37 posts from 2007

If you could easily choose to live in another country without all the red tape and legal stuff, which one would you select and why? 
Submitted by Matthew 25.

On most days, I'd say Italy, because I've read so much about it.  Recently, though, I've been considering Ireland and Scotland (land of my ancestors).  I like castles and stuff, and they'd be nifty to go exploring the countryside there.

I should try to focus these things, but I'm just letting them jump around right now, and today's cup of tea is Phoenix.

"Phoenix!"

"Helen!"  Nix stood up and even felt slightly ashamed as the older woman gently took his face in her hands.  He obediently turned into the light so that she could examine his bruised and bloodied face.

Greg stepped up and looked over his wife's shoulder, frowning a little as he looked over the smallish boy.  "Gotcha pretty good above the eye.  Got a nice gash."

"Yes, sir."

"How many?"

"Two."

He leaned a little closer and lowered his voice so that the receptionist wouldn't hear.  "Get a couple of good swings in?"

Phoenix smirked a little.  "Yes, sir."

"Gregory!" Helen smacked her husband on the arm.

"Mr. and Mrs. Tempest?"

The three of them looked at the door of the office.  The principal watched them grimly.

"Actually, I'm Greg Rudolph, and this is my wife, Helen," he took the other man's hand.

"I'm afraid I'm a bit confused.  I was told that Phoenix's parents were here."

Phoenix blushed and Helen squeezed his shoulder a bit, smiling.  "We're Nix's foster parents."

"Oh!  Of course.  I'm sorry.  I just transferred in about a month ago... Why don't the three of you step inside?"

The small family moved into the office and took their seats, watching the principal sliding in across from them.  Phoenix made himself as small as possible and sat on the edge of his seat.

"What exactly happened this morning?" Greg asked, indicating to his ward's battered face.

"Well, a few boys decided to take offense to your son's early morning activities..." Phoenix concentrated on his lap, "...they seemed to view it as a provocation."

"Are you saying Nix deserved this?" Helen asked.

"Of course not.  I find the idea of two larger boys doubling up on a smaller boy deplorable.  Both of them have been dealt with accordingly, but I do think there may have been a better way for Nix to deal with his anger..."

"Hold on a sec.  Back up.  Early morning activities and anger?  I think we missed something important."  Greg looked over at Phoenix for clarification.

Nix's whole body ached with tension, humiliation, and misery.  Tears had started to form in the corners of his eyes, but he would not face the adults in the room.

The principal blushed faintly and shifted in his seat before carefully opening the top drawer of his desk, removing several sheets of paper and passing them over.

"Oh my god," Helen said, putting a hand to her mouth.  Greg didn't say anything.

"Phoenix hung almost 500 copies of those this morning.  The teachers took down what they could.... but quite a few ended up in the hands of the students."  He let the uncomfortable silence surround them for a moment, then cleared his throat.  "Unfortunately, though I understand the emotional duress that your son was under after... well, that... and the subsequent actions of the involved parties..."  He rubbed the back of his neck.  "We are going to have to suspend him."

Phoenix was crying, shaking silently and unable to face his parents.  He felt as though he'd collapse under the weight of his own thoughts.

"For how long?" Greg asked, setting the paper facedown on the desk.

"Ten days."  The principal looked apologetic.  "I think its best that you take him home with you, for his own safety, rather than having him finish out the day.  George Mann has volunteered to bring his work home for him, so that he doesn't fall behind..."

Helen reached over, touching the back of Nix's head gently; he winced away, wiping his eyes.  She was still holding the picture in her hands.  He wished she'd put it down.

"That's great.  George can stop over whenever he can.  Thank you."

"I don't... I don't mean to intrude on something that is obviously a very personal matter... but sometimes... after something like this... you may want to consider counselling.  I mean... first... well, it can be really hard on teens."

"I understand, thank you," Helen said, finally putting the paper she was holding onto the desk with Greg's.  "Nix, do you need anything from your locker?"

He shook his head, standing up and shouldering his backpack, staying just out of reach of her comforting arms.  Greg wouldn't look at him.  Nix wasn't sure if that was good or bad, but it didn't feel good. 

"So he can come back...?"

