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Thursday, June 25. 2009
I had the closing shift two days later with Dave. He was a college student so he had weird hours, but he was the one person in the store who loved reading non-fiction, especially biographies and history books. I was pretty sure that was the main reason he still had employment with us. He wasn't much of a self-starter and he often conveniently forgot to finish everything you gave him to work on if you weren't constantly checking up on him. But he was genial enough and customers shopping for non-fiction loved him, because he could almost always find them exactly what they were looking for. Kim had worked the morning shift with Ben, so I chattered with them as their shift ended.
Ben seemed even more confident and I watched him help a shopper find her husband the latest military thriller; he even talked her into buying a Book Club selection. It was one of those romance books that was kept in the fiction/literature section because the author was famous. When he finished helping her and she left the store, he asked me about the book he noticed me carrying into the store.
"Oh, it's a mystery book. One of those by-the-numbers serials where the protaganist has a supernaturally helpful dog that always points him in the right direction at just the right time. It won't win a Nobel prize, but it's pretty entertaining."
Continue reading "Benoni (Section 3)"
Monday, June 22. 2009
It was inevitable that I'd still be giggling at those two chuckleheads a while later when a customer approached me to ask where the Young Adult fiction section was located. He seemed a little miffed that I laughed at his question, but I didn't really think he'd be happier if I explained so I led him back and helped him find a book about a fictional baseball player for his son. I guided him back up to the registers after unsuccessfully trying to get him to bite on a few related titles. Kim had Ben ring him up and I was impressed by how quickly he'd picked up on the system. I mean, it wasn't brain surgery or anything, but it had taken me several shifts to get as comfortable as he seemed to be after just a half hour or so on the training machine.
By the end of the shift, I was so impressed I asked him if he'd ever worked for this bookstore chain before.
He smiled and replied, "No. Computers and books have always come naturally to me and Kim is a really good teacher. Besides there haven't been that many customers and I'm sure you'd have handled them better."
"Uh. Sure. But let me tell you, I sure didn't pick up on the store system that fast." I was serious. Guy was a whiz. Maybe Kim hadn't been exaggerating about how smart he was.
She apparently believed what she'd been saying, as she stepped in, "Rhys, you're embarrassing him." He blushed as if on queue. "But as you can see he's picked up on things quite well, so if you want to take off a little early, we'll take care of things. It won't take much to close things up."
I shrugged. A half hour off my shift wouldn't make much difference on my next paycheck and there was a movie I'd been hoping to catch tonight anyway. "Sure. It was really nice to meet you, Ben. If half of what Kim said about you is true, it'll be great working with you."
"Thanks, Reese! That's really nice! It was really nice to meet you; you're much more funny than Kim said."
I wasn't sure what to make of that. I'd already been half-turning to go pick up my stuff from the break room so I just continued on my way and mumbled, "Thanks." I tried not to think too much about what Kim might or might not have said about me as I took off my bookseller apron and grabbed my purse.
Continue reading "Benoni (Section 2)"
Thursday, June 18. 2009
Author's Note: I started this during the writing game from a couple months back. Since things have slowed down at work, I'm thinking I might get to finish it. No promises.
I knew this must be Ben from the little squeal Kim unleashed on him. He had dark, curly hair cut close to his head, no doubt to prevent it from poofing out like he was Ronald McDonald. It seriously looked capable of going all clown on him. The slight upturn to his nose didn't help, but he had dark brown eyes and the kind of pale skin you get from living in a place with almost constant cloud cover. He had an average build, definitely not an athlete, and was about average height. He certainly wouldn't stand out in a crowd. He walked through the door with a vacant expression on his face and I didn't think he'd last the shift, let alone stick around long enough to have a lasting impact on my life.
They briefly hugged and Kim brought him over for introductions.
"This is Benoni, Rhys. Benoni, this is Rhys," she pronounced with a big grin on her face.
"It's nice to meet you Reese. Please call me Ben." He extended a hand, and seeing no other option, I shook it.
"Nice to meet you too, Ben. I understand we'll be working together now." I was beginning to feel a little awkward. She was smiling so much I was afraid it might break her face.
Continue reading "Benoni"
Saturday, March 21. 2009
The next morning Linda woke to her father's ranting shouts from the front yard. She hurried down the white spiral staircase to the front door, which was standing wide open. A steaming coffee mug was sitting next to the newspaper on the front step, where her father had abandoned it. He was in the driveway, circling the yellow porsche, screaming.
