Fiction Fridays: Shouldn't Have Ducked

The long coat dropped carelessly on the bar stool beside him. A moment later, the owner sat down on top, expensive wool pants crushing seams into the Burberry lining. Joel looked up from his contemplation of nothing. Atop shoulders draped in an Armani jacket, the dark-haired man sported a spitcurl on his forehead.

Joel blinked. His new neighbour didn't seem to have noticed him.

"What'll it be?" the bartender asked.

"Whatever's on draft." The man paused for a second, not quite considering. "And a shot of Tequila."

"One boilermaker, coming up."

Finally, the richly dressed man looked over at Joel. He clearly wasn't noticing Joel for the first time.

Joel blinked again. He was favoured with a smirk, the kind that seemed to be laughing at you, but not in a bad way.

"Mind if I sit here?"

Joel looked around the pub. Most of the tables were full. The booths all looked too big for just one person. The bar itself was more than half empty, but from where he sat, Joel had the best view of the TV behind the bartender.

Joel shrugged.

The smirk waggled at him again, this time with less friendliness.

"Don't talk much, do you?"

Joel shrugged again. "I talk when I need to."

The man slapped a ten on the bar as the bartender brought his order with a double clunk-clunk of glass on polished oak.

"Keep it," he said, reaching for the shot glass. A quick jerk dropped the contents down his throat, and the man followed up with a long swig from the frosty mug. Then he turned to face Joel again.

"An economy of words, huh? I wish I heard more of that at meetings. Know what I mean?"

The man chuckled to himself, then took a quick appraisal of Joel's dusty canvass jacket, faded jeans, worn leather boots.

"No, maybe not," he said quietly. Then he smiled at Joel again, pulled at his draft with a sharp slurp, and turned to watch the sports news on the TV.

After a minute, he turned back. Joel sighed. Clearly, this guy wanted to talk.

Joel gave him a raised eyebrow. It wasn't much of an invitation, but if the guy was looking for someone to jabber at, it wouldn't take much to get him going. He didn't really see the point of making the guy wait any longer.

The eyebrow was all the man needed.

"Y'ever get the feeling you missed something?"

Joel kept his eyebrow raised.

"Like you've dodged the bullet of destiny? No? Maybe?"

Joel took a sip from his rye and Coke.

"Like the other day, I was at the bank, and I had this strange feeling, like maybe something was supposed to happen... and I was there to do something about it."

Joel cleared his throat. "That's pretty vague."

"Yeah, but it was, y'know? Nothing specific. No details. And then it was gone, and I was stuck waiting in line again."

Joel shifted slightly on his stool, getting comfortable.

"And twice now, I've had this urge to, uh, go into phone booths."

Joel raised the eyebrow again. "Phone booths?"

"Yeah, I know what you're thinking. But not like that. There was nothing else, just the feeling I should go into one. And then it was gone."

"Hmm."

"Yeah, I know."

Joel finished off his drink, and signalled to the bartender for another.

"Hmm. Ever stood on the top of a tall building? Just stared into the clouds, watched the seagulls soar, and wondered about it?"

"What? No." The man seemed shocked. "I'm not crazy. I wouldn't... I'd never be a jumper."

Joel shook his head. "Not what I meant."

The man struggled to hide his embarassment. "Oh, heh, yeah, sure."

Joel shrugged, took a sip of his fresh glass. The Coke fizz tickled his nose.

"Hmm."

The two of them sat in silence for another moment, one sipping rye, the other finishing his draft beer.

"I had a dream about it once. About being on top of a building, and there were clouds all around. It was a really high building, and I could feel the wind on my face. It whistled past my ears."

Joel took another sip.

Abruptly, the man got up, shaking the wrinkles out of his coat, looking at his watch. Rolex, Joel noticed.

"Whoops, got another meeting in ten minutes." He smirked. "I wish they all talked as much as you did."

Joel looked up at him.

"What'd you say your name was?"

"Clarkson. Kent Clarkson."

Joel held out a hand.

"Joel Schuster."

Kent shook his hand. "Nice to meet you, Joel. Nice talking to you."

Joel watched as Kent pushed the pub door open, and stepped out into the grey afternoon. Without hesitation, the man turned, heading back to his office. Just before the door closed to block his view, Joel saw the man's hand reach up to his face, absently twisting the lock of hair on his forehead.