"Wednesday, the 13th."

"Good. Thank you again.  Come on, boys."  She slid her hand into her husband's and they made their way out to the car, with Phoenix trailing in their wake.

What is your daily commute like?  What is the weirdest thing you've seen on that commute? 
Submitted by E. 

It's two miles up a mostly-deserted road, turn onto a main road, follow that for 7/8 of a mile, then turn onto another main road, and immediately turn into my work parking lot, total of like 3.1 miles to the grocery store.  Once, along that route (on the way home) I saw an old guy's car blocking my turn lane that had an entire front bumper stuck in his driver's side door, but the other vehicle had mysteriously disappeared.

To my other job, from my apartment, I follow the same road past two christian schools till it deadends into the road my first job is on, then take that down, til just before it turns into a highway, and turn right, follow that for 4 minutes past a bunch of rich peoples' homes, then pull into that parking lot.  Hudson isn't allowed to do "strange".  So I've never seen anything unusual on that route.

So, these are three different ones.  The first one is about a character that still has no name, and I think I'm going to call that finished.  The second two are about two VERY old charries of mine.  The first is Michael, my pretty surfer boy.  And the second one is about Scottie, who I can't give any details about because it would ruin the dribbly.  I'll pull a Tem and separate them by colors.  Wee. 

Do you love me?

It was the question that lurked at the forefront of his mind.  Every person that would meet his eyes: the cashier at the gas station, the waiter at his favorite restaurant, the librarian.

Could they read it in his eyes?  Pleading with them even as he smiled at them?

He collapsed onto the sofa in his apartment, giving a weary sigh.

"Hard day?"

"Same as usual, I suppose," he shut his eyes and draped an arm across them.

"I worry about you, bro.  Maybe you should consider the dorms--or a roommate."

"We'd end up killing each other.  I can't live with anyone anymore.  Plus, I don't want to."

"You're stubborn."

"You're dead."

"Inconsequencial."

"Says you.  Go away.  I want to be alone."

"That's the last thing you want," even as he said it, he faded from view.

The boy opened his eyes and looked grumpily out the window at the descending darkness.  The room sank into shadows around him and he found himself watching a family in the adjacent building.

"It's times like this when I actually miss them..."

"It's times like this you forget what they did to you."

"I thought I told you to leave?"

"I promised you that you'd never be alone.  If I left, I'd break that promise."

"If I had a time machine, I'd tell the eight year old me to add a clause for personal space into that promise."

"It's not good for you to dwell."

The boy sighed.  "I know.  But... it's hard.  Sometimes, all I can remember are the good times."

"Would you like me to remind you?"

"Only if I start to call them."

"Fair enough."

"Hey?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you love me?"

The room got a little warmer, wrapping itself around the boy.  "Always."

------------

It was the only thing vivid in his mind anymore.

The dark blues and purples, bursts of red, streaks of golden yellow.  Orange mingled with pink, making a seamless symphony of color draping its way across the horizon above the waves.

Every instant before had become a blur of half-forgotten, faded memory.  The figures indistinct-the places, the objects-all mixed and abstracted.

The hours after passed in his memory in an instant--fast forwarded with brief snatches of dialog and saltwater.  And pain.

He remembered the pain.  But it was disjointed--as if the cause was interjecting his memory at random--a sting here, a stab there.

Time escaped him now.  His memories were unable to be filed in order.  They were shuffled.  In the hospital, he tried to reorganize; to sort and order; while he was in the medicated haze.

Third grade: dressed as Thomas Edison, report on light bulbs.

Summer camp, age 12: Maddy kissed him by the campfire.

His first steps.  Soccer practice.  Uncle Mike's funeral.

Chronology became impossible.

His bandages were wet.  The drugs were wearing off.  He was terrified of the world without them.

A hand slid into his.

"Michael, are you awake?"

"Would you hate me if I said I'd rather not be?"

She laughed softly, then added, "Have you heard the diagnosis?"

"No.  They had me on really good drugs."

"Yeah.  It was a morphine drip."

"How bad?" he asked, trying to sound like his stomach wasn't in knots.

"Bad.  Do you want to hear it from me, the doctor, or mom?"