Linda opened her mouth to ask what he was doing, when she saw: all four of the tires were slashed, the car sunk low down on them as if exhausted. She took a few steps and then stopped, her eyes following the deep gouges in the car's body, made by something strong and heavy. “A crowbar!” screamed her father, pointing to the offending object, which was lying on the grass a few feet away from the car.
Aghast, she crept closer. The headlights were smashed, the upholstery ripped to shreds. Unconsciously, Linda began mouthing a prayer. She walked down the steps and circled the car, then stopped as she came in sight of the garage. There, in violently red spray paint, were scrawled the words, “I LOVE YOU.”
Continue reading "James (Part 3 of 3)"
Friday, March 20. 2009
[Ed: I know, you're not supposed to apologize for your material before you present it, but I REALLY wish I'd had more time to clean this up. There are a lot of concepts crammed into very little space - concepts I'd have loved to explore more, but time and format did not allow. I'd like to thank Johnny for his constructive input on the first (very) rough drafts of this, and my wife for making it possible for me to even *conceive* of this story. I hope you can all look past the many flaws to find a story you can enjoy buried underneath.]
Agency Log: Agent #848, Kevin Plume, "Mouth" 1982, Dec 12
They always send 4 of us on these missions: the Eyes - a clairvoyant who is trained to seek the Rogues; the Ears - a precognitive who listens to the future to make sure no surprises lurk beyond our knowledge; the Fist, a Powerless brute who is usually given charge of the mission; and someone like myself - the Mouth - a telepath and scribe, to relay intel, keep an accurate log, and make sure everyone is in playing their role. Hal, our current Fist, is the worst I've ever worked with - every time he looks at me, I can feel him calculating how to "put me down", as he likes to say. He looks at all of us as if we were just one wrong twitch away from being declared Rogue and forcing him to kill us where we stand.
Continue reading "According to How Others Defined Him"
Wednesday, March 18. 2009
When they brought him to the new house, he was relieved to see that there weren't any children's toys in the front yard. Maybe there wouldn't be any younger siblings to babysit at this house. He walked in and was met with a rushing hug from a tall, ginger-haired woman who smelled like rosemary. “James,” she said, “It's so nice to have you here. It's just you and me right now, no other emergency placements—for now,” she raised an eyebrow at the caseworker, who shrugged and laughed. “You're welcome, welcome, welcome,” said the ginger-haired woman to James.
“I can't predict 'em, Wendy,” the caseworker said. “We had a sibling group of seven on the list last week, but their mom's sister took them in last minute.”
“Well, for now we'll be cozy just the two of us. I'm single,” she explained to James' quizzical expression, “and my last couple of placements were allowed to go home to their parents about three weeks ago.”
“Oh,” said James.
“You'll like it here, you'll see,” said Wendy. “I've heard good things about you and I know that we can be a happy little family.”
“Oh,” said James.
_____
He did like it at this new, pretty house. All the wood was a red-golden color, and matched Linda's hair. She was always cooking, delicious smells meeting him when he came home from school. She was busy most of the time; she ran an editing business part time from her home computer, and was always running out to the copy store. “I'm gonna buy a new ink cartridge any day now,” she said every time she hurried out the door. “Remind me tonight.”
The days blurred together into a comforting routine. School, homework, dinner, video games or TV. James found himself actually moving his clothes from the black garbage bags to the drawers in his new bedroom. This lasted for several months, until one Monday he came home and Wendy was more cheerful than usual. Too cheerful. Fake cheerful, thought James.
“Got a call from your caseworker today,” she said breezily as she unpacked groceries. “They've got a placement for you that they think could be permanent. Isn't that great?” He didn't respond, so she went on, “the dad is a really good guy, works construction. You could pick up some great skills if he'll take you on some jobs, huh?”
When he still didn't respond, she put down the carton of eggs she was unpacking and locked her warm hazel eyes onto him. “It's gonna be okay, James,” she said sincerely. “You're a good, sweet kid, and you deserve to find a place where they appreciate that.”
“Why can't I stay here with you?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. She sighed. “I'm a temporary stop for you, kiddo,” she said. “I care about you a lot, and I want you to be in a home with a mom and a dad. It was great having you here, and I am truly going to miss you.”
“You care about me?” His voice was soft.
She came around the counter and put her hands on his shoulders. “I care about you,” she said. “I want you to go to the best possible home. I know you'll be great.”