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Fiction Fridays: Until the Fever Breaks (part 5 - the end)

continued from part 4


Susie saw the man stumble, legs all wobbly and head hung low. Around him, the orange stuff was falling back in lumps, like it was being blown off his body by a strong wind. Soon, enough had dropped from his face that she could see the dark shine of his eyes. Deep in their depths, she found what she was looking for: hope.

Keeping her eyes on his, she climbed down from the bench, and walked slowly toward the man with the monster falling off him.


Rohit gazed into the brilliance. He felt he could drink it with his eyes, the most refreshing, rewarding, awakening drink he'd ever tasted. It slaked the thirst of his fever. It soothed the burning of his mind.

As he stared, the source of the light seemed to get closer. At the same time, he felt the burden lifting from his shoulders, his back, his heavy, heavy legs. He could feel the air on his hands and face, and he no longer smelled the smoke that once threatened to overcome him completely.

Within moments, the growing light resolved itself, into a distinctly human form. Rohit dropped to his knees, not trusting himself in his newfound lightness, and crawled. As he moved closer, he was sure he could make out the face of an angel in the middle of the brightness. With a sigh, he surrendered himself, giving up the last of his heat to her shining, cooling smile.


Susie's father nearly fell headlong as he raced down the escalator to the lowest floor. He'd finally made it past the rushing crowds, hearing the tremendous crash and shattering glass with his heart full in his mouth. Heedless of the moving stairway, he'd plunged forward, and only the strength born of desperation had held his frantic grip on the rubber handrail.

Now he raced down the main concourse, seeing nothing of the abandoned shops, the faux-wood benches and plastic trees. All he could see was the cloud of dust and destruction that he was sure hid his missing daughter.

Skidding to a halt in front of a massive central beam, he scanned frantically through the thinning haze for signs of Susie. Panic and frustration built up inside him, and he nearly sobbed from the pressure of it, before a movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. In a moment, his worries were gone, replaced with the kind of bewilderment that only comes from seeing the truly unexpected.

There, down the hall, stood Susie. She seemed unharmed, relaxed, even contented. Beside her, kneeling on the hard tile floor, was a man. He was panting slowly, one hand on his knee, the other splayed wide against the cold tiles, and his head hung low between his shoulders. Susie had one hand on the man's head, gently brushing orange dust from his glossy, black hair.

Susie looked up at her father, face as serene as a stained-glass cherub.

"Susie.. what-?" he blurted, lost for words.

Susie smiled. "It's okay, Dad. He's better now."



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Fiction Fridays: Hopper's Choice

"So, what you're telling me is that there's no way you're going out there?"

Hopper shifted on his stool. The question made him uncomfortable. MacDonnell was a crafty guy, as crafty as they came, and Hopper never trusted folk like that. Everything they said, every word that MacDonnell spun from his mouth was loaded with layers and meaning -- and every single sound was chosen for a reason. Hopper didn't like that, not one bit. He preferred folks who spoke straight.

"Ah've got mah orders, mister. Ain't no way I'm takin' mah aim off o' you."

To emphasize the point, Hopper raised his rifle a little higher on his shoulder, settling the butt comfortably and flexing this fingers on the stock. He rested his cheek gently against the comb, closing one eye and peering meaningfully at MacDonnell down the length of the barrel.

MacDonnell winked back at the one-eyed stare.

"I suppose that's true. But what if one of your team mates, your friends, gets in trouble. You see as well as me on the screen" -- MacDonnell gestured vaguely in the direction of the closed-circuit display on the wall -- "what's going on out there. Some of my guys are quite well equipped."

Hopper kept his eye locked on target for a few moments more, before glancing briefly at the action on the screen. He was just in time to see a bright streak of light cut through a cluster of MacDonnell's black-clad henchmen, sending them flying.

"Looks t'me like they don't need none o' mah help." Hopper chuckled. "Nope, Ah think Ah'll stay right here, thank ye kindly."

MacDonnell ignored his captor, pressing his lips together as he watched the action. His fingers strayed to the back of his neck, pulling absently at the dark hair that tickled his collar.

"It does look like your super-friends have the upper hand."

