Category: Creative Writing
Longing
We used to be so close. Your touch was so soft, so warm. When I needed you, you were always there for me. Sometimes you’d pull away in the middle of the night. Sometimes you’d get all twisted up. Sometimes it seemed like I had to fight to get you back. But return, you always did.
Recently, I feel like the one who has been neglecting you. I’m the one who has been staying away some nights. I’m the one who has chosen a shoddy imitation of you–even though I know better.
When we touched the other night I almost cried. A flood of memories came rushing back. We used to spend hours upon hours together. You don’t know how desperately I want to return to that life. I just can’t right now. There are bills to pay. There are mountains to explore. There is writing to do.
I’m sorry Sheets, but I just don’t think this reduced amount of time together will end anytime soon. I miss you.
Fear’s Heat
Waking up, he kept his eyes closed. He was uncomfortable for sure. Besides feeling like he was sleeping on uneven ground, he felt a disabling heat surround him. It was a stifling heat. He thought back to the last thing that he could remember. He knew he was not alone. He knew they had traveled to this place, their destination. But where were they? And where was she? And why was it so hot?
Sweating, he could feel his pants clinging to his legs as if he had just climbed fully clothed from a hot spring. A curiosity overtook his movements and he reached out with his hand blindly feeling for anything. He felt something hot. That’s all he knew for certain. Suddenly he felt, not cool air itself, but the memory of cool air–the memory that cooler temperatures existed somewhere not too far from where he was.
Time taking effect, he began to remember where they were. It was a campground. They had setup their tent, and she wanted to take a rest. He couldn’t believe his luck, and so they both crawled in the tent, sun blazing. He remembered that before dozing off into a restful slumber he reassured himself that she couldn’t get into too much trouble within the confines of a tent, especially not a four-season, dual-door, dual-vestibule beaut like his. Still, she did have a sleeping bag, a water bottle that emptied at a rate equivalent to a sippy cup, and Pingu, her pink penguin.
Finally, he heard her whispering. It was unintelligible, so he made the decision to open his eyes and see she was up to. Looking towards her whispers, he was immediately struck by a fear brought on by the inexplicable. Her hair was soaked. Her shorts just below her waistline were soaked. In a moment, realizing she had not ‘rested’ but stayed up playing for who knows how long in a hot tent with no vents open, her sweaty hair made sense. But why were her pants wet? She was a potty trained three and a half year old. Then he finally heard a full sentence as she guiltily turned, pouring water into her hand.
“Okay Pingu, we’re almost done with your shower.”
Is There A Point Beyond Which Truth Overtakes “Honor Thy Father and Mother”?
Rounding the corner, he heard her yelling. Creating one of the most iconic images of a teacher lecturing a child imaginable, she loomed over the student one hand on her hip and the other extending her finger towards the students face. Walking closer, he finally heard what she was saying.
“What was respectful about walking into the classroom with your mom berating the teacher on speaker phone?”
Secretly wishing he could hear the rest of that conversation, he hurriedly walked to his classroom. Along the way he ran into a student.
“Didn’t class start 10 minutes ago?”
“Yeah, I tried to skip but got caught. I didn’t want to come to school today.”
“Ha.”
“Hey Mister, did you hear what happened this weekend?”
Applying the no-news-is-good-news standard, he dreadfully replied, “Umm, nope. What?”
“One of the students was shot and killed.”
**
“Huh-uh, my three year-old niece is going to be so smart. She’s playing these learning video games already.”
“I don’t think video games are so great for three year old’s, even if they are supposed to be educational.”
“What?! No Mister, you’re wrong. She’s already so smart, and her one year old sister is even smarter already and she’s only one.”
Clearly an un-winnable argument, he tried to change the subject. Then it occurred to him. What these kids needed to do was unthinkable, unspeakable even.
For weeks he had struggled as he tried to pinpoint the problem that needed to be solved. Step one of problem solving required “Recognize the problem.” It wasn’t that the kids didn’t know information, it was that the kids didn’t want to know and didn’t need to know. Unfortunately for them, he also knew what he knew: Learning opens the door to life. The news from the morning reminded him this wasn’t a metaphor. This day–especially this day–he was reminded of this not only logically, but emotionally.
As if an insatiable itch, his conclusion wouldn’t allow him peace. He was a doer. But this? He could not bring himself to do it.
He wondered if anyone could understand the fear he felt. He knew his track record. Once he made up his mind he went to work. But this time, he couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t. It was too dangerous. Literally. He wished he would’ve seen it coming so he could have just avoided the whole mess. Where was his intuition this time?
These kids had one chance. If they had any hope of changing their future, they had one and only one opportunity. Someone they respected had to tell them the truth.
