Fiction: The Short Story Graveyard

Apparently, the first sentence is the most important. (Pause..) Didn't seem very important to me. Did I lose you already, dear reader? Dang. This is tough. Should I start over with an attention-grabbing first sentence? Forget you read this...

Starting over. Take two: Have you ever attempted to write a short story, dear reader? No? What? You hate to write? Oh...

Take three: A priest and a rabbi walk into a bar...That's just lame, which was the point. But it still didn't work.

Do you know how difficult it is to start a blog? Well, whether you do or not, it's even more difficult to start a short story. Don't get me wrong: I write just as many crappy short stories as I do crappy blogs. The only difference is that you read the blogs. Sometimes, at least. No one will publish the stories -- not even sometimes. I can publish them on here, which I do infrequently, but it just feels cheap. It's like cheating. I mean, though they are still just as "unpublished" as before, they are at least doing something besides taking up space on my flash drive.

Anyway, like any writer (I think: I don't know because I'm not a real writer), I have a large collection of unfinished stories. And an even larger number of dead first lines. Therefore, I am going to share my favorite introductions to unfinished stories with you. I might even include a quick note after each.

Welcome to The Short Story Graveyard.

I spend most of my time in the bathroom. I don't think other people realize the possibilities. It's the first place I go when I get home. It's where I always go when I need to think. It's the safest place to be. There are no emotions in the bathroom. There is piss, crap, and toothpaste -- they don't threaten my sanity.

(Note: Wait, that dude read my mind.)

Winter's cold fingers took hold of the small village of Garth a week before the harvest festival. Many of the town's farmers had already taken their crops; others had not. For those souls who hesitated to harvest, their livelihoods were as fragile as the icicles which hung from the roofs of their huts.

(Note: My cousin and I were going to write a fantasy novel. He wrote this.)

The last time I saw you, all I could focus on was the back of my truck.

(Note: Dierks Bentley song? Maybe Taylor Swift? Who knows, because that's as far as I ever got.)

Hunched over, she scratched her legs just below the knee. Her milky pale limbs blended in with her light khaki shorts and white shirt; freckles spotted her face. I tried not to look while she scratched her legs, swatting away mosquitoes. She was always scratching them during the summer, but it never bothered me.

(Note: Curious.)

Scott Heritage still believed in God; though, without a doubt, he would deny it. But he knew, as he grumbled requests, now wasn't the time to get reacquainted.

(Note: Always liked this one.)

Anyway, I am trying to jump-start my imagination. Sorry that it has to be at your expense. Just don't steal my ideas -- I have too few ideas as it is. Post your own dead stories, if you want. We can bury them in the short story cemetery and hope they come back to life.

The Fish with No Name

I have so much homework to do that the fact I've even typed this much (pause, consider just how little I have typed to this point) is ludicrous. Then consider that I am going to talk about my fish, and all hope for my future (a M.L.A. degree) is lost.

Look, I don't have time to charge my camera and take a picture right now, but I will later; however, I just don't understand my new fish. He is anorexic. Seriously. I've never seen him eat one food pellet. Periodically I drop a few pellets into his bowl just like the food container recommends. Every time, he goes through the same routine. He swims up to smell (do fish smell?)/ consider the food, pauses for a seconds, and swims away.

Scribbles, my last fish, would eat every pellet I dropped into his bowl. I mean, I could drop like six in there and he would eat every one of them. Of course, the container only recommends two to three pellets every few days. I think Scribbles might have died of gluttony.

My new fish doesn't have a name, but I'm not sure he is going to live long enough for it to matter.

Most. Pointless. Blog. Ever.

Anyway, back to the fishbowl of literary criticism.

Fiction: The Watch-Out

I’m the watch-out, Simon thought, watching Jack Calvert glide across the gray puddles in the nearly empty parking lot as horizontal sheets of rain continued to fall.  Here we go.  The young cashier, who Simon knew sang karaoke at the local bar on Friday nights, stomped to the back as a white-bearded man in motorcycle chaps entered.  It was the same disgusted look she had when Simon wandered in ten minutes before closing-time two nights ago.  Simon and Jack had rehearsed the plan repeatedly since, but Simon still lacked faith.

“How long have you known me, Simon?” Jack asked before jumping out and following the bearded man inside.  Simon didn’t want to appear faithless, but he knew Jack sensed his doubt.  He’d barely known Jack five months, but he still trusted him enough for this.  It was because Jack Calvert was the first person to console him after Callie left, Simon reasoned.  But it didn’t really matter why, because he did.

