Short Stories Part III

Holy cow! He's posting again? Yes, I am. That's the beauty of posting mass content written days ago.

Third Short Story. Assignment: Unreliable Narrator

           “I don’t like it and I’ll tell you why I don’t like it!  They come in, they remove what’s working, and they destroy the lives of everyone near and far.  Details?  Details!  Always asking for details!  There’s no need for details because it’s as plain as the sun rising and as clear as a glass of water.”  Wow, I can’t believe I was yelling.  And those comparisons – it’s as if I never had a proper education.  The worst part is that I’m just indulging my own fantasies and thirst for fame.  Don’t get me wrong, I love being heard and I love tearing someone apart while being heard.  The Germans have a word for pleasure taken from the misfortune of others, I believe it’s “schaudenfroode” or something like that.  Ugh, this other guy is still speaking, but I suppose for a balanced exchange of ideas I have to listen.

            When he finished, I started in on him with the deathblows: it was over before it even started.  I had shut him off, quite literally.  It’s no wonder people listen to me; I shape ideals and shine as a beacon for coalitions of thought and prosperity.  I just wish I could see more faces when I speak – right now there are only the ones right in front of me.  Some of them are smiling, some look disinterested, some seem unha – and some seem Brittany.  She’s the new intern, and I would not mind showing her the ropes around here some time.  Jesus, did I just wink?  People can see me!

            “Doctor, I’m not sure where you’re coming from or where you get your facts, but I could not disagree with them more.  How can you sit there and tell me that my logic is not completely unflawed?  There are right ways to live and work and act and speak and there are wrong ways to do all of those things, as well.  In a recent study by the New…” This poor bastard had no chance.  He had no idea what he signed on for by agreeing to speak with me.  He wasn’t the only one either; I was on a real roll this week.  Maybe that luck might enhance my why-sir-you-were-very-good-today chat with Brittany later.  An older, gentlemanly, and distinguished smile met by a flip of the hair segues into – “In any event, they can’t take care of themselves, but that doesn’t mean that I should be responsible for them.  Does it?  I think not, sir.”

            “Well, I think you’re only looking at it from one side, Joe.  When you only limit yourself to sources out of the blah blech blup blorp yada yada…” I had to cut him off because he was beginning to drone on and on and on.  If I have to go home to my wife, why should I have to hear it that dreck at work?

            “Well, it was nice having you on, but I see that we’re out of time.  Thanks for coming on the show, doctor.”  That man is perfectly insufferable.  Okay, okay.  Stack some papers, smile broadly (but not too high with the chin, that makeup girl did a real number on my neck tan line), and prepare for the curtain.  I truly can appreciate how a thespian must feel at the helm of a great stage or an esteemed maestro leading an ensemble into the storm of applause in an opera house.  Except, I have the glint of cameras and the glow of green screens.  Maybe I’m carrying this smile to long as the musical interlude, but it’s my choice and I get paid and broadcasted for choice words and opinions.  And my opinions matter, dammit!  At least that’s what the market shares say, and if the dolts keep watching then I’ll keep talking.  The truth is, I really only agree with half –

            “Well audience, thank you for patronage and patriotism.  I’m Joe Fincher and this has been Political Sense on ANC, and remember: It’s only your America if you let it be.”

Short Stories Part II

My second addition to my small body of literature portfolio, is the second short piece assigned in my class.

Second Short Story. Assignment: Dialogue

            I walked into the class and recognized no one.  I couldn’t have been more disappointed.  “Oh,” I mumbled to myself, “damnit.”  I did recognize someone and, as luck should have it, the only seat in the room lingered just to the right of her.  I awkwardly approached from the back of the class in hopes that she might not see me and feel compelled to –

            “Hey, Chris!  Oh, perfect there’s a seat next to me.  How’s your semester going?  How was your break?  Good, huh?  That’s awesome.  Mine was ok.  I had to go back home and work in my dad’s shop which was awful as always, but my high school friends are rad and we got schwasty like every night.  Ha, you know what I mean,” she motioned in my direction and I feebly strained agreement.  She continued, “So, what do you think of this class?  I hear the professor is awfully boring, but is a really easy grader.  Plus there are a ton of cool people, so at least that will make it funner.”

            “More fun,” I murmured.  This was going to be an exercise in purgatory if I didn’t get another seat next class.  But would she notice if I sat somewhere different next class?  I literally do not know another single soul in this room.  She has no self-awareness, but she’d surely be aware of such flagrant dodging.

            “What?” she chimed with the intonation that there was zero, and I mean zero, notion within her vapid consciousness of what I meant.  Her eyebrows twisted and her gaze begged for more information.

            “It’s more fun, Briana.  ‘Funner’ is not a word or correct,” I explained, with only minor success in remedying the shortening of her face.

            Her gawking devolved to its former state and she persisted, “I guess that’s why you’re an English major,” God, she was insufferable, “I was never good with grammar, but give me something architectural and I’ll understand the hell out of it!”

            “Mhm.”

            “This is gonna be fun, we’re never in class together anymore.  I haven’t see you since freshman year – it’s weird how the time goes by.”

            “Yeah, time’s is odd that way.”  Because our lack of communal time has been totally accidental.  She seems harmless, but I cannot imagine a worse semester than sitting next to Briana every Tuesday and Thursday.  Oh wait, she still managed to go on, piercing my disinterest and blatant condescension.

