Tagged: short stories
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Last summer an entrepreneur, friend, and sometimes blogger told me, “If you blog daily for six months, you should have 1000 followers at the end of those six months.” Well, it’s been more than seven months of daily posts on Captain’s Log, and I’m sitting at 199. As is the case with most facts, this amuses me. Just the same, seeing that I am a part of the human race, and therefore partial to round numbers, I’m excited to amass follower number 200. And I’m shameless when it comes to getting what I want. So here’s what I’m offering: the blogger who follows me as number 200 will get a free review of their blog. That’s right. I’ll take some time between now and Monday to peruse your blog and then I’ll write the review for Monday’s post. You can trust that I will be sure to say nice things as well as true things. If you’re on the fence, think of it this way: in return for a simple click of a mouse, you’ll get exposure to 199 readers who possibly aren’t aware of your stuff. Heck, I might not be aware you exist.
This is a one time offer, and it is sure to go fast. A little book called “The Magic of Thinking Big” mentions that “everyone you know craves praise”. Well, I’m offering praise in exchange for bliss. Whatdya say?
****
Schwartz, David Joseph. The Magic of Thinking Big. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1959. Print.
Hatu
The special operations warriors segregated themselves from the rest of the soldiers in the DFAC. “Deefak” is how everyone referred to the dining facility–the chow hall. After only a matter of days in-country, it became apparent to all how to distinguish those who worked inside “the fence” from those who worked outside “the fence”. These men worked outside the fence. They weren’t necessarily more dedicated, or smarter, but they had always wanted to do what they were doing and happened to be good at it. And they were dedicated. And they were smart.
On the ceiling of the DFAC hung flags. There were flags of the different nations of the world that were in the coalition of forces, and flags of the 50 states.
Suddenly, after a break in the conversation, one of the men spoke up.
“Hatu. Huh, where’s that country? It sounds familiar, but I can’t seem to place it. South America? Africa?” he asked.
“Definitely Africa,” chimed in one of the men more respected for his book knowledge.
“I don’t know,” said another.
“It doesn’t have an African ring to it. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was in South America,” challenged a third.
Without the internet at their fingertips, the hard men were left with all the nuances of communication to determine who to believe–conviction in the voice, the tone of voice, facial expressions, and look of the eyes. Lastly, all waited to see if somebody would wager that they were correct. No one was so bold.
At last, all eyes found themselves gazing at the flag, trying to look for clues. The stocky mustached reader finally broke the silence.
“Hatu. Ha. Morons. It’s not Hatu, it’s Utah. You just read it from the back side of the flag.”
In all caps, it was an easy mistake we suppose, but one that silenced this proud group of men for some time.
5 Reasons Why Sylvester Stallone Might Overtake Tom Cruise As Top Actor and 1 Thing TC Can Do To Ensure That Never Happens
1. Rocky Balboa (Rocky 6)
2. Rambo (Rambo 4)
3. The Expendables
4. The Expendables 2
5. The Expendables 3 (This time he’s pulled together Antonio Banderas, Wesley Snipes, Mel Gibson and Harrison Ford. And those are in addition to Arnold, Statham, Li, and Ivan Drago. Oh, and Kelsey Grammar, too.)
For any of you who haven’t seen “The Expendables” movies, you’re missing out. Missing out like I thought I was missing out in the late 80s and 90s. I hated that I couldn’t go see rated R movies. It seemed like every good movie was rated R and starred Stallone or Schwarzenegger. When I finally checked those movies out, man was I disappointed. Then Sly shocks the world with “Rocky Balboa” and “Rambo”, only to top them a few years later with “The Expendables”. The movies are over the top in every way imaginable. It’s a formula that can’t lose. Lose the ego, bring the heart, and have a little fun while you’re at it.
Tom–don’t worry. You’re still tops in my book. The easiest way to ensure you never lose the spot is follow Stallone’s lead and give us what we want. You know what I’m talking about TC. That’s right. It’s time for the sequel. (Cue the Anthem.)
Good Thing No One Else Was Listening
“Merry Christmas,” he said, walking into her room.
“Daddy,” she began, “you know what? I heard Santa last night.”
“I did, too,” he confirmed. “Let’s go see if he brought any presents.”
She led the way to the tree and let out a giggle before she reported her findings.
“I wanna open this one,” she said, pointing to the biggest present.
“Actually, it’s better if we start with the gifts from relatives. Then you can open the gifts from Santa. Is that a deal?” he offered.
“Deal,” she agreed.
“Okay then. Let’s start with Uncle Sam’s gift. What do you think he gave you?” he asked.
She struggled with the bow until, at last, it relented, at which point she lifted the heavier than expected box. She sensed a liquid inside, and like any American child, guessed with more excitement than adults have the capacity to fake, “Is it…wah-der?!”
“Yes child, it’s water. The one thing in life you’ll never be without due to your ‘kul-cherr and hair-i-tij’. Sam waited all year to surprise you with this once in a lifetime gift,” he laughed to himself, head shaking.
“I don’t know,” he answered, “why don’t you open it and find out?”