“Sorry kids. Your parents are epic failures. This is observable scientifically; it is measurable and quantifiable according to every scale imaginable. The only thing you can learn from them is what not to do. Your only hope is to internalize this and its unavoidable conclusion: You are on your own. The good news is that none of this was your fault. The better news is at your age you are fully equipped to take responsibility for your actions. And if you choose to believe this and act accordingly, one day you will look back on this decision as simultaneously the greatest and worst day of your life. So…what do you want to do?”
Joy Incarnate
No doubt durable, the brown, rubber coated metal picnic table was exploding with sandwich ingredients: two loaves of bread, two packages of ham, two packages turkey, one package of pepper jack cheese, one package gouda, one bottle of mayonnaise, and one bottle mustard. Present also were the sides to include individual bags of chips, apples and oranges; and dessert–nutty bars. Lastly there were sandwich bags. All this was resting amidst coolers filled with beer and dinner, a couple camp stoves, their personal cookware, and some French presses lazily soiled with the morning’s coffee grounds.
As socially graceful as possible they all took turns preparing their lunches that they would then carry in various forms of Camelback backpacks. Each person’s pack matched their personality. The veteran’s was camouflage, the ladies’, trim. The photographer’s had pockets large enough for a professional quality camera; the different guy used a modern word for fanny pack.
Once packed, the group packed the unused food in the cars, and grabbed the morning’s trash bags. Ah, bears. The probably unnecessary precaution justified itself through the addition of the slight thrill of danger. That and being prepared is never a bad thing.
The hike now well under way, storm clouds populated the distant horizon. The group pressed onward. The intervals between the unseen lighting’s thunderclaps decreased as the distance they traveled above the tree line increased. A light sprinkle had not yet become annoying as they began to notice most of the blue sky had become shades of grey.
One party became two.
As those with significant others present headed back down, the alone-and-unafraid pressed their luck.
Unifying them all was a hunger. Friend helped friend as they unzipped each other’s packs and grabbed the sandwiches. Was it the rain? Was it the hiking? Was it the company? Whatever it was, they had never tasted as good a sandwich as at that moment. And never had smiles spread so quickly.
Upon finishing their chocolaty peanut butter goodness, the two groups discovered they weren’t so far apart after all. The clouds parted and the sun’s return was interpreted only as it should have been—the punctuation to the joy incarnate they knew to be lunch on the trail.
Three Priceless Quarters
One wake up. That’s all that stood between him and the mountains. Having just arrived home from work, he decided to go ahead and bring the necessary gear stored in the garage into the house. Man, he hadn’t used his blue Kelty external frame pack for years. Lifting it off the bottom shelf of the tall grey wooden shop-cabinet in the garage, he was immediately awestruck by how familiar the metal felt within his hand. The memories came rushing back.
The outermost flap pocket was bulging with a several yellow trash bags which doubled as poor-man rain covers for the pack when necessary. His very own four season, dual door, dual vestibule Eureka K2 XT tent finally rendered those unnecessary. He put them aside.
Curiosity took over. He wondered if the pack still had the devotional and music books from scouting days. Yup.
What other treasures did the pack contain? Muskol–the best insect repellent available. Ah, deet. He chuckled to himself as he remembered that he used to derive great pleasure from reading other brand’s deet percentages knowing they had only puny, laughable amounts of deet. Yes, Muskol was the best ever, and it was his.
What else… Oh, here’s something: a Ziploc bag filled with materials for a homemade first-aid kit. What’s this? Three quarters. “Wow,” he startled himself not realizing he exclaimed that out loud. It all came rushing back. His scout leaders always recommended carrying a few quarters in case a pay phone was needed. Those quarters had been in that bag, in that pack for over 15 years. Those three quarters exemplified the two most eloquent, powerful words he’d ever heard: Be prepared.
Happy Labor Day.
Frustration
“Okay,” he sighed. “So you don’t want to do division… Let’s chat for a second,” he said to the 15 year-old high school student. “Do you plan on getting a job soon?”
“No. Why would I?” she answered withdrawing and scrunching up her face in disgust.
“Don’t you want money to buy things you want that your parents won’t buy for you?” he nearly pleaded.
“My mom buys me what I want,” she snapped.
“Okay, well what about the expensive stuff. Like when I was in high school, if I wanted a $30 or $50 video game, I had to use my own money. What about that kind of stuff?” he calmly inquired.
“Umm…my mom just bought me two pair of Jordan’s for, what was it, um, like two hundred,” she stated defiantly.
He had nothing. He had no cards up his sleeve. He had no bargaining chips. There was nothing he could say that was true. She could literally never learn division and still live out her life. She literally would be able to eat, drink and be merry without knowing how to compare fractions, without knowing how to simplify improper fractions. Still, he felt that something was terribly wrong.
Where was her drive? Where was her motivation? Where was her self-worth? Where was her desire to improve herself?