He took a shaky breath.  "Tell me so that I don't break down when mom is here."

She squeezed his hand tightly.  "The rock cut deep--straight across your eyes.  They saved your eyes, but... not your sight."

He let it sink in, clutching her hand.  "I'm blind."

She nodded, then spoke.  "Yeah."

"Well, on the up side, my tear ducts still work."  His bandages were wet again.

"Michael..."

He felt the bed shift beside him and pressed his face into her shoulder, crying quietly against her.

----------------------------

Scottie would be throwing things or screaming out his frustration if he thought it wouldn't attract the unwanted attention of his mother or brother.  He paced the room in sharp, measured steps.

One.  Two.  Three.  Turn.  One.  Two.  Three.  Turn.

He caught his reflection in the family photo on the wall.  The shine of his scalp brought bile into his throat.  He took the photo down and threw it onto the bed.

"In one of your hateful moods again, are we?"

He glared at the taller boy leaning idly on his door frame.  "What do you want?"

"To talk.  And, mom's worried you're going to pace right through the ceiling."

Scottie's eyes softened and he looked down at the well-worn path on his floor with a faint blush.

"Sit down, Scottie.  Let's talk."

He obediently moved to his bed and collapsed onto it.  The fatigue that'd been held off by his anger latched onto him as his brother took a seat on the edge of the bed and he propped himself up against the headboard.

"Keep anything down tonight?"

"For about a half hour," Scottie said.

"You look pale."

"I'm tired.  And sick.  And sick of being sick..."  he would have kept going, but a lump was forming in his throat.

"Scottie..."

"Chase, this is stupid!  I'm dying and I'm going to die sick and bedridden like an invalid!"  A wave of sickness washed over him and his face burned.

Chase picked up a bucket off the floor and offered it to him, but Scottie waved it off, putting a hand to his stomach.

"Calm down, Scott.  It's okay."

Scottie covered his face and took a few deep breaths.  "It's not.  The chemo is making it worse and I'm miserable and I don't want to die like this..."

"Don't talk like that.  If you really hate it that much, stop going."

"Mom would never let me..."

"It's your body, Scottie.  Nobody can make that decision for you.  If you honestly think it's not helping and don't want to do it, I'll sit down with you and we'll talk to mom together about it, okay?"

"Really?" he relaxed a little, his stomach unknotting itself.

"Yes.  Scottie, having cancer does not mean that you forfeit all rights to make decisions on your own.  It's still your life, even if it is a bit shorter than we originally thought."

He smiled lightly to him.  "Thanks, Chase."

"No problem.  Now, before you pass out on me, I have a present for you."

"What?"

Chase smiled and stood, leaving the room and coming back a moment later with a golden retriever puppy.  "He was the runt of the litter and reminded me of you..."

Scottie's eyes got wide as he accepted the wriggling animal from his brother.  "Oh my god, he's awesome.  I can't believe it..." he giggled as the puppy licked his face.

"He's all yours, so you gotta walk him and feed him and everything.  I'll walk with you until you get your energy back... deal?"

"Absolutely.  Thank you so much, Chase."

"Don't thank me till after he's house broken," he said with a laugh.  "Here.  I'm going to take him out for you tonight.  I'll bring him back in a few.  Think about the chemo thing.  If you want, we'll talk to mom tomorrow."  He ruffled his little brother's hair with a grin.  "Sleep well, kid."

Audio: What's your favorite carol or holiday song?

"I Want A Hippopotamus For Christmas"  I have no idea who sings it.  But it's the funniest thing ever.