Idiotic Embarassing Weakness
“I’m David,” the guy said, extending his hand.
“Pete.”
His handshake was firm, and while the whole situation caught him by surprise, he was glad it was over. He had always wondered what it would be like to meet the ex’s boyfriend. No big thing. In a way he was almost glad to see that she’d latched on to someone else. Maybe there’d be a day when he’d finally be done paying her way.
The next time he saw the two of them, Pete noticed nicely wrapped presents under a well-placed Christmas tree. Seemed like a lot considering Santa hadn’t come yet.
“Whatever,” he thought, brushing off any emotions.
Perhaps it was the monotonous sound of the shovel against the concrete, but a curious thought formed. Standing still, the shovel parallel to the ground, he thought, “Wasn’t her long-lost love named David?” Thinking back to the news video she showed him of this David on the computer screen in his parent’s basement years ago, he instantly flew into a rage. “You gotta be shitting me. No way. I can’t believe it. She’s back with the guy that didn’t take her with the first time around. What the fuck?
“Why would she ever marry another man and have a child with him if all this time she just wanted this other guy? Holy hell. I have never felt so used in my entire life. It’s like I’m slowly becoming white-trash because I met one person,” he thought, as a feeling of madness encroached.
“I can’t wonder on this one; I have to know for sure.”
He pulled his glove off, and took his phone out of his pocket. Looking around to make sure no one saw him texting-while-shoveling, he shot her a quick inquiring text, “Is that David the ol’ PJ, love of your life David?”
Trying to calm himself through work, he found snow-removal’s singularity only accelerated his passions.
“It all makes sense. She didn’t work a day during the marriage. And from what I remember this guy is not one to want for money. Here I am essentially working two jobs to pay her off and stay out of debt that should have never accrued, and she’s living the high-life with an old fling. Are they living together? She better not be planning to do something stupid like move out of Denver. There are things I can take, and things I can’t. I’m not fighting a woman for my child because she’s a gold-digging, lazy, negative louse. Her and her folks. The whole clingy, enabling lot of them can join in a chorus of ‘blood’s thicker ‘n mud’–I’ll stick with right action.
“Surely she’s responded by now.” He checked his phone. “Nope. Why not? I know they’re awake. The little girl can’t sleep past 7:30 for anything. I should’ve seen this coming. I’d always heard about women, and yet I thought I was smarter than other men. So much for that. Should’ve never spent a day with that girl. My God, what have I done? It’s like crazy Charlie Sheen said, ‘You don’t pay a prostitute for sex, you pay her to leave.’ Isn’t that turning out to be the truth?”
He anxiously checked his phone again.
“At last a text!” he muttered. It was just the library letting him know the book he ordered had arrived.
“Come on woman.”
Now inside, his warming fingers checked the device again. Finally she responded. Her text was beautiful for its simplicity: “No.”
“Perhaps she’s not entirely an evil succubus,” he thought, his relief more acute than his shame.
Relief
And with that they were out the door.
As usual, she ran to the car, and verbalized her victory upon touching the driver’s side passenger door–her door. He simply shook his head and said, “Yep. Looks like you beat me again.” He opened his door, placed everything in the car and started it. Then he opened her door and put her in her car seat.
Getting back into the driver’s seat, he backed the car out of the garage. Next, he put the car in park and got out. The recent week of sub-freezing temperatures took their toll on the garage door opener, so he was forced to use more than just his finger muscles to open and close the garage. In a jiff, he was back in the car and they were on their way.
At the daycare, he grabbed her nap stuff from the front seat and told her she could start unbuckling and get out. Like always, she seemed to not hear this command, and he was at her door before she could comply. She happily dropped down to the cement, and reminded him about the dangers of walking on ice.
Leaving her with the teacher, he walked out of the building briskly. He had time, but never liked the feeling of being rushed. There was something rewarding about getting to work early enough to be able to sit in the car for a moment before going in.
He pulled into the parking garage, and turned off the car. Reaching for his lunch, he nearly jumped.
“MOTHER EFFER!” he shouted. “GOD DANG IT! I know I grabbed it this morning.”
His mind raced to figure out what he would eat for lunch now that he had discovered he left his on the counter.
Walking past the passenger door, his peripheral vision picked up on a grocery sack which looked awfully similar to the ones he packed his lunches in. Turning for confirmation, a shudder of relief almost knocked him off his feet.
“I knew I didn’t forget it,” he said, impressed at his ability to believe a lie.
After A Hard Days Work
Opening the door, he simultaneously managed to drop into the seat, press the brake, insert the key into the ignition, and start the engine. “Finally,” he thought, “I’m outta here.” He turned up the Christmas music and began his drive to pick up some dinner.
He made believe that he hadn’t decided where to go, and ran down the list of options–mostly fast food. He knew, though, that he was only craving one thing. His own version of crack-cocaine. Or at least his own version of crack’s most common feature that the planet’s comedians can’t stop talking about.
Turning into the familiar parking lot, he avoided the enormous dip that surrounded the manhole cover. He got out of the car and noticed there were a couple people waiting in line as he pulled open the door to the restaurant.