Racking his brain, he could only conclude that she had never been given those things to lose. He couldn’t remember a specific day he was given them, but he knew he had them. Maybe he was just getting old.
He was hired to teach her. The problem became clearer every day. Kids like her didn’t need teachers. They’d had skillful, motivated, capable teachers their entire lives. They needed parents.
She was almost an adult, yet if it was cold enough for mittens, she couldn’t do a 12 x 12 times table. And she didn’t care.
Origins of the Unfamiliar Camera Shudder
The truth? Well, no one ever seemed to want to know the truth. Just the same, the truth was his great-great grandpa was the culprit. Having never met him, of course, he only had heard stories. The man’s name was Pete. In fact, he was named after his great-great grandpa. Apparently this Pete was quite the guy. Loved by everyone; despised by no one.
Herein begins the tale.
Thinning, fine white hair revealed Pete’s old age. A welcoming smile betrayed his young heart. And a never satisfied quest for practical jokes kept him busy even after he was too brittle to work on the family farm.
They say great-great grandpa Pete really was a jokester. He was always catching everyone off-guard, and even though his victims always eventually got over it, his pranks were usually very inappropriate. The legends account for this by telling of his ridiculously strong character. While inappropriate, his making-fun was meticulously timed and delivered. One could only imagine, then, how well-planned Pete’s crowning gag must have been.
It was a large family reunion. Not just cousins, but second cousins, third cousins, and fourth cousins thrice removed were invited and made their appearance. With a guest list that large, quite a few dignitaries and very wealthy people were in attendance. Great-great grandpa Pete would have been banking on this.
On the guest list, a fairly distant relation was former president Rutherford B. Hayes and his wife “lemonade” Lucy, known (without justification) for her role in the temperance movement. To Pete, they were Uncle Rutherford and Aunt Lucy.
It was a warm sunny day in June. June 25, 1889, to be exact. Pete had known the president and his wife for some time. Rutherford and Lucy were just a bit too–let’s say proper–for practical jokes. Just the same, Pete had seen in Rutherford’s eyes something of a sparkle each time he witnessed one of Pete’s masterpieces.
Now, as everyone knows, former Presidents are not to be trifled with. Despite not occupying the position anymore, they are still well-connected to all the right people. Pete would have known this too. Apparently he didn’t care. He had chosen his course, and on that fateful day nothing was going to stop him.
As the first of Pete’s family trickled in, he encouraged the required small talk by talking about his new camera. This camera, he said, was not unlike other cameras of the day, except in one feature. His camera had a timed shutter. He really wanted this affair to be a family only event, and so he didn’t want to hire a professional photographer. He also began spreading that he wanted the first picture taken that day to be a photograph of everyone there.
As the trickle of guests became a raging rapid, so did the story of Pete’s camera. Soon everyone was anxiously awaiting picture time. All in attendance naturally assumed Pete would be the one to press the button then run to his spot in the 4.75 seconds before the shutter opened.
One can only imagine the surprise, then, when ol’ Pete announced to a gathering of 250 of his family members that he was going to give the honor to his “favorite Aunt-who-was-also-a-first-lady” Lucy Hayes. Not being one to regularly indulge in the frivolities and vices of life, the story has it that Lucy succumbed just this once and accepted. They say Pete had a curious twinkle in his eye as he was explaining the task to her.
Straightening up as he finished, he calmly took his place among those about to be photographed.
Trembling with nervous excitement Lucy began to sense the crowd’s growing impatience. She knew she must get it right the first time. She knew that if Pete had to come back and help her one more time, the most distant relatives–already drunk she noticed–would just leave the formation.
The pressure became unbearable and as she pressed the button and began to walk briskly back to her spot, a loud report was heard and as she shuddered in fright, she looked to Pete for reassurance that she didn’t make a mistake. In an instant, Pete tossed her a bottle of whiskey which she caught out of instinct. Turning, she realized she was front and center, looking guilty and holding the substance that she had fought her entire adult life to ban as the shutter opened. A moment later, we’re told that everyone else fell over laughing as they realized Pete had struck again. Everyone but Uncle Rutherford. He was holding his dear beloved who appeared to have fainted. Within the hour she was pronounced dead.
Pete had finally done it. He had finally picked on the wrong person, at the wrong time. By the end of the day, despite former-President Hayes’ insistence that the incident be kept a family matter, word had spread. Naturally, like all stories, the listener heard what they wanted to hear. Couple this with Rutherford demanding Pete hand over the single piece of evidence that proved it was all about Lucy’s obnoxious stance on liquor, and the story really scrambled to build a foundation. In the end, the story that spread throughout the country was that Lucy died because she used an unfamiliar camera to take the picture at the family reunion.