    "Tyler?"
    He pulled his eyes away from the gravestone and looked at the man talking to him.  Ty blinked from his reverie as he recognized the camouflaged uniform and then the face of the young man.  "Oh.  It's you.  I'm sorry.  I didn't think anyone was going to be here."
    "Don't be sorry.  You didn't come to his service."
    "It was a family matter... I didn't want to intrude."  His eyes wandered to the picture of the young man standing next to the stone.  "This is a nice plot."
    "You should have come.  As I understand it, you were close to my brother."
    "Yeah..."  He looked out around the cemetery and then back to the other boy.  "Still..."
    "We found a lot of pictures of the two of you in his stuff."
    Tyler fiddled with the flower in his hands.
    "Did you love him?"
    He blinked, taken aback by the question.  Opening his mouth, he closed it again and considered his answer, but the other wasn't done yet.
    "It's red."
    "Excuse me?"
    "The rose.  Red is for love.  White is for friendship."
    Tyler looked down at the pedals of the rose, then nodded.  "Yeah.  I loved him."  He spun the stem between his fingers a little, then looked back at him.
    "Did he love you?"
    Ty's heart wrenched and he looked back down at the stone and the smiling picture of Greg.  "It doesn't matter much anymore, does it?  I don't know."
    "You don't know?"
    He suddenly found himself wishing he were alone again, allowed to wallow in his misery.  But the other had no intentions of leaving and he sighed.  "No.  I don't know.  But he's gone.  So whatever happened while he was alive doesn't really matter anymore."
    The other closed the gap between them and shoved Tyler so hard that he dropped the rose and fell over, looking up at the other.  "What the hell was that for?"
    "Who are you to say that his life doesn't matter now that he's dead?"
    "You idiot!  I never said his life doesn't matter." Ty shoved himself back to his feet.  "Whether or not he loved me is inconsequential from here on in--not that it's any of your business to begin with!"
    "I can answer that for myself now," the soldier said, glaring at Tyler.  "My brother would have never loved anyone as cold as you."
    Tyler felt his stomach clench as the other turned and walked away, his breath and voice caught in his throat, hands in fists at his sides.... and then his hands loosened, his face softened, and he looked at the grave and felt his chest tighten and tears at the corner of his eyes.
    He picked up the rose, slightly smooshed from one of them stepping on it and laid it on the tombstone.  "God, I hate you for leaving me."

    Malcolm was seated on the floor just inside my office.  It'd been one week.  For three days, he'd been in the hospital wing, barely able to stand on his own, fed through a tube because he refused to eat, and chained to the bed like a rabid animal.  When I'd seen him like that, my insides wretched a little.
    I watched as his fingertips traced along the scabs on his arm.
    "It's good to see you up and about, Malcolm."
    He didn't speak.  He didn't look up.
    "Well then," I said cheerfully, "how about I just talk for now, hm?  I'd like to tell you about what we hope to accomplish while you're here.  My first priority, of course, is you and your safety.  You and I will be seeing each other every day for one hour to discuss anything you would like, and from these meetings, I'm going to try to figure out what's bothering you and see what we can do to help so that, when you leave here, you'll be able to live a normal, happy life."
    Silence followed for several seconds while he traced the cuts on his arm.
    "Normal, huh?" he said softly.  "And what is normal?  A deadend job, wife, 1.5 kids, a cat and a dog living in a two story home with a white picket fence in a neighborhood where kids ride a bus to school to meet up with their 3.2 good friends?"
    "Normal is what you make of it." I watched him, even though he wouldn't look up.
    "Then I'd say I'm already normal.  Guess I'm cured.  When can I go home?"
    "Why is suicide normal?"
    "I believe I have a right to be in control of my own fate."
    "To die is not a fate."
    "To die is everyone's fate," he looked up at me earnestly.
    I decided to try another angle.  "You know you're committing crimes, Malcolm.  It's illegal to kill yourself."
    A humorless laugh came from him.  "Oh, that's right--hundreds of women everyday are allowed to take other peoples' lives at abortion clinics, but I'm not allowed to take something that is mine."
    For half an instant, I thought I saw real hurt there... and then he went blank.
    "You know what's funny?  People justify abortion and cigarettes and tattoos by saying that the government can't tell us what we can and can't do with our bodies, but for some odd reason, suicide is never brought up in those arguments."
    "Do you think suicide should be legal?"
    "I think I should be able to take what's mine.  I'm wasting oxygen that could be breathed by someone that wants to breathe it."

I DID NOT WRITE THIS!  This is a poem written by the guy I lost contact with, Thomas Mays.  He sent it to me about two months before we lost track of each other.

Unborn Dreams by Thomas Mays

Beams of sunlight rode the waves and crashed upon the shore,
And as it did, I wondered why my life was such a chore.
The paperwork, the homework, the terribly long days,
The nights that never seemed to last, the string of bills to pay.