Hopper looked over again, encouraged by the villain's resigned tone. He was shocked to see Crusader overcome by a crowd of combatants, dog-piling on the hero to bring him down. In the background, he could see G-Man, normal-sized, slumped over a large crate.

"Ah-" Hopper stuttered, catching his tongue before he gave too much away. These crafty types, they're always looking for an angle, a hook into you, to try and grab you and pull you, gasping and helpless like a fish out of water. Hopper wasn't giving MacDonnell any hooks.

Then he saw Soulfire stumble, gagging and holding her throat, before she collapsed towards the camera, and fell out of view. The crimson sparkle in her eyes was gone, replaced with panic, and a frantic plea for help.

He gasped.

"M-maybe ah should go out and help them."

MacDonnell shook his head slowly.

"Do you think that's a good idea, Hopper? You're supposed to stay here with me."

"Ah... Ah don't know...."

MacDonnell stood up, the leather of his desk chair creaking gently from the release. He raised his hands, keeping them up around his shoulders where Hopper could see them.

"I don't know what you're going to do, Hopper. You could tie me up, but I'd be lying to you if I said that would hold me for long."

Hopper tracked the man carefully, keeping his weapon steady, as MacDonnell slowly walked toward the closed-circuit display.

"And we both know..." MacDonnell paused, sighing, at the sight of Gecko falling in a heap, red blood spreading across the green scales of his shoulder. "We both know your knockout darts are only going to slow me down. That would be enough if you were here to follow up, but you can't leave me on my own. Can you, Hopper?"

Hopper started as MacDonnell turned swiftly on a heel to face him.

"But you're a hero, aren't you, Hopper? You're not going to shoot me outright. It would have to be a killing shot -- a mere disablement won't keep me from making my getaway."

"But again, you are a hero. And heroes have to save people. Like your team mates."

Hopper cleared his throat, not trusting his voice.

"Am I right, Hopper?"

"Yeah, you're right," Hopper drawled, the slow movement of his head from side to side belying his words. "Ah- Ah should go help 'em."

"And leave me to escape? Is that a good idea?"

Hopper slipped off of his stool, rifle still trained on MacDonnell's chest, and walked slowly toward the heavy oak door.

"Ah reckon it is." The words came out slowly, heavy with doubt.

"But I'm an important man, Hopper. I'm a big-time criminal. Surely your friends' lives aren't as important as keeping me from doing any more harm."

MacDonnell gestured with his hands, as if weighing an object back and forth between them.

"Needs of the many, needs of the few. What do you think, Hopper?"

Hopper's shoulders slumped as he reached for the brass doorknob. The barrel of his rifle pointed at the floor.

"Ah think ah gotta go... gotta go help mah friends."

Hopper dragged the door open. MacDonnell smiled.

"You've made the right ch- uh!"

MacDonnell's smug remark was interrupted by the dart that zipped through the air into the side of his neck. The crime boss barely had time to react before Hopper was on him, crossing the dozen feet between them in a single leap. Eyes widened below dark bangs in the instant before the heavy walnut stock of the rifle crashed into the base of his skull.

MacDonnell collapsed in a heap on the floor.

Hopper reached with two fingers for the man's throat. Satisfied by the pulse he felt, he quickly removed MacDonnell's belt, hog-tying him with practiced ease.

"Ah reckon if Ah'm gonna let you git away, Ah might as well make it hard on ya," Hopper chuckled to himself.

With a single bound, he was out the door and halfway down the hall, headed for the thick of the action.



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Fiction Fridays: Until the Fever Breaks (part 4)

continued from part 3



Rohit, through the haze of his mind, caught a glimpse of pure, white light. He ran on, ignoring the distraction, determined to keep moving. A few more pounding steps, another roaring expulsion of searing air -- determined he may have been, but nothing seemed to keep him from focusing on that glimmering radiance.

He closed his eyes, fearing all the while that they might crust over forever, and turned his back to the light. He wanted to charge on, wanted to force his knees into the bend and snap of his haggard stride, but he could still see the light, focusing to a sharp brilliance, even through the back of his heavy skull.

With another searing roar, he shook his head, flakes ablating violently from his neck and jowels. He felt, more than heard, the pop and crackle as he forced his cumbrous eyelids open. The smoke appeared heavier than ever, but as he turned to look at the light behind him, the weight of the air seemed to lessen, as if shrinking back from the pure whiteness of the glimmering beams.


