Category: fiction

Belief

Cool air was blowing up, testimony to the conditions up there, a momentary comfort for Skinner. That’s the same, he thought, but it’s different. Nothing was ever exactly the same.

Tanker asked, “What are you thinking? Let’s go.”

Skinner knew this was no different from other times. That’s the theory. The clouds looked so damn thin, though. He doesn’t see how they can support him, even though they always had before. But he always had his Dad or Mom with him to walk the clouds. Their presence was encouraging and reassuring.

He stepped out out the few final feet from the cliff side toward the oh so ordinary appearing clouds. They looked like the same kind of clouds he’d walked with his parents. It’s just that his parents weren’t here.

“We won’t always be here to do this with you, Skinner,” his father had said just a few days before, in a place very much like this one, but different.

Shifting sounds behind him made Skinner look back at Tanker. Tanker had composed himself for a long wait and was looking bored and tired. “You take your time, Skinner. Do what you need to do.”

Skinner remembered his father speaking. “You can take your time, but that’s part of the test. The test isn’t just about walking on the clouds, but your belief and confidence that you can do it. You know you can. You’ve done it with me. Other matters will be in your head, too. You’ll know that everyone is watching. You’ll know it’s a test. You’ll know it. I know you’ll know it because I was there. I was tested for my belief, too. I know what was in my head then, and you’re just like me. You, me, and your grandfathers, we’re all the same, so I know what’s in your head, Skinner. Believe me, I know.”

A sharper wind knifed over Skinner’s face. He turned back toward the clouds. White and gray, and lined by sunlight, they were pretty. Some thinned, parting ways. Clouds are always saying hello and good-bye. The separation exposed the creek running through the park below, and the trees. If he didn’t believe, he would crash right through these clouds and down through the tree branches, into the hard green and brown earth below. Maybe he’d land in the water. Maybe he’d land on one of the big granite boulders. Maybe he would live.

But he believed.

He stepped off onto the cloud.

0

The Choice

She just wanted a little something. Forty feet by six feet of lit, colorful options faced her, which would be? Her mind didn’t want to address something so trivial as an area problem.

A couple entered the aisle, apparently solving the same problem. They seemed to be approximately her age, that is, mid-fifties to mid-sixties and of similar economic status. They probably were enduring the same paradigm shift as her. It used to be that if you wanted ice cream, limited selections were available. Her mother bought Neapolitan because the three flavor choices satisfied almost everyone, although they would always end up with a carton of strawberry left. Later, they would buy vanilla ice cream and add toppings of nuts, cherries, syrups and whipped cream. Then they learned to make banana splits. All the while, her father would reminiscence about making ice cream with his grandparents, and his favorite, root beer floats. They made their own root beer, too.

She could follow such a simple route and buy vanilla. Even were she to make that choice of flavor, decisions remained about sugar-free, slow-churned, size, price and brand. Gluten-free and dairy-free ice cream was available. Ten variations of vanilla ice cream competed. America, land of the free and home of the ice cream.

This was not just ice cream. She walked down the aisle. The couple shadowed her. All of them stared at the choices like they were fine art in a museum. Frozen yogurt, gelato, sorbets and sherbets were offered. Rice Dream. Soy ice cream. Prices for them were ridiculous. Specials were available – two one-gallon containers were available for six dollars for club members – she was a club member – but she didn’t want a gallon, just a pint.

Her father would have had fits. “Gelato? Sorbet?” Yes, she was channeling her father. He would admonish, “What do you want? Decide what you want, Helena.” She’d thought she’d known what she’d wanted. She’d wanted to be an accountant when she was a young girl and had become a data scientist, even though she had a literature degree. She didn’t know data scientists existed when she was a child.

Straying into frozen fruit and yogurt bars, she smiled at the man — the closest shadow — and swapped places with him, to go the other way. Actually, she knew what she wanted. She either wanted a Stonyfield Merlot Blackberry sorbet or a Haagen Dazs sorbet, flavor to be determined. Neither were present.