The stress, the tension, the fights, the tears,
A life of darkness consumed in fear.
And I, stranded in the middle of this chaotic strife
This wretching, destructive thing we call life.

But as the last silvery rays cast shadows on the shore,
I couldn't help but think upon the child who was never born.
Who would he be?  How would he live?  If only given the chance.
Would he have seen a passion-less life, lived as if in a trance?

I stepped back from the mossy shore, leaving footprints in my wake.
I knew one day, for good or bad, the same journey I'd take. 
And the unborn child, heaven claimed, smiling down on me.
And he, in voice of angel's song, would ask me what I'd seen.

"No darkening veils, no murderous hearts, no evil thing prevail,
But simply a world filled with love that would not die or fail."
And he, infinitely purer and higher than I, would simply take my hand,
And lead me through the gates of heaven bound hand in hand.

So continue on your way in life, and remember to make it last,
Forget the stress, the fights, the tears, and let go of the dying past,
Embrace, instead, the beauty and warmth of the untamed and wild,
And nourish forever in the memory, of the dreams of an undying child.

(This is a while after the first part)

    "Tell me about the first time you cut yourself, Malcolm."
    The black-haired boy, seated on the floor in his usual spot, was toying with a tassel on the edge of the rug.  A small smile tugged on the edges of his lips.  "Can't do it, doc.  I was much too young to remember that."
    "Alright, then."  I told him patiently.  "Let's try it this way.  Tell me about the first time you tried to kill yourself."
    He gave a dry laugh and didn't look up, tugging on the tassel a bit.  "You don't want to hear about that.  I hear it's a lot like having sex, though... or going bungee jumping.  It's a thrill.  This straight shot of adrenaline.  We're nervous, excited, terrified and just... god, it feels so completely free, you know?"  He eyed the cuts on his arms with a fondness that sent shivers down my spine. 
    "How old were you?"
    "Eleven."  He smirked a little and looked up at me.  "Doesn't match your records, does it?  I was twelve and a half before my first time that I ended up in the hospital."
    "Why so long between the attempts?"
    He looked away, ripping off one of the threads.  "First time didn't go so well.  You know, there's some statistics out there that say if you've tried once, you're twice as likely to try again... well, it works the other way, too.  Failed once, you'll fail again, ya know?"  Malcolm started unwinding the threads absently.
    "So what happened?  What went so very wrong that you didn't even try again for another year or so?"  I patiently leaned on my desk, crossing my arms over my chest and watching him.
    "Middle school sucked.  And it doesn't mean anything anymore, but I got real depressed."  He was tying each end of the threads together as he talked, not looking anywhere but at his hands.  "Never was real popular, and don't exactly have an ideal family life.  Mom doesn't know I exist... her boyfriend hates me, and my brother's too stoned and drunk to do anything useful."  He smirked a little, seeming like he was going to add more, then changing his mind.
    "After school, I was alone until around 5.  Mom and her boyfriend worked.  Brother never came home till they did.  So I picked a day a few days in advance... and it was perfect, you know?  It was flawless."  He beamed at his own cleverness, recounting the tale in his head before he recited it aloud. 
    "I was going to do it in my mom's room.  She had this ugly white shag carpet.  It was kinda like vengeance.  Payback for being ignored, I guess. 
    "She'd bought this new water bed about a week or so beforehand, which was so perfect.  It was propped up on shelves, like a captain's bed, except that between the two sets of drawers on either side, there was this crawl space beneath it, a good foot and a half wide and tall and running the whole length of the bed.  Little door to close in on yourself, too. 
    "So I grabbed a Ginsu knife from the kitchen and went up to her room, and crawled into the crawlspace.  I didn't leave a note.  I wanted them to wonder about it, you know?  I also didn't want to be found right away.  I figured, if I hid and did it... it'd be a few days before I started to stink, you know?  And by then, the carpet would be stained, the bed would smell, the room would smell... it'd be ruined, the lot of it."
    He smiled again, twisting the string around his finger.