Susie saw the man -- she was sure it was a man now, and not just a man-shaped thing -- hesitate, as if he'd planned to do one thing, and then suddenly had another thought he couldn't ignore. She could almost feel his confusion, the muddle in his head like listening to the radio in a thunderstorm.

She wanted to help this man, who seemed so lost and helpless. She wished she could help him. She could feel the caring, feel it swelling in her heart, like the time she'd lost Blinda, her favourite stuffed animal. It was worry, and caring, and love, which grew and grew as she searched the house, until she found the sleek yellow otter, whiskered nose poking up at her from behind the laundry hamper. Only this time, she knew where the lost one stood: right in front of her.

Standing up on the bench, steadying herself on the garbage bin beside her, Susie reached out to the man. Not with her arms -- they were busy with the bin and her shirt -- instead, she reached out with the feelings building inside her. Her need to help this man, lost inside the orange lump, was almost physical. She was sure she could use it to make him un-lost.


As the light illuminated his surroundings, driving back the haze, Rohit arched his neck. He could feel a coolness, like the most refreshing spring rain, running down his spine, washing away the burning, crusted ash. He gasped, the contrast so intense, and so relieving, that he could barely control himself.

Breathing deeply, the whiteness of the light seemed to fill his lungs, cooling him from the inside. With two more rasping, panting breaths, the acrid tang in his throat had faded to the barest memory, like a fright or a pain long since overcome. The relief and release made him light-headed.


concluded in part 5


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Fiction Fridays: Once Again

Something a little different for Fiction Friday today. I was struck yesterday, unbidden, by a tiny bit of song. Now, I've told people I write songs and poetry, as well as stories and programs, but I've yet to really prove it online. So here's the proof.

What happened, though, is that I somehow found this half-formed phrase in my head last night:

Sandwiched in the hmm hmm between hmm hmm hmm hmm hmmmm...

Far from complete, by any stretch of the imagination, but it came with a melody (also out of nowhere, although I suspect it had something to do with hearing Counting Crows' A Long December on the radio a few days ago -- a song that I've always liked, but haven't heard in years). I have a hard time ignoring song ideas that inject themselves into my frontal lobes, so I started playing with it over the course of the evening's duties.

What I came up with, I really like. So far, there are two stanzas, along with the beginning of the chorus. I hope you like it. I also hope too much is not lost with the melodic limitations of a textual blog posting.

---

Sandwiched in the waiting room between Nervous Dave and John the Meltdown,
I can't keep my eyes off of the writing on the wall.
Imitative sagacity, derivative philosophy,
Plus some light graffiti: "It's the Nuts'll save us all."

We all know a little bit of everbody's story here.
Told to Group the incidents that made us who we are.
Not about the origins that raised up above our kin,
Shared instead the tragedies that brought us down so far.

Once again, I am talking to the doctor.
Once again, he is writing down my dreams.

---

I'm also toying with changing "writing down my dreams" to "jotting to my dreams", partly because it's alliterative (at least, it is when spoken), and partly because it seems to denote a lesser sense of caring on the part of the doctor.

Also, since this song tells a story, some of the words of the chorus will change as the song moves along. I've pretty much decided that the second chorus will be:

Once again, I am lying in the blast field / Once again, I am listening to the screams

Like I said, there's definitely a story in here.

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Fiction Fridays: Until the Fever Breaks (part 3)

continued from part 2



A loud crash echoed through the mall as Susie followed her father across an open concourse. A few shoppers near her shrieked in response, and she heard other shrieks from further away, muffled by the building's clever acoustics. Her father looked around, and then reached behind him to grab his young daughter's hand -- only it wasn't there.

Almost before the crash was heard, Susie had rushed over to the nearest railing. Looking down on the lower levels, her button nose squashed against the glass guardwall as she searched eagerly for the source of the excitement. By the time her father felt the first twinges of panic, realizing she was not where he expected her to be, Susie was already running down the escalator, her tiny voice piping up with "Excuse me! Excuse me!" as she pushed past the other riders.