The stealing had started small, a means of survival while Simon rebuilt his life.  Luckily, the one thing Simon  had left from his former life was a truck.  Jack always paid for their gas and food, occasionally coming out of gas stations with a candy bar or book for Simon.  He didn’t talk about himself much, but Simon knew Jack had never been married and had left home when he was fifteen to work on-and-off in construction, drifting around the Midwest.  Sometimes they just drove aimlessly, shooting the shit, which comforted Simon because he could confess his feelings and wish Callie away to Never-Never-Land.  Simon had questioned her loyalty before, usually feeling guilty afterwards because he never had any proof, but her abrupt departure had confirmed his assumptions: she was having an affair.

“Irreconcilable differences, my ass,” Simon would say, ceremoniously.  “I should fight her for every penny in court.” His partner — that’s how Simon came to think of Jack — always listened, but Simon knew Jack wished he’d just forget it and move on.  Jack Calvert didn’t like riding in cars much anyway.  He didn’t have to say that.  Simon could tell by the way Jack dazed out, especially when they were on the highway, and rubbed his temples like he had a migraine.  Usually they drove down gravel roads because Jack loved to be in nature — that’s when Jack talked the most, and Simon learned what little he knew about his mysterious partner.

I’m just the watch-out Simon reminded himself, noting the neon-green 7:45 on the dash of his Ford Bronco.  Most of the jobs they worked didn’t take more than ten minutes.  Jack had them arriving in Missouri before 9:00 p.m.  Drive around the block twice, pull-up to the storefront, and drive away.  The plan was simple.  Simon, though, worried about working a job in such a busy area of town — the store was one of many in two strip malls that formed an “L” with a movie theater at the top end — but his spirits were rising; his insides, however, were twitching like they always did before a big job.  Secretly, he prayed this would hold them over long enough to find steady work; Simon didn’t really have the stomach for this line of work — he knew it and so did Jack.  Simon wished they could find work together, maybe open up a mechanic shop or a fishing supply store, but he knew Jack would never settle down.  Jack didn’t like to be attached.  Halfway around the first lap, heading directly towards the movie theater, Simon noticed a nondescript black SUV.  This was the kind of detail he was responsible for as the watch-out.  He tried to visualize the plaza from the past two nights, but he couldn’t place the vehicle.  If only I’d paid more attention instead of talking about Callie.

“Damn stupid, soon-to-be ex-wife,” he mumbled.  Something wasn’t right about the SUV, but Simon decided to hold course until further aggression by the vehicle.

After the first pass, Hell’s bearded angel was still the only customer in the store, besides Jack, and stood alone at the cash register.  Simon tried to picture Jack — the calm and quiet out-of-work carpenter, who named every bird and flower (cardinals, daffodils, irises, blue jays, ivory-billed woodpeckers) when they parked on a gravel road to unwind — convincing the cashier or her manager that he’d do something bad if they didn’t empty the registers.  Simon suppressed a smile.  Hell, if I get custody of Rachel, Jack Calvert is the first person I’ll visit.  He’s harmless.  Jack has everything under control.  The storefront and the white-bearded man disappeared as Simon turned left and began his second lap across the bottom of the L-shaped plaza.  The plan, the motorcycle man, and the black SUV were the farthest things from his mind.

Violence had been building inside of Simon the night Callie had left.  He sipped on a whisky-soda, which he knew he wouldn’t be able to afford after the divorce, and tried to reason things out.  He had worked for weeks putting together their daughter’s birthday party, calling family, friends and clowns.  And to think she had the nerve to leave him after such an exhausting, emotional day, whispering lies about going on a journey like Peter Pan to their five-year old daughter.  I’ll show her Never-Never-Land; I’ll send her to — that’s when a hand fell on his trembling shoulder.

“Don’t worry yourself too much.  Tomorrow brings its own troubles,” Jack Calvert had said, calming the locomotion of disgust in Simon’s exhausted body.  It was almost supernatural the way Jack had appeared, seemingly materializing behind him in the nearly empty bar.  But that’s what Simon liked about Jack: the way he knew where to be and what to say; the feeling that Jack knew exactly what was needed in every situation.

Simon clenched his jaw as he slapped the steering wheel, but he was more upset with himself than his soon-to-be ex-wife: he hadn’t seen the signs.  He would never admit that to Jack, but Simon suspected his partner knew more than he let on about these things.  Life had been damn-near perfect.  They had too many credit cards and a thirty-year mortgage, but they’d had each other.  And Rachel.  Simon told Jack everything he could about Rachel — the light scar on her left cheek from when he’d left the iron plugged in and she’d pulled it on her face (Callie had almost left him for that stunt, as she called it), the sandy brown hair she inherited from her mother, the pinky-pale skin that burned and peeled constantly during the summer, and even her difficultly pronouncing W’s and R’s that she inherited from him.  Callie could go to Never-Never-Land with Peter Pan, but Simon wanted to be a part of his daughter’s life.