He overheard the entire conversation between the current customer and the cashier. It was shocking. The lady had ordered a pizza other than pepperoni or cheese. “Wow!” he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. The rarity of the moment caused the cashier to take a moment to place the order during which he noticed three more customers pile in behind him. For a restaurant bent on having its food hot and ready the growing line created a palpable angst. Finally, one lady near the end of the line couldn’t take it any longer and broke the awkward silence. Gripping her cigarette pack with the familiar three-finger cradle, she nervously packed the tobacco against her left hand with the recognizable staccato “thwack! thwack! thwack!” and said, “Man! This place is hoppin’ t’night!” The others rewarded her benevolence with wide-eyed nods and exhaling.
He smiled. Then he wondered if they knew how much he loved them.
Dirty Car?
For Preston.
“Alrighty. I’ve got the car towels, window towels, soap, vinyl cleaner, leather cleaner, leather conditioner, window cleaner, gloves, plastic belt, long sleeve shirt, hat, and comfortable shoes. Most importantly, I’ve got a winning attitude,” he said aloud to no one. What he wouldn’t utter, even to himself, was his plan.
The roar of the turbine-engine-sounding blowers startled him out of his daydream. “It’s go time,” he thought to himself.
As soon as the car made its way from the tunnel to his side he went to work. First the exterior, then the wheels, then the inside. “Wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am,” he proclaimed to himself, whip-cracking the ground with his damp towel. “Ford, ready!” he called.
A gentleman walked his way. Standing ready at the door, he surmised he’d get a decent tip.
“Thanks for coming in today. Have a great day,” he said, his voice without expectation.
“Thank you,” the gentleman replied in kind.
Closing the door, he walked empty-handed around the back of the car. Checking that the driver wasn’t looking, he ducked low. He only had a moment to decide. “Fuck it,” he said, the purr of the exhaust causing his heart to race. He opened the back door and quickly slid across the back seat until he was directly behind the gentleman.
Noticing the intruder before the pain, the gentleman released a terrified gasp. Struggling to get a word out, the gentleman realized the trespasser had thrust a knife into his right side and was now yelling, “Drive! Drive you cheap, ungrateful, son of a whore!”
The tires smoked as the car launched forward. Forgetting to follow the generally accepted “stay on the pavement” rule, the gentleman sent the car straight ahead. The incision lengthened an inch as the car jumped the curb. The assailant felt this unexpected delight and thought, “Serves him right.” Filled with a boyish excitement, he maintained his grip on the ribbed knife handle and twisted frantically, as if he discovered suddenly that the door to the room in which he planned to hide from an approaching devil was locked.
“Now, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to drive. You’re going to drive until you’re dead. You are dying today, and I am the man who is going to kill you. There is no chance to change this course of events,” he dictated, calming at the sound of his own voice.
“Wh-what? Why?” the gentleman asked.
“Don’t ask questions,” he said, pulling the knife and some entrails out of the gentleman’s side.
“Mother!” the gentleman cried. “I’m sorry kid. Whatever I did, I’m sorry.”
“Ha. Arrogant to the end, eh? Like anything you did deserves death at the hands of a car wash kid? No. Call for your mommy, call for your daddy. Tell me to pass a message to your wife and kids. But do not believe that this is about you. This was never about you. This is about me. The only thing I want you to regret is your choice to get your car washed today,” he said, plunging the hunting knife into the gentleman over and over again until the vehicle crashed into a billboard which read, “Dirty Car? Stop in Today for $10 Off Our Standard Wash’n’Vac Service.”
Review of Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad
In Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, Marlow’s apathetic voice is Conrad’s gift to readers. Through this apathy readers have a defibrillator to use on their hearts, which have slowed to a stop after contemplating the full meaning of the tale. Without this literary device, countless souls would be unable to return to their pleasant state of existence.
Conrad introduces Marlow as the novella opens. Within two pages we discover Marlow has decided to tell an unrequested tale containing an uncommon bleakness that offers no immediate value to the audience. By the end, we are left feeling despondent, depressed, and largely in a state of wonder. We ask ourselves, “If this horror happened to a man such as Kurtz, it surely would happen to little ol’ me. And that being the case, what’s the point of even trying?”
Add to these feelings the fact that the story is only 70-pages, and we find ourselves returning to page one with a singular goal. We long to discover that we overlooked the hope. Returning to page one with this new sense of purpose, we begin to notice that Marlow’s story is preempted by the notion that “the bond of sea…had the effect of making us tolerant of each other’s yarns—and even convictions.” Likewise, Conrad demonstrates his value by creating this tolerance in those of us without this bond.
Marlow’s apathy is palpable throughout the tale—evidenced by his ability to remain a detached observer. During this re-read we notice that this apathy, then, is Conrad’s gift to us. This apathy lights the path which will lead us out of darkness. Conrad doesn’t intend for us to remain in darkness. He wants us to take Marlow’s journey; not believe that we’re Marlow. The key to coming out whole is to remember this–remember that, unlike Marlow, we still care.
****
Conrad, Joseph. Heart of Darkness. New York: Dover, 1990. Print.
Captain’s Log 