As he moved, the heat returned. Each pounding step stoked the furnace under his skin. With no way for it to escape past the layer that encrusted him, it continued to build. Rohit wasn't sure how much more of the stifling heat he could stand, but a deeper fear told him not to stop moving. Better to burn up, consumed from within, than to be bound forever, aware but unmoving. He opened his mouth, feeling the crust crumble at the edges, and gulped at cooler air. It made little difference, with the heat inside him overwhelming the relief before the breath ever reached the depths of his lungs.

Frustrated, he roared, a wild and unfocused sound that he barely heard over the pounding of his feet and his heart. With the release of air, though, came a release of the smothering heat. Astonished, he slowed almost to a stop. A bigger breath, whistling through his nostrils, filled him up. Then he pushed, driving the searing air from his chest, past his quivering vocal chords, and out to the world. The focused yell tore away some of the burning inside him, keeping his internal conflagration from blazing out of control.


Susie heard the second yell as she stumbled to a halt at the bottom of her third escalator. While others on the floor were running, screaming, panicking in the face of that massive noise, to Susie it sounded like a cry for help. It reminded her of the lion in that story from the Bible, the one with the thorn in its paw.

She'd made it down to the right level, but the mall was a long range from end to end. She was already winded from her rush down three flights, pushing and squeezing her way past a forest of legs and bums. Now she could see that she'd be going the wrong way from everyone else, as the frightened mob raced to escape the source of the craziness.

A momentary break in the flow got her to a bench in the middle of the concourse. Climbing up, she saw that the row of benches went all the way along. At the end, she saw a quick flash of rusty orange over the heads of the crowd. She'd got her breath back, and now she knew where she was going. With the kind of stubborness that made her mother smile and frown at the same time, she pushed ahead, holding onto the benches and garbage bins for support and protection.


Once his head cleared a little, Rohit's fear of seizing up forever pushed to the fore, and he picked up his pace. A moment later, he was stopped in his tracks, driving head-first into the most solid thing he'd ever encountered. Around him, he heard a faint rumbling, but the fog of his vision made out only a towering darkness. He turned, fearing that this stop might be forever, and kicked hard at the ground beneath him. For a moment he was airborne, then he landed, leaden feet stumbling beneath him as he fought to forge ahead. He heard the scream of shattering glass, sharp and biting in his ears, but felt nothing of the shards that surely must have pelted his skin.


Susie made it to the last bench. Panting, she climbed up onto the seat, and stared. At a distance no bigger than her front yard, a huge lump of crusty, dried out plasticine, orange and red and brown all squished together, slammed into a giant steel beam. Black, glossy paint nearly hid the rivets in the angular pole that rose four stories up to the roof of the mall, far above. She felt the whole building shake, and chunks of concrete fell from the ceiling, smashing into the space in front of her.

Beside the beam, the orange lump, which she realized now was shaped a lot like a person, had stopped. She watched it curiously, squinting against the rising dust. It seemed to look around, and then up at the dark pole, and then down at its feet. Then it jumped, away from what had stopped it, crashing through a glass store front as it landed. Susie turned, following the lump's progress, pulling absently at the front of her shirt.


continued in part 4


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Fiction Fridays: A Very Bad Thing (part 1)

Here's something I've been working on, on and off, for a few years now. Mostly, I just open it up, re-read it, maybe fix a bit of wording, and then close it again. Every once in a while, I'll extend it by a couple of paragraphs. It's nowhere near finished, but I think it makes an interesting read, what I've got so far. I marked it as part 1, but there may never be a part 2 (or more). Anyway, enjoy.

---

When I was seven years old, my uncle did a very bad thing to me. He's dead now though -- I made sure he paid for what he did to me. It only happened once, but it made me feel like I was bad, and in my seven-year-old mind I couldn't see that it was my uncle who the was bad one.

By the time I was nine, I had sunk to a level, emotionally, that no child should ever have to reach. With two years of hating myself behind me, I had developed a pattern of angry outbursts, destructive behaviour, and self-degradation that marked an indelible path in both directions of the map of my life. I was well-positioned to become the "problem child" that teachers had already labeled me as.

I started doing drugs in grade seven, when a boy from the high school next to my school offered me a pill that he said would make me "hate life less". It worked, too well, but of course only temporarily. I went back to him for more, and he gave me my next two hits for free, but then he told me I had to pay, "just like everyone else." I gave him all the change I had in my pockets, which wasn't much.