Drat. That was the problem. She knew what she wanted but couldn’t attain it, the shortcoming of living in a small town. Safeway was one of three grocery stores. They generally had the same choices, as if they were in collusion.

An imagined scene arose. The three store managers sat in a small, windowless room, making agreements about what ice creams to offer and setting the prices. “Listen,” one said in her scene, “I’m putting the Blue Bunny on sale this week.” He put his pricing gun on the table. “Anyone have a problem with that?”

Did they still utilize pricing guns in this digital age?

She sighed. This was taking too long. Impulse streamed through her. The hell with fat, calories and health. Take one and go. It’s just ice cream. 

Marching to one section, she found mint chocolate chip. The flavor almost always satisfied her. It was a gallon. She didn’t want a gallon but she would buy it for three dollars with her club card. She would eat some tonight and keep the rest or throw it out. The price was such a bargain, she could afford to bin it.

Sure.

Selection in hand, she passed the couple. Holding a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, he complained about the price. The woman was staring at a wall of Breyer’s. There was one advantage to being single: no compromise or consensus was required.

The choice was hers, alone.

0

Zombies On Bikes

I was on Zombie Watch the other day. Peeking out from behind the office blinds in my home, I was watching for Zombies. That’s why we call it Zombie Watch.

(Editing Note: Zombies and Zombie are both to be capitalized, per the Trump Administration. As Sean Spicer said in a presser regarding the Executive Order, “Hey, come on, where there’s that much smoke, there must be a fire. We had far less information about Russia interfering with the U.S. elections last year. You guys believed that, and there’s been far less information about that out there, out there on television. You guys ever watch iZombie? Come on, that stuff can’t be made up.”)

My cell phone was at hand to provide the world with high-quality video evidence should I see one. I was nervous, of course. From all I’ve seen on television, Zombies have very good hearing and eye-sight. They’re pretty good at sneaking up on you, too. And, where there’s one Zombie, a hoard is likely following, because Zombies are very social walking dead.

A start went through my heart as movement registered. A Zombie. On a bike. “There’s a Zombie on a bike,” I said, watching the Zombie’s laborious progress up the hill.

“I don’t think Zombies ride bikes,” my wife said.

“Are you sure?” I frowned. The cyclist disappeared. “They say you never forget how to ride a bike.”

“I don’t think they drive cars, either,” she answered.

“That’s not the same thing. Cars require more hand and eye coordination.” I didn’t know what I was talking about. “Plus, you need gas, and car keys, and you’d need to adjust the seat.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“Although the way some of these people drive, they might as well be Zombies,” I said.

I continued my watch. I wasn’t certain if Zombies ride bikes or drive cars, but I’ll be damned if they’re going to take me by surprise. So, I’ll continue to assume that Zombies can be on bikes.

And I guess they might be able to drive cars.

 

 

 

0

Revolution

One needed to be the look-out. The look-out’s role was critical, but it was a dangerous situation.

“I’ll do it,” Varashi said.

The leader didn’t like that. Varashi had been the first dandelion to learn to stand up and lie down. Located in the yard’s middle, he’d been there a long time, spying on the humans through windows and learning their ways. In a sense, Varashi had been the leader’s inspiration.

Noting the leader’s reluctance to accept him, Varashi said, “Come on, I’m old. I’m due to be done. It’s not a great loss if I’m seen and weeded.”

Varashi’s logic was true, so the leader agreed.

The whole yard knew something was up. Even the clover, which was the dumbest plants in the yard, other than the grass, knew it. It had been a mild but wet winter. All the backyard inhabitants had thrived. The leader approved of the rise of his dandelions but knew that their success was also their threat. The human, the man, didn’t like weeds, and seemed particularly hostile toward dandelions.

The sun was high and the air was warm. It was time. “What’s the situation?” the leader asked. The word was sent through the roots to Varashi. He stood up his purple stalks. Although still twelve inches tall, they were naked on the ends. “All clear,” he reported.