He shook his head, unable to speak.
“You're a good kid, James,” she said sincerely, locking her eyes onto his. “Don't forget that, okay?”
He nodded solemnly, unblinking. “Okay,” he said.
When he got to his new foster home, they showed him a back bedroom with no carpet, just cracked cement. The stained mattress was old and saggy, and nobody had bothered to put sheets onto it yet. He tossed his garbage bags onto the bed and looked around, a cold sensation prickling around the back of his neck.
“Hey, kid,” said his new foster father gruffly. “Sheets are in the hall closet. Chore chart's on the fridge. Dinner's at six. You okay?”
“Yeah,” said James dully. “I'm good.”
Continue reading "James (Part 2 of 3)"
Wednesday, March 18. 2009
"Darjeeling? Where's that?" Those were Damon's first two questions. His third question was the one that really mattered to him, though. "Why now?"
"It's the opportunity of a lifetime," answered his father. "Have you ever heard of the Padmaja Naidu Himalayan Zoological Park?"
"No, and neither have most normal people. Dad, this is my senior year. San Diego was supposed to be the opportunity of a lifetime, too, remember? I don't care if Noah called and wants you to cure all of the animals on the ark. I don't want to leave." Damon could tell from the deep breaths that his father was counting to ten. Knowing that it was the only way he could win, Damon spoke again before his father reached ten. "You know what? I don't care. You go ahead and do whatever you think you should. I'm just your son. My opinion's not really that important." With that, he turned and stalked out of the room, ignoring his father's attempts to call him back.
Darjeeling surprised Damon; for the most part, he liked it. His father had to call in a lot of favors to make it work, but he managed to get Damon enrolled in St. Joseph's School. As the only American in the school, he was a bit of an anomaly. After the initial novelty wore off, most everyone just left him alone. It wasn't anything like home, and sometimes Damon was lonely, but he had to admit that it was far better than the two years they had spent in St. Louis. Before long, he found himself wandering in the foothills of the Himalayas almost every day after school.
Continue reading "A Magic Teapot to Call Your Own"
Monday, March 16. 2009
*Author's note: My story will be published in three installments. This is part 1 of 3.*
His earliest memory was not being taken away from his parents, although he had been five years old at the time. He heard all about it later, from the casual conversations that the caseworkers had with his foster parents, but he had no memory of it himself. They described the ropes his mother had used to tie the door shut, the bucket she had left for him to urinate into. But he didn't care. He didn't remember any of that.
No, the first memory he had was when they took him away from Steve.
Steve was a round, soft, balding man who had once been blonde but was now mostly gray.
“James,” Steve had said, gently but firmly holding James' shoulders in his big meaty hands. “Your mom and I love you very much, and we care about you very much. But you are going to live with a new family now, okay?”
Steve's watery blue eyes had skipped upward toward the caseworker, standing somewhere behind James. James heard a baby cry, and knew that Marjorie was trying to feed both the twins at the same time. He remembered the day before, when he had used all the baby bottles to catch grasshoppers in the backyard. Marjorie had cried. “It just goes to show you,” she had sobbed into Steve's shoulder, “I can't watch all of them at once! I can't!”
He had been proud of his grasshopper menagerie, but nobody was proud of him. Both Marjorie and Steve hadn't spoken to him for the rest of the night. He had heard Steve's soft voice from behind their bedroom door. “Maybe it is for the best then,” he had sighed heavily, the sound of air escaping a balloon.
And now this. The caseworker was here, and Marjorie had used this morning while James was at school to pack all of his clothes into two black plastic garbage bags. His toys and stuffed animals and books she had left in his room. “We'll use them for the boys when they get older,” she had explained to Steve.
Those garbage bags full of clothes were now in the caseworker's car, and James was here, looking into Steve's blue eyes and struggling to understand. “I'm sorry about the grasshoppers,” he offered.
Steve smiled briefly, more a wince than anything else. “You're not in trouble, James. It's just time for you to go to a family that has time for you,” he said. Behind him, the caseworker sighed and shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
“We love you and care about you,” said Steve. “And you need to always remember that you are a sweet little guy and you deserve a good life.”
“I'm a sweet little guy,” echoed James, making the caseworker chuckle under her breath.
“Yes you are,” said Steve, attempting joviality. “And you'll be fine.”