He took the money, and gave me my pill, blue on one end and yellow on the other. Then he pushed me against a tree with his left hand clutching my collar and snarled that next time I had to pay full price, or I'd get nothing. As he walked away, I hated him, hated myself, swallowed the pill dry, and waited for it to work its blue and yellow magic. It worked; I stopped hating for a while.

After two days of not knowing how to get the money he demanded, I stole all the change off my father's dresser before going to school, and paid full price for the drugs. I paid full price for stealing that money too, but not right away. It wasn't until a few months later that my father caught me. He had suspected for a while, but didn't want to believe it at first. Finally, he pretended to leave the house with a loud "Good-bye!" and "Have a good day at school!" call up the stairs to me as I lurked in my bedroom waiting for him to go. He followed that up with opening and closing the door, but instead of going out, he quietly took his shoes off and caught me with his coins cupped in my small hands in the doorway to my parents' room.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded, holding his black leather shoes in his right hand, and all his anger in an awkward clench of his left fist. My feeble, sputtered explanations were lost in the clatter of the coins as they fell to the hardwood floor. The noise seemed to shatter him, and his face scattered as he told me in a low voice to clean up the coins and put them back on his dresser. Then he turned away from me, sat on the top of the stairs, and put his shoes back on. He went off to work without another word, and that silence was the beginning of the end of my father's love. I paid for my drugs with my father's love.

After that, my memories are blurry for a while. I gave the drug boy my Walkman, and he told me it was worth ten pills. I tried to make them last as long as possible, but having them all at once was too hard to resist. I was back for more, with my expensive cross-trainers hanging from my fingers a week later. That got me ten more pills, but they only lasted five days.

Backpack, Game Boy, jean jacket, CD's, DVD's -- I told my mother that I had lost the items I traded for drugs. She believed me, but my father wouldn't let her buy me new ones. That made me angry at the time, and I broke a lamp as I raged about the living room, but in retrospect, I can't blame him, or her. Just myself.

After a week, and two more fruitless tantrums at home, I went to the drug boy and begged him for more pills. I didn't think it would work, but he gave me one anyway. Then he told me he didn't want to lose my business, and he knew a way for me to get more money for the pills. That was just what I needed to hear, and the freebie was stirring up my brain again.

I went that very afternoon, while the buzz was still on. I knew I'd never do it otherwise. A twelve-year-old girl in a Wal-Mart by herself has the potential to attract attention, but I just stayed in the toy section looking at Barbies until I stopped getting funny looks. Then I wandered around for a bit until I came to the hair care section. It seemed almost too easy to slip a curling iron up my skirt, one end tucked in my panties to hold it in place against the inside of my thigh, and then casually wander away. I thought I was so clever then, waiting 15 more minutes looking at greeting cards, before leaving -- and it turned out I really was, since no one stopped me.

I gave the boy the curling iron when I saw him the next day, and he told me it was worth two pills. So two days later I was back in the Wal-Mart, and emerged with an electric shaver. After that it was a digital clock, and then another curling iron. But I was getting worried, stealing so much so soon. I wasn't stupid, just addicted -- I knew that someone was going to notice me if I kept it up at that store. So I branched out. I hit the Zellers, then the Bay, then a couple of smaller stores in the mall. I managed to get an expensive pair of suede pants out of a clothing store, under a pair of tear-aways. The store was new, and busy, and they hadn't set up their sensor equipment at the entrance of the store yet. Those pants got me ten pills all by themselves.

Then, one day, in the air conditioned comfort of the mall, protected from the oppressive fever of a ten day heat wave, but not from the all-consuming fever of my year-long addiction, I got caught.


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Fiction Fridays: Until the Fever Breaks (part 2)

continued from part 1



Sometimes, it seemed to Susie that the mall was tiny, one narrow store leading to the next, until it seemed she was already at the other end, two stories down. The whole experience was like a blur, punctuated by sharp memories of a red blouse on a mannequin, and a new toy that talked to her, and the sizzling smell of New York Fries. Other times, the mall seemed huge, with enormous distances between each end, and a maze of ramps and stairs and escalators between each sprawling floor. Today, following her father on his aimless search for "just the right thing for Mommy", it seemed like there was so much mall it had swallowed up the rest of the world.