The rain began to pound the hood of the Bronco, imposing upon and muddling Simon’s thoughts.  He hadn’t always lived up to Callie’s expectations, like dropping out of college after they were married to take a full-time job in a factory.  They had needed insurance while she finished college.  He’d done what had to be done.  She hadn’t seen it that way, even after finding out she was pregnant with Rachel a few months later.  The late hours put a strain on their marriage, but they lived through it.  They’d even made it through other —

“What the — ” Simon shut his former life out of his thoughts; he couldn’t afford to drown out the present — Shit, you’re the watch-out, Simon, concentrate — and what he thought he’d heard.  Simon quickly identified the rain beat on the roof, but could have sworn that he’d heard a distinct pop underneath the pitter-patter, like a muffled firecracker.  Two.  Three.  Four seconds passed.  Two more firecracker pops.  Blue lights erupted from the dash of the black SUV at the movie theater.  Aggression enough, Simon thought as he broke course and headed at a 45-degree angle across the L-shaped plaza, weaving in-and-out of parked vehicles.  You’re always screwing things up, Callie.  With a quick glance he calculated that he had about seven second head start to get in the store, find Jack, and make a getaway before the SUV arrived and whatever came with it.

The Bronco skidded to a stop beside the white-bearded man’s motorcycle.  Simon jumped out of the truck, leaving the truck running and the door open, and splashed through the puddles inside.  The front was empty: a pack of cigarettes and Gummy Bears lay on the checkout counter.  He saw all this in a glance as he raced towards the back.  Come on, Jack.

“Jack.”

He heard a small splash — for a second, Simon felt like he was sinking — and the smell of burnt flesh rammed his nostrils.  He traced the puddle to the white-bearded man’s body on the other side of the middle-aisle shelf.  Here, all kinds of liquids mixed into a black mess.  There was a hole in the bearded man’s chest — his leather chap breast pocket read AVIDSON.  Simon felt his lungs drop into his stomach.  He nearly vomited.

(How long have you known me?)

“Jack!”

Simon staggered to the back, scanning each aisle, through the EMPLOYEES ONLY! Door into a foggy room filled with boxes and boxes.  All the boxes and brand names — Kleenex, Reeses, TRESemme, Johnson & Johnson, Kosher — made him dizzy.  Or maybe it was the sensation of sinking that he couldn’t shake.  Simon dropped to his knees.  Head spinning.  I’m just the watch-out. He tried to focus.  Where are you, Jack?  Then two more bodies, lying perpendicular across one another, got caught in his peripheral vision.  Simon recognized them immediately — the Karaoke Cashier and her manager.

“I’m right here, Simon,” Jack said, appearing from behind a mountain of boxes. “Don’t be afraid.”

Typical Jack.  Always cool.  Always on top of things.

“There’s an undercover cop, Jack.  He was right behind me in a black SUV.  I spotted him earlier, but—”

“—Come on. It’s OK.”  Jack lifted Simon to his feet, guiding him back through the EMPLOYEES ONLY! Door.  Blue light from the black SUV’s dash flooded the room as Jack ushered them towards the front.  AVIDSON still lay by the middle shelf; Simon tried not to look, but the smell overpowered his senses.  The front windows were fogged over — Simon imagined the stink of death choking the windows.  Jack didn’t speak but continued to usher Simon along.  Simon could hear sirens, shouting, slamming doors, and the pitter-patter of rain.

They stopped a few steps in front of AVIDSON.  Simon heard the ole’ “Put down the weapon! And put your hands in the air!” charade, but his mind was too clouded to be sure.  He imagined Clint Eastwood in his Dirty Harry outfit waiting outside, rain accentuating his clenched jaw.

“There goes my custody case—”

 An arm clamped across his chest and the warm muzzle of a gun jammed into Simon’s back before he could finish.  He could feel Jack’s breath against his neck.  His body went rigid.  He was too scared to react.  He wanted to ask Jack the plan.  Is there a plan?  No one is going to fall for this.

I’m the watch-out.

“Who do you think I am, Simon?”

“Ja-Jack.  Jack.  Jack Calvert.”  At first he couldn’t find his voice, but he finally

forced the words out.  “My-my partner.”

“Yeah.  Partner.  Do you doubt me?”

Everything was happening too fast.  Simon didn’t know if Jack was using him as a shield, as a ransom, as a diversion, as a sacrifice.  Red and blue lights pulsated strobe-like across the shelves.  The lights were getting brighter, the noises more intense; everything was muddling together…Simon heard a crack in the distance.  And another.  He felt something scrape down his back and right calf.  White light exploded and engulfed everything.

---

           

“Jack?”  Are we in prison?

“Who’s Jack?

           

“Ca-Callie?”  Where am I?

“Yes.”  He could hear her voice, but he couldn’t find her in the darkness.  “What were you doing in there?  You could have been killed.”