    "But when I got there, I didn't do it right away.  I was just kinda laying there, thinking about things.  Saw my reflection in the knife and I wasn't thinking about dying.  I wasn't thinking about my mother's reaction or lack thereof when she found me.  I was thinking about the things my mom and her boyfriend would do if they decided that they didn't want people to know what I'd done.  Thought about the little stupid yippedy dog our neighbors had bought.  This ugly purebred monstrosity that will just never be quiet.  And I was thinking about how, when they found my body, they wouldn't give it over to the police.  They'd take me out to the shed... and use Marty's table saw... and chop me up into these little pieces... and then take the pieces up to the attic and lay them out to dry.  And then once they were dry, they'd take my pieces out to the dog out back and feed little chunks of me to her."
    I winced inwardly at the description, feeling my stomach do a little turn, but fighting back the illness.
    "And what happened then?" I pressed.
    "I laid there for a long time.  Shaking all over, half with fear, half in anticipation.  And I finally put the shiny sharpness against my arm," a wide smile spread on his face as he recalled it.  "I was crying.  I don't know when I'd started, but I remember I was crying, and I shoved the knife against the skin until I saw the blood beading against the tip... and then there was this electric shock of accomplishment that I'd even got that far.  So I started to pull it across my arm, real slow, so that it would be a straight line.  It was a slow process... and the pain in my arm.." he gave a little laugh and shook his head, "it was like someone had torn this tiny hole and was trying to pull it real slow apart... like tearing fabric.
    "I'd done three almost perfectly straight lines when mom and Marty got home.  They came straight up to the bedroom."
    Malcolm's face visibly paled and he was staring down at the string, but not really seeing it, being dragged into the memory.  "I could hear them kissing."  His face twisted a little in disgust.  "Making those little growling-moans at each other... and I knew their hands were all over one another... I could hear the clothes coming off.
    "And I started to panic under the bed.  I hadn't expected to be alive when they got home... and to not only be alive, but to be hearing them..."  He shook his head and I saw his shoulders tense.
    "I cut my wrist four or five more times, really fast, hoping I'd hit something vital and die on contact.  Blood was running down my arm... I heard the first penetration, and I dropped the knife.  I was shaking all over, worse than I was before I started.  My mom... she was making these gasps and squeaking little yells... and he..."  he swallowed and wet his lips, looking very pale and sick, "he was grunting, and growling... and... saying things..."
    I opened my mouth to interrupt him and stop him from reliving something that was obviously still tormenting him, but he pressed on.
    "I think I had a burst of claustrophobia.  I thought I would pass out under there.  So I did the only thing I could think of... I kicked open the little door and scrambled out, gasping for air, sweating, crying, bleeding, and completely terror-stricken.
    "Marty was off the bed and coming at me before I even stood up... Called me a pervert and a psycho and an incestial something-or-other... I was standing there, completely frozen.  I couldn't move.  He grabbed my arm in one hand and my bleeding wrist in the other and started shaking me.  I can't even remember all the stuff he said to me... And I started to think that even though I'd failed with the knife, he might just kill me right there... He threw me against the wall and pulled open the door and all but threw me down the steps... soon as I hit the bottom one, I was out the door--I just bolted.  I don't know when or where I stopped running... only that when I did, I must have vomited up three days worth of food and wanted to keep going until I had nothing left."
    He got quiet and scratched at the side of his face a little. 
    I watched, and waited.  "What did your mother and Marty do about your wrist when you got back?"
    A strange little smile curled on his lips--bittersweet, maybe.  "Nothing."
    "Nothing?  They didn't ask about the blood or report you or take you to the hospital?"
    The black-haired boy shook his head.  "No. I came home, they sent me to bed.  Next day, there was a lock on the bedroom door."
    The grandfather clock started chiming the hour.  We both looked at it.
    "Guess that's all for today, huh, doc?"
    "It would seem so.  Are you all right, Malcolm?"
    "I'm just chipper.  I'll catch ya tomorrow, doc."
    He pushed himself off the floor and walked the two paces to the door, pulling it open.  I could see the orderly waiting to escort him back several feet away.  Before the door closed behind him, Malcolm gave a small wipe of his eye.

Show us a childhood hero.
Subitted by Eric's Page.