Also, her father had a tendency to forge all the way to the back of every store they visited. Most stores had meager fronts, but delved back into greater depths than she imagined could fit in such a cramped space. Way at the back, the rest of the mall was forgotten, as Daddy searched through racks of bathrobes or winter coats, pulling out a dozen at each store to ask the exasperated saleslady her opinion.

"Would you wear this?" Her father's voice was infinitely deep, but on this shopping trip, it held a less firm timbre, and more uncertainty than she'd imagined a voice like his could express.

He turned and squatted, coming down to Susie's level as he brandished a shiny wrap with fluff along one side. "What do you think, Susie? Is this Mommy?"

Out of love for her father, Susie held back her rolling eyes. "It's pretty, " she mused, running her fingers along the sleek fabric, "but I don't know about Mom. I don't think it's her thing."


Hobbled by his ungainliness, Rohit struggled to regain his feet. The spinning in his head made it hard to find his center, so he dragged his knees up under him, and propped his torso up on his outstretched arms. He took two breaths, dimly aware of the frantic, high-pitched noises that shattered around him. Another breath seemed to clear his head somewhat, and the world reduced itself to a gentle turning. A brief flash of memory put him on the round-about in the park near his house, with the older kids towering and laughing as they casually spun the platform. Then he wondered how he could ever have been so small.

With a heave, he pushed himself upright, driving his feet into the ground beneath him to plant them more firmly. The stiffness that had captured his limbs served a better purpose this time, keeping his legs locked steady, his back upright and firm, even as the world around him started to rock and sway.

Rohit opened his eyes, trying to peer through the smoke and haze. Everything was still a blur, but at least now there was no pain. Slowly turning his head, wary of the swinging sensation that pulled at him, he looked around, trying to find something, some landmark he could target. To his left, he spied a pale glow, brighter than the swirling dimness around him.

He felt sudden elation, having found a point of reference on which he could latch his mind. Forgetting his other concerns, he turned sharply, stepping quickly toward the light.

At least, that's what he tried to do. His legs, still stiff, on soles jammed inches into the hard ground, did not respond as quickly as the rest of his body. Overbalanced, with the great weight of his burdened torso continuing on its own inertia, he barely got his feet beneath him, knees cracking as he stumbled along. It was all he could do to keep from toppling over, but the light beckoned. Rohit clenched his jaw, and pushed forward, not willing to lose his newfound goal.


continued in part 3


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Fiction Fridays: Red Boy (part 1)

It's Friday, so here's some fiction. Also, I'll be taking holidays from now until the New Year, so there'll be no updates until January 7th, 2008.

Happy Holidays, one and all!

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Red Boy

part 1


Five days. Five days was how long he'd waited, and practiced. Five days was how long ago he'd been in the accident at his uncle's factory. Five days was how long it took him to decided on his name, and put together his costume.

Dawson's mother thought he was going blind in his room, staying in there with the door closed every night, glued to his PlayStation, with his TV at the foot of his bed -- far less than the fifteen feet her old-fashioned sensibilities told her was the closest you should be. She also thought he was going deaf, with his stereo turned up loud to the latest Nickleback CD.

"Dawson! Dawson!" His mother poked her head through the half-open doorway. "Could you turn that down so I can talk to you?!"

Dutifully obeying with the remote in his left hand, Dawson dropped the volume by half, never taking his eyes from the ongoing game in front of him, or his right hand from the game controller. "Is that better, Mom?"

"Yes! Thank you! I don't know how you can think with all that racket. You know, if you keep listening to it like that, you're-"

"Going to go deaf? I know, Mom. I'm not deaf. I heard you yesterday."

His mother shook her head. "All right, but don't say I didn't warn you."

She favoured her son with a warm smile, half love, half bemusement, and turned to go. Then she turned back, readjusting the laundry basket on her hip.

"Is all your homework done?"

Dawson rolled his eyes. "Yes, Mom."

"Really?"

"Yes, Mom, just like yesterday. I'll show you later, after I'm done playing." As if to demonstrate his involvement, he winced and sucked air through clenched teeth, leaning to one side with the controller held up near his shoulders.

"Is that everything? You're gonna get me killed."

His mother sighed. "Yes, I suppose it is." She paused, then pushed ahead. "You're going to go-"

"Blind?" Dawson's eyes flickered into a distracted roll at his mother, sparing only a moment of his concentration on the game to register his annoyance.