           

“Trying to help Jack.”  Wait.  Why do you care?  Is Jack OK?

           

“There wasn’t anyone but you — alive, that is — in the store, Simon.  They just ran photos of the victims on the news.  No one named, uh, Jack.”

           

“Where’s Rachel?”  Maybe I’m dreaming.

           

“I didn’t want her to see you like this.”

           

“Like what?”

           

“You’ve been in a coma for three days.  They didn’t know if you were going to make it.”  This time he saw her through the snowy haze.  “I didn’t want her to experience this, this — she’s too young.”

           

His head was spinning again.  How long have you known me, Simon?

           

“Experience what?  Where have you been?  What has she been experiencing?”

           

“Forget it!  I didn’t come here for this.  I thought it might help you…you—”

           

“Then why did you come?  I know it wasn’t to see me.  Where’s the Lost Boys?  Or Tinker Bell?”

           

“Simon, I’m not fighting anymore.  I just wanted you to know you can see Rachel when you’re better.”

           

This caught him off guard.  What did we do, Jack?

           

“I’m sorry, Cal.”

           

When she didn’t reply immediately, Simon concentrated on the two beats he could identify: the soft rhythm of the rain and the shrill buzzing of technology around him.

           

“That was brave, Simon.”

           

This time he didn’t reply but pretended to sink into sleep, or into a coma, or wherever he’d been before he’d woken up.

We Got that Wood Right Here!

(Caption: Arkansas pwns LSU. This is the best caption. Ever. And it defeats the entire purpose of this blog.)

Sports, literature, Arkansas. These are the supposed topics of this blog. I've got the sports covered; however, I'm slacking in my literature and Arkansas material. (I have fiction to post, but I still get nervous about posting my creative writing). I guess you could consider the Conversations as concerning Arkansas since everyone I've interviewed is from the Natural State (minus the imaginary conversations).

Still, seeing as Dribbling Ink is the most followed blog concerning Arkansas (or at least pretending to be) on Networked Blogs, I feel I should write a blog about Arkansas -- or at least make an attempt to. Yeah, I am kind of a big deal in Arkansas, moving in on Scottie Pippen, Corliss Williamson, and Bill Clinton territory.

Note: I started this blog on Monday...it's now early Friday morning. Needless to say the flow is gone, but the links are still relevant (I think). Anyway, this is the perfect spot to say a few things. First, I don't want this blog to be full a self-promoting, annoying personal rant, which it flirts with becoming at times. Second, I know I spend more time saying what I am going to do rather than doing it. That all changes today. Third, thank you for reading.

As part of a way to focus on Arkansas, don't forget about Ashton Reely's blog  (http://www.fabulousfamiliar.blogspot.com/), Meggie Hodge's clothing apparel business, or Kathryn Richey's photography business. Also, check out Jordan Jackson-Gross's blog (http://conversationtimewithjordan.blogspot.com/).We work together -- she's appeared numerous times in this blog as "co-worker," I think. Anyway, reading her blog will be well worth your time.

Time-warp: Back to the original blog...

Apparently the KFC buffet originated in Paragould, Arkansas, and I have proof. Of course, that is if you believe the Paragould Daily Press is a credible source. Which it is...I mean, no doubt. It isn't called the Daily Mess for nothing (double negative burn) -- it offers so much relevant information that it's hard to keep it all clear in your head. I kid the PDP. I endured enjoyed my four years there as a sports writer.

I'll be quiet and give you the link already: http://paragoulddailypress.com/articles/2010/04/11/local_news/doc4bc11ed3e1151748674505.txt

I also wrote a blog during my first graduate semester about the South, specifically Northeast Arkansas. It didn't turn out exactly as I planned: I overgeneralized without focusing on Northeast Arkansas as much as I had planned. As anything I do for school, it was an exercise in mediocrity.

If you want to torture yourself, here's where to go: http://southernidentity.blogspot.com/

Oh, here's a link for the title, if you need some context: http://www.tigerdroppings.com/rant/messagetopic.asp?p=6202276

Like most of my blogs, this isn't going anywhere. However, like most of my blogs (I say this often, eh?), I hope this blog will serve as a reminder and as inspiration for me to write more about Arkansas. Who knows, maybe I will try to incorporate some of the Southern Identity blog into this blog. I love Arkansas, which isn't a sentiment many fellow Arkansans I know seem to share; therefore, outside of writing about Arkansas sports, I hope to write more about the Natural State and its influence on my writing (vague and nonbinding, just how I like it).

If you, dear reader, have any suggestions or comments about Arkansas -- because I know the majority of my readers are from or live in Arkansas -- I'd love to hear from you. I will make this plea until someone actually leaves a useful comment. Dang non-participators.