While you may never have heard of great-great grandpa Pete, or Lucy Hayes, you surely have experienced the result of this rumor. Even to this day, when relatives handle camera’s unfamiliar to them, they do so with great trepidation. They cannot shake the fear that something terrible may happen as they take the picture. Little do they know that it wasn’t the use of an unfamiliar camera that killed Lucy, but irrational shame.
At least that’s what I tell myself to explain why we’re so afraid of other people’s cameras at family functions. Can you explain it?
What Was She Thinking?
Sitting across from her, he took took a breath as he finished talking. He could only wonder what she was thinking. Reminiscing, they discussed how they first met. He told her how nervous he was, how excited he was, and how all he wanted was to be able to know her thoughts. She smiled politely at this, and replied in kind.
Wrapping up the meal, they walked silently to the car. He couldn’t help but wonder what she was thinking.
He told her about his day, and she laughed at the funny parts. He told her how he learned a new joke, “How do you make an octopus laugh?…Give it ten tickles!” She laughed harder.
Arriving home, they began their separate nightly routines and he sat down to his computer. As he piddled around, he heard her turning pages, walking around, and turning on the tv. Her thoughts eluded him.
He’d had enough of the screen for one day, so he went to her. She was watching tv. Watching her, he lingered in the hall a little before entering the room. He asked himself, “I wonder what she’s thinking?”
The next morning as they ate breakfast they chatted about the headlines. He asked her how she expected her work to go, and she said, “Good.” She volleyed the question back, and he told her how he had a 10 o’clock meeting, followed by lunch with a friend. Continuing, he told her that his afternoon was booked with two more meetings, but he should be home at 5 o’clock because the last meeting won’t go long. She said, “That’s good. So will I. Chicken tonight?” He agreed. She had to get going, as hers was the longer commute. As she walked to the garage, he wondered what she was thinking.
Arriving at the office, he ran into Jeb, his co-worker. Scanning the room to be sure the wrong people weren’t around, Jeb whispered, “Hey man, you ever wonder what women are thinking?”
“Yup.”
Disappointment
When that Aprill with his shoures soote/The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,/And bathed every vyne in swich licour/Of which vertur engendred is the flour…*
“Okay, Chaucer, that’s enough Middle Earth or whatever for tonight,” he thought, exhaling.
Straining to lift the book, heavy reading seemingly adding to the already heavy weight, he placed it beside him on the couch. He closed his notebook, and placed it too beside him. In a move foreshadowing a time not yet, he pushed the couch with his hands to stand up and proceeded to the kitchen. Water cup in hand, he turned the faucet on, and confirmed a cool temperature with a rapid flick of his fingers. He nearly finished in one swig, but habit caused him to stop early and pour out the remainder. The slightest feeling of guilt pestered him as he wasted the water. “Whatever.”
As he walked back towards the couch, he eyed an open bag of tortilla chips. “Pretty sure I’m doing chips and salsa tonight,” he announced.
At first, head movement; pupils adjusting to reality next. Finally, his friend smiled.
“We finished off the salsa the other night. It’s all gone,” the friend disclosed.
“That’s fine, we still have the Pace in the fridge,” he said, knowing his friend would never stoop so low to eat, let alone serve others, bottom-shelf salsa.
Like Aesop’s cloak-removing sun, his friend’s smile only grew.
“You finished the Pace?” he asked in disbelief.
“Well, there was only so much good stuff left, so I just mixed it all together. I didn’t want to run out with people over,” informed the friend.
“Oh.”
*****
*Chaucer. The Canterbury Tales
Confusion
“Here it is,” he thought. Finally the call he’d been waiting for. “What the hell took so long?” It had been over two weeks. The guy’s tone wasn’t cheery. Does anyone actually enjoy the small talk in these situations? “Enough about how everyone is doing, just get to it. ‘Yes’ or ‘No’.”
“Fuck.”
“No,” he says. “…and I have no feedback to offer,” he volunteers.
“Chicken shit.” “No balls.”
“Look on the bright side.” “One closed door opens another.”
At least respect him as a person. “What kind of company would waste so much of someone’s time and energy?”
“But there is that other similar position…maybe there’s still hope?”
“No fucking feedback?” How is he supposed to learn from this? What lesson is there? He gives it his best, they say “no” and…(crickets)?
The day a person gets a new job is a pretty freakin’ great day in their life. What does that say about the day they don’t get a new job? Pretty freakin’ bad day in their life?
No reason given. “Thanks for nothing, fucktard.”
Easily the most epic failure of his life. What does it mean? Is he so out of touch that he couldn’t tell how the interviews went?
Asking for help regarding meaningful employment seems so weak to him.
“There’s a flip side to every coin.”
“Who knows…” For so long he had seen the future. No longer. What did that mean?
But all the literature demands staying positive. “Tomorrow will be a wonderful day.” Probably. For someone.
As for him, there was just shameful embarrassment for an immature reaction.
And confusion.
Captain’s Log 