Continue reading "James"
Monday, March 16. 2009
Several years ago, I took a class on narrative styles. In that class, we discussed the effects that the narrator's point of view has on the actual story. We read several books and short stories, each narrated from a different point of view, and examined how the point of view affected the story. That class fascinated me, and as a result, I have enjoyed playing with the narrators' points-of-view in my writing.
In all of my experimentation, however, I had never gotten around to experimenting with a point of view that was very popular in the late 1800's and early 1900's. This point of view consists of a narrator who talks about another person, who, in turn, tells the story. When I decided to write "In the Eye of the Beholder," I thought that this story would be an interesting way to experiment with that narrative style.
In my experiment, I found the narrative style extremely limiting. Not only was the plot different from many of my plots, but the narrative style forced me to use a very different voice than I am used to. AoD and I discussed that change.
AoD: I hope I'm not giving you the wrong impression; I really liked it. It was just, as you had warned me, a significant departure from what I usually think of as your "voice".
Me: Yeah. It was kind of weird for me when I was writing it. Both of the recent posts have been very experimental for me.
AoD: I think that's very in-character with how I perceive you, as a person. For example, our different responses to Ming's - you enjoyed it, but continue to search. I grabbed hold and clung as to a lifeline. :)
Me: I've never connected the two. That's a very interesting connection. That just gave me an interesting idea for a story. What if there was a person who had no identity but the identity that other people gave him. What if his identity changed according to how others defined him?
AoD: What would be really fun, is to have different people write that same story. Playing a meta-game with the same theme :)
From there, things snowballed. AoD and I recruited Daboo, and we all wrote a story that followed that theme. During the next week, we will be posting our stories. We hope that you will enjoy them, and that you will think about the subject yourself: What if there was a person who had no identity but the identity that other people gave him?
Tuesday, March 3. 2009
The car rolled to a stop at the top of the hill, and the driver turned to look over his shoulder. "You sure about this, miss?" The young lady in the back seat nodded confidently, but he could see her hands nervously smoothing the folds of her party dress. "Well, if you run into trouble, I'll be waiting right here. You just come a running, and I'll take care of it."
"Thanks, Ernie. I know I can count on you." She smiled bravely, opened the door, and began walking. The lengthening shadows of evening made the house seem more forbidding than it had earlier in the day when she had decided to accept the invitation. Then, it had seemed to be a cheery, if lonely, Victorian mansion. Now, it had more of the feeling of a haunted house.
One, two, three, four, five. She climbed the steps up onto the porch, and paused. The invitation had come by mail two weeks before. It was an old-fashioned thing with gilt letters and an ornately embossed black border. It definitely had not been printed on a bubble jet printer, she thought, and smiled in spite of her nerves. What kind of man would send such an invitation? She didn't know. But then again, she didn't know what kind of man would invite a woman that he had never met to join him for a birthday party, either.
Her hand trembled very slightly as she reached for the brass knocker. She knocked twice, and heard footsteps approach immediately after the knock. The door opened quickly. For a moment, both of them surveyed each other wordlessly. He was a large man, tall and quite broad, but he stood rather stoop-shouldered, and one leg seemed shorter than the other. He was dressed all in black; the red rose in his lapel stood out strongly because of the contrast, and his pale skin seemed white against the somber color of his suit.
Her neighbors had told her that she shouldn't go to the party. They said that he was a monster. So far, only his face matched their description. His mouth seemed to have been twisted hard to the left, and a single knife-edged tooth protruded from its extreme edge. In pulling his mouth to the left, his nose had also been twisted, though it still bore close resemblance to a human nose. She almost gasped when she finally saw his eyes. The right eye was a brilliant, icy blue. The left was covered by a heavy patch.
He stepped back from the door and gestured for her to enter. "Please come in." His speech, though husky, was easy to understand, and much different from the growl she expected. "Unfortunately, all of the other guests have declined my invitation."
Continue reading "In the Eye of the Beholder"
Thursday, February 19. 2009
Most of the time, when I am writing, I start out with a character or characters who fascinate me. In an effort to get to know the characters better, I place them in situations, and watch how they react. Sometimes, these situations evolve, and eventually become stories. Other times, they remain no more than contrived situations, sketches that reveal a few isolated characteristics of the characters.
What follows is one such sketch. It is not a complete story, and I do not have a complete story in my mind. It is an isolated incident, an experiment to see how the characters react. If you read this expecting the story to have a continuation, a resolution, or a plot, you will be disappointed. If, however, you read it to find out about the characters, you may be entertained or intrigued, and it may just jog a story loose somewhere in your brain.