"You told me that yesterday, remember?" He added a bit of extra "go-away-please" to his voice. "That's so not true. No one goes blind watching TV six feet from the screen. You don't need to be fifty feet-"

"I said fifteen."

"-whatever, fifteen feet away. That whole thing's just a product of your generation's adjustment to the rapid encroachment of technology into every aspect of your lives. It's knee-jerk, Mom. An urban myth."

Dawson's mother shook her head, feigning annoyance. Inside, she was pleased, and proud, of her son's intelligent discourse, but she was still a Mom, and knew she had to play her role.

"Well, just make sure you show me your homework tonight."

"Or you'll take the the video games away for a week. I know, Mom. Don't worry."

Once she was gone, down the hall and down the stairs, he closed his door, hard enough to be heard, and then turned up the stereo again. The game forgotten, and his mother handled for another evening, Dawson turned his attention back to the things he really wanted to spend time on. His name, his costume, and his powers.

After five days of this, a Monday to a Friday, he was sure he was ready.

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As with all of my posts, but especially with the fiction, comments will be most appreciated.

Hg

Fiction Fridays: Until the Fever Breaks (part 1)

I've decided, since my primary goal for writing is to write fiction, to dedicate Friday posts to fiction. (The keen-eyed among you may have noticed that I did not post last Friday. I was going to start Fiction Fridays last week, but my day was permanently interrupted before I got very far. So, here it is now.)

I have no illusions that I will be able to post whole pieces every Friday. I'm far too meticulous and labourious a writer to be able to do that. However, by instituting Fiction Fridays, I hope to force myself to produce something vaguely self-contained for the readers' entertainment.

Thus, for your edification and enjoyment, I present a little snippet from a story I came up with last week. (That sounds misleading. As of the writing of this post, what follows is all I have composed thus far. I can't guarantee there will be more, but I hope so.)

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Until the Fever Breaks

part 1


Rohit felt hot. He sensed the sweat all over, swarming on his aching skin. Coherency broke through the haze of his thoughts, for a moment, and he reasoned that the blurring of his vision must be from the sweat running into his eyes. Then he roared, dizzy, and flailed his arms for balance.

The smoke returned to cover his mind. He could taste the hot metallic tang on the roof of his mouth. Through the blur, he made out a flash that clawed at the back of his eyes. Cringing, he threw an arm up across his face. Gathering his courage, he stomped a foot on the ground, and then charged.


Susie loved going to the mall. Her big sister, Polly, got to go all on her own, and hang out with friends. Polly told stories of all the cool people there, and all the awesome clothes, and stores with free samples for perfumes, and makeup, and cookies, and ice cream. Susie didn't get to go on her own, but when Dad had to go Christmas shopping for Mom, he needed a second opinion. Susie was glad to help.

She floated through the stores, sometimes holding her father's warm hand, sometimes following behind and gazing at the pretty dresses. Her father was careful, even when he seemed distracted, to know where Susie was, any time she wandered more than a foot away. "C'mon, Susie. Let's go see if there are pyjamas in the next store that Mommy would like."

"Daddy, please. I call her 'Mom'." Susie skipped over to catch up, slipping her right hand into her father's left.


Stumbling through the thick air, hot and oily in his lungs, Rohit exhaled a pent-up sob. It gurgled out of this throat, loud and liquid. He couldn't remember how this all started, didn't know where he was, but knew for sure he wanted to get away from the heat that consumed him. The sheen of sweat had evaporated from his burning skin, leaving a crust of salt that yielded less and less with every flexure of his agonized limbs. He felt something crash against his hardened shins, stumbled, and then kicked out blindly at the assault. He could barely see through the ash that seared his eyes, and his ears were filled with a muffled roaring like fire heard far away. His nostrils had given themselves over to the acrid burn, and now his skin was withheld from all but the heaviest of blows. Panic rose up in him, a fire all its own, as he recognized his exclusion from the world around him.

He kicked again, missed, then threw himself to the ground. He felt something solid across his midriff hold and then give way. He crashed amid the pieces, his head bouncing on hard concrete. He barely felt it.


continued in part 3

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As with all of my posts, but especially with the fiction, comments will be most appreciated.

Hg