The report was returned to the leader. He mentally nodded. They needed to leave as soon as possible. This was it. Per tradition and history, the man was going to come out soon and start removing them. The leader didn’t understand such hate and disdain for his dandelions. He didn’t feel understanding was necessary for him to take action to protect his people.

“All right,” he said. “Everyone ready?” The units reported that they were. Taking a deep breath, the leader stood. His many stalks were full and yellow on the ends. He looked about. Only Varashi stood. The man was not around. With the strength of commitment, he ordered, “Everyone stand up.”

His dandelions responded. Yellow heads rose. Oh, it was such a beautiful sight to behold, it hurt his leaves to see. “Now,” he said. “Lift your roots. Lift. Lift.”

He did so with the rest, pulling his roots free with a concentration of strength and willpower. “Now forward, toward the fence, march, march, march.” 

They managed twenty steps before stress rippled through the roots and everyone complained. Twenty steps — three inches. In that time, the sun had slipped behind the house, and their were in shadow.

Three inches. It was the most he’d ever gone. Ordering the others to stand down, he remained upright, staring at the fence.

Someday, they would reach the fence and get beyond it. And then?

Seeds, winds and birds brought news, and the trees offered their views, but those were just physical descriptions. None knew if his field of weeds could survive beyond the fence. But, they all agreed, it was a better choice than remaining in the yard, waiting to be pulled out of the ground and killed.

 

1

Muted

“Mom, do you recognize me?”

Of course, she wanted to reply. It was a foolish question. She was her youngest daughter, so smart and beautiful, caring, passionate – and stubborn, independent and strong-willed. She looked exactly like her great aunt. Pragmatic and idealistic – “Bull-headed,” the child’s father had always called her — she’d been born, her final daughter of three, sixty years before, on a sweltering August day. She’d cried more in her first seventy-two hours than the other two sisters had cried in their first week, combined.

Yes, she remembered her and trusted her, and believed in her more than the others. She was always willing to give and help, always prodding her to speak up.

She wished she could speak up. She’d always wanted to speak up more. That was her greatest failing. She envied those, like her own mother, and her sisters, that spoke with firmness, conviction and clarity. She’d always wanted to speak like that, and it had forever been denied her, except when she’d been speaking with her late husband. She could tell Jack anything. He trusted her in a way no other ever had, and understood her better than anyone else. When he’d died, it was like her voice died with him. Ever since then, she’d lost more and more of her ability to express herself to others with every day. The more she loved those who spoke to her, the harder it was to talk to them.

That’s what couldn’t be explained to them. All the words failed. Even now, when her daughter asked her, “Mom, do you recognize me,” and gazed warmly at her face, her brown eyes wide, all the words she brought to mind failed to respond.

The only word willing to obey was, “Yes.”

To which her daughter looked sad and resigned. “I love you, Mom,” she said.

I love you, too, she answered, but her voice would not speak.

1

Sunday

She emerged from the bedroom right as he finished making his coffee. He was always the early riser, but he required far less sleep than her.

Smiling widely, she took a deep breath. “Oh, what a great smell.” As he glanced at his hands, mug of coffee in the left, and a plate of waffles with butter and syrup on the right, she clarified, “Not the waffles. I don’t smell them at all. I just smell coffee. It smells wonderful.”

His response wasn’t deep. He was already working on his yard and garden in his mind. Although the temperature was only fifty-one at this early hour, a strong sun, unfettered in its warmth or sunshine by seasons or clouds, was rising. He was eager to get out there and get dirty.

The point for him was that she seemed okay, and in good spirits, something important in later introspection. Eating and finishing his coffee, he went outside and completed hours of yard work, interrupted only with a few breaks to pee, drink water and wipe away sweat. He loved this part of his week, shaping the yard, trimming the bushes, weeding, pouring more decorative bark and spreading it out. The end results pleased him with tangible, visible evidence that his efforts achieved something, a result that eluded him in most other activities in life.