Continue reading "A Sketch"
Saturday, December 20. 2008
"Are there any questions?" Silence. "Does anyone have reservations?" He looked around the small room for several seconds. Finally, one man raised his hand.
"Actually, I do have a question. Are you sure we have the money to do all of this?"
The response was silence, at least at first. Then a man in a grey suit stood. "Preliminary estimates state that we will have a budget deficit of about 1.5 billion US dollars. We are currently raising funds in an attempt to reduce that deficit, but in the end we may have to borrow." The man paused, and smiled. "If the plan succeeds, you know, all of our debts will be forgiven." A ripple of nervous laughter bounced around the room. It died out quickly.
"Again, I ask, are there any questions? Any reservations?" This time, the silence that greeted his query was deep and lasting. "All right, then. You know your work." Let's get started.
As they filed out, he was struck by their silence. There were no conversations, no jokes, no hurried whispers. Just the sound of shuffling feet, and, every now and then, a nervous cough or two. Military uniforms mixed with business suits and cassocks. "God is no respecter of persons," he murmured to himself. "It will work. It must work." His whispers barely reached his own ears. "Conquest, War, Famine, Death. It must work."
Continue reading "Reboot"
Thursday, February 7. 2008
I'm working on the style of the LaskoVision's podcasts, and am pretty excited at the direction its going. I posted the test here, and would appreciate any feedback. it will also allow me to see what my bandwidth does with multiple people looking at it. Please let me know what you think, though. I want this to be something that draws people to the site, and if this isn't it, I have to go back to the drawing board... I really hope I don't have to go back to the drawing board.
Saturday, July 14. 2007
The image of David's lifeless body lingered in my mind even after I opened my eyes. Heart pounding, I stared upward, listening as the wind whispered among the trees. It carried on its wings the scent of new rain. As I watched, clouds crept across the sky, slowly blotting out the stars. I must have fallen asleep again, because I woke to the sound of David unzipping his sleeping bag.
He rolled to his feet, and spread his arms, grinning and stretching. "Look at this!" I sat up slowly, amazed by what I saw. Our camp was an island of clarity in a ghostly world of silver and green. Trees swam in and out of the swirling mist, droplets clinging to their branches like jewels glittering in the half-light of morning. "How'd you sleep?"
I automatically started to answer, "Fine" but stopped myself. I searched for an explanation, but ended up just saying, "I had a really weird dream. It kind of bugged me."
"Oh yeah? You know, during finals last year, I dreamed that I was being attacked by a box full of pencils. Totally messed with me. I couldn't pick up a pencil for several days afterward. Just scared me to death." He just stood there, grinning. I tried to respond, but found myself torn. I felt a laugh tickling at the back of my throat, but at the same time, every time I looked at him, I remembered the pale, lifeless face from my dream, and froze, paralyzed by guilt and grief.
At last, I shook my head and muttered, "Mine wasn't like that."
David looked at me, his gaze suddenly penetrating and serious. "Are you OK?"
Again, I shook my head, numbly. My voice was almost a whisper. "I gotta tell you something."
Continue reading "Power of an Unknown Kind"
Sunday, June 24. 2007
OK. So, I've decided that I ought to try to finish the story that I originally called "The Nature of Things" (I've changed the name now. It's now called, "A Defense of My Life, by Jonathan Bicara). I'm picking it up again, but I'm not picking it up exactly where I left off. Instead, I've decided that things will make the most sense when the story's finished if I give you a little bit of a preface. So, without further ado, here is the preface.
The prisoner stood before me, tall and proud, ignoring the sounds that echoed through the cavern. Hundreds of people gathered under the floating globe lights, all of them, like me, looking at the prisoner. Some were mourning. Others looked angry. None looked emotionless.
We all knew who he was, but as a matter of procedure, the bailiff called out: "Prisoner, please state your name."
"I am Jonathan Bicara."
"Jonathan Bicara, you are hereby charged with treason. How do you plead?"
"I don't know."
The bailiff looked perplexed, and glanced up at me. "Jon, please," I said, "are you guilty or not?"
The prisoner took a deep breath, and spoke loudly. "Guilt is a feeling, not a state of being. Yes, I did commit the crime that you are accusing me of committing, but no, I do not feel any guilt for my actions."
Continue reading "Preface"
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Power of an Unknown Kind Posted by Johnny Elbows
in A Defense of My Life, by Jonathan Bicara at
22:12