            “So, Chris, are you doing anything for Spring Break?”

            Are you kidding, it’s January!  You’re already asking me about March.  I hate this: “Um, I’m not sure.”  Don’t do it.  “What about yyyoouuu?”  Oh, Chris you idiot.  That last word just stretched forever.

            “Oh, I’m so glad you asked!  Me and my friends are going to Jamaica for five days.  We’re going to have so much fun.  Of course I have to get my passport, get my shots, plan all the activities, and I could just go on forever.”

            “It’s my friends an –… Go on.”  That was a close one, but now she’s just going to continu –

            “Oh my goodness, it’s the most exciting thing that’s happened to me since the Pope came!  I cannot stand not being on some Caribbean beach with an umbrella-ed drink in my hand…”

            I dropped the class.

Short Stories

One of my classes this semester involves writing creative short stories.  Since this blog is a little late in its genesis within my writing career, I'll be posting the first three so far.

Short Story One. Assignment: Create Setting

           Perhaps it was the smell of the chlorine or the shimmering blindness, but as I rose above the pool deck, my feet relieved for the break from the abrasive stone-sand conglomerate, I felt disjointed.  I had donned my sunglasses hours ago – three-dollar wayfarer knockoffs with zero UV protection – and had stayed vigilantly hydrated, but I could still feel my awareness dipping as the faux-wood steps fell behind me.  As I sat back in the high guard chair the liquid glass lap pool’s artificially blue mirror shot silver light at the frugally darkened shades.  In an odd attempt at avoiding the sun and relaxing I let my head loll backwards, and that’s when I missed him.

            The little boy had come sprinting around the main fence’s corner about a couple minutes ago.  He had arrived with his mother and sister several minutes before that.  His mother, Ms. Shannon, drove an early nineties BMW – a nice car, but just old enough to indicate and remind (especially the other families) that the Shannon’s divorce meant the 1993 BMW 7-series would stay a 1993 for some time.  Thus is the mentality of a suburban pool and tennis club.  Mind you, there is no golf or restaurant to speak of, lacks that diminished the overall appeal of the club, but only bolstered the egos of the patrons.  When surfing the middle ground of the “upper” territory in an upper-middle class Boston suburb, every flash of wealth was necessitated and ferociously maintained.  Ms. Shannon waded out of the car and her head floated one hundred eighty degrees to evaluate the talent and status of the club members already positioned on the lawn and deck.  Her daughter remained motionlessly fixated on her new smart phone: the undead.  Interestingly enough, that gadget that connected her to the Twitterverse made her invisible for the next couple of hours.  She existed, or rather barely existed, in stark contrast to her brother.  Her boy, her youngest, bolted from the backseat to the corner of the fence and waited for his mom to give him the approving nod that would grant him access to the watery wonderland; he bounced with anticipatory, clenched bounces.  Ms. Shannon spotted the reclined lounge chair she needed and peered over glasses at it in an attempt to signal to all others in the vicinity that it belonged to her.  The boy misinterpreted the temporarily lowered noggin and went for it.

            The black chain link fence that surrounded the pool area towered a full eleven feet above the ground, exactly twelve inches over the legally mandated height.  In fact, its disproportionate height to strength ratio served to make the barrier exclusive, but in the event of any real effort it had no interest in keeping anything out.  However, the fence assumed an awesome aura as the boy, from the corner, made a sweeping and wide arc out from the fence.  The berth he gave to the fence seemed to be out respect, but in actuality served to align himself with the open gate, which had a direct line to the pool.  Ms. Shannon ducked into the backseat to retrieve her day bag.

            When the boy crossed the plane from outside the club to inside the club I lowered my head and rolled it to the left to scan the baby pool area.  I didn’t much care for the baby area as it rang of general merriment and childhood cheer most of the time, but could turn without a moment’s notice into a circle of hell reserved for murderers who killed for silence.  I smiled, enjoying my station at the lap pool as the boy passed the first row of chairs, the distance between him and the pool waning.

            My neck rotated towards the lap pool and something violated my periphery.  A father, taking the day off, was attempting to sneak some snacks past me, in spite of the myriad of signage indicating our strict policy against food inside the gates.  I raised my red whistle to my lips and tweeted.  I cocked my sunglasses in the gentleman’s direction to initiate the universal dialogue between watchmen and subject that wrangles misdeeds and confers disapproval.  The whistle, however, did more than squelch the missteps of the papa snacker.  It also caught the attention of the, now, sprinting young man from the BMW.  The whistle has a very powerful effect, one that erects an immediate and undeniable pyramid of authority within its sphere of influence.  While those behaving pay instant attention to the whistle’s declaration, it halts the minds and actions of those disrespecting its employer.  The boy’s unscheduled and abrupt start sent him into the air.  Not terribly high, actually, just diagonally down.  There was no slow motion, my life and training did not flash through my mind, I didn’t grapple for protocol or possible scenarios, nor did my mind go blank with panic for his well being.  In fact, I merely took the time to realize that regardless of his landing zone and regardless of his injuries, there would be a mess for me to clean.  However, this elongated summary benefits from hindsight and vocabulary.  I truly only had one, single, solitary, pronounced, and poignant thought.

            “Shit.”