Going into the house, he made lunch and then went looking for her to talk about the yard and thoughts that had come to him while he was out there. He found her asleep in a recliner with a throw covering her. Although the house thermostat reported the temperature was seventy-one, she had a space heater on by her feet. The room was frighteningly hot to him.

“Hey,” he said, not sure how loud to speak or what to say.

Her eyes fluttered open. Her mouth was slack. Drool glistened out of one corner and down her chin. She remained in her pajamas. “Are you alright?” he asked.

She closed her eyes. “I’m cold.”

“Can I do anything? Get you anything? Water? Juice, or tea?”

She shook her head once in the barest movement possible.

“Are you sick?”

Opening her eyes a little, she looked at him and nodded.

“What is it?”

“Tired,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

Frowning, he returned to the kitchen and cleaned his lunch dishes, worrying about what was happening to her. He wanted to make sense of her condition. He’d heard the vacuum cleaner running while he was working outside. He’d looked through the window once and saw her dusting in the living room. It didn’t make sense. Several medications were prescribed for her to cope with her auto-immune disease. Perhaps one of these were suddenly affecting her. That was the hopeful aspect. Worse was that the disease had taken the drastic negative turn they’d always feared.

He heard her shamble down the hall. The bathroom door closed. Bath water began running. He listened, thinking about her and the situation, and then sat at the breakfast table and wondered, what would he do if she was gone?

***

Written in a dream, remembered in the morning.

0

Flight

Bruce learned he could fly when he scared his family with his first lift-off at his second birthday party. General excitement and amazement, with shadows of fears, greeted his brief zooms over the picnic table, tomato plants, and aging white back yard fence.

He didn’t remember the flight. He remembered Granny McCune taking him by the hand and speaking to him. No words were recalled but her face, white and softly folded, small — one of the reasons he enjoyed her so much was her small stature, like an flowery elf, he’d decided, something he’d never shared with anyone — remained sharply focused in his mind.

Flying, itself, though, he forgot all about that. He was a little boy in America, he was growing, going to school and learning a lot. Nobody else flew and no one encouraged him to fly, so he forgot. Granny McCune, may she rest in peace, died when he was five. He didn’t know why. Then, there’s a memory gap, it seemed like, between her death and funeral when he was five, until he was living in Chicago when he was eight.

Even as an adult, he didn’t understand why they were living in Chicago. They were staying with aunts and uncles but he didn’t know why. By then, he had a little sister, as he always called her, instead of younger sister, to go along with his big, older sister. He was the only boy and a middle child. Dad was away often. He didn’t know what his Dad did then.

While in Chicago, he shared a bedroom with a cousin, Clarence, who was fourteen. The room was small, and he slept on a little cot beside Clarence’s twin bed. Keeping his curiosity to himself, he wondered where Clarence’s other twin bed was, because, he figured, if it was a twin, there must be two, right? Yes, that’s what he thought.

Clarence was a big baseball fan, a big fan. Wearing a Cubs hat and a pitcher’s mitt and holding a baseball, he listened to the games on a large Philco transistor radio in his room whenever he could. He wanted to be a major league pitcher, like Don Cardwell, who’d just pitched a no-hitter for the Cubs, but even then, while pitching for a Little League team (who were unfortunately, the Pirates), he knew he didn’t have it. He tried, and was better than most, but something inside him told him that he couldn’t do it, he told his little nephew without rancor or sadness, but rather the casual, matter-of-fact peculiarity with which the family processed victories, defeats, deaths, weddings and holidays.

Being an older American male and encouraged by his Mom, and Bruce’s mother, his Aunt Linda (who, shockingly, Clarence found attractive, which disturbed him because she was Mom’s sister), Clarence became a mentor to his little cousin, teaching him to play catch. Bruce showed a remarkable natural ability for catching the ball. Throwing was another matter, but throw that ball anywhere and he’d race and jump for it.

Naturally, doing one running and jumping effort, Bruce took off.

He’d not really noticed that he’d done it. To him, it was about getting the ball. Clarence would have put it down to an amazing jump, except Bruce continued hovering, pleased with his catch and then focusing on throwing the ball accurately to Clarence.

Catching the ball, Clarence watched Bruce land and then walked to him. “How’d you do that?”

Not understanding the object of the question, Bruce shrugged. “I don’t know.” It was his stock answer. Other children wanted to know how he remembered things so easily and effortlessly. He didn’t know and didn’t want to explain. He felt the same about whatever it was that Clarence was asking him about.

“Do you know what you just did?” Clarence asked.

Certainly, Bruce understood what he’d just did, he caught the ball. That seemed so obvious, he shrugged. He was beginning to wonder if he was in trouble.

Looking around the yard like he was worried about a wild animal getting him — something Bruce understood because his Mom always warned him to be careful, “And don’t let the wild animals get you,” — Clarence said, “We’d better go inside.”

Clearly, he’d done something wrong. Bruce said. “Can’t we catch a little longer?” Why couldn’t that be done? Only darkness, the threat of wild animals, and an adult’s summons or admonition curtailed his activities. This seemed very arbitrary of Clarence, a word Bruce had just learned. He hoped he was using it correctly.

“No, I’m just thirsty,” Clarence said vaguely in what Bruce recognized was a lie. However, if Clarence was going to lie, that’s the way it was going to be, because Clarence was older than him. So, shrug, oh, well.

That night, there was an intense meeting in the dining room involving Clarence and all the adults. After that, Bruce’s Mom and Aunt Jean sat Bruce down and sat opposite him in a way that told him, This Is Serious. “Honey,” his Mom said, touching his cheek in the manner that she did, which irritated him. Pulling back and grimacing, he pushed her hand away and said, “Stop it. You’re always touching me.”

Aunt Jean and his Mom looked at each other. “He doesn’t like being touched,” his Mom said. Aunt Jean nodded. His Mom explained to Bruce, with interruptions and assistance from his Aunt Jean, that he should not fly, because others couldn’t fly, and that would scare them. He didn’t understand why they’d be scared of that, because he wouldn’t do anything to anyone, and pestered her about that point with impatient questions, until she finally said, “I know, I know, Bruce. Just promise me that you’ll never fly again, okay?”

“I promise,” Bruce answered. He wasn’t happy. In bed later, he thought it all over. He understood he’d flown without trying. That’s why Clarence stopped playing catch, he figured. Clarence did have a look on his face. He didn’t look afraid, but that must have been it. He thought he’d apologize to Clarence the next day but a family emergency interrupted.

It took some time for him to understand what had happened, years, really, but his Dad had been killed in a car accident in Indianapolis. His flight and his cousin’s reaction fused with his promise to his Mom, and his Dad’s death into a defining core of his future behavior.

For a long time, Bruce didn’t fly. He didn’t tell anyone he could fly. He went to college, met girls, had sex, was drunk a few times, and sick sometimes, and smoked joints five or six times, but he never told anyone he could fly, and he never flew. He pursued a normal, flightless life of graduating college, finding employment, marrying, becoming a father, divorcing, marrying again, divorcing again, and settling into ruts that dissatisfied him more and more as he aged. He thought life would have been different than it was, and it disappointed him that it wasn’t.

It was at a party one evening when this reached a natural point. Fifty-two years old, he was the oldest person at the party by a few years. He thought the others, his co-workers, had invited him because they were being polite. It was a tight group of people, and even if he thought little of the others’ intelligence and talents, he liked them as individuals. The party sounded fun, too, and he was in a funk, as he noted to himself, an abysmal black mood that he didn’t think was ever going to end. He’d endured other funks but this one seemed worse. He was thinking about going to a therapist about it, although, he tacitly informed himself, his problem was that he didn’t feel like he fit, and he felt lonely. He didn’t believe anyone particularly cