Inc” lasted only two more years before declaring bankruptcy. Some blame Blythe. Some blame Cyril. None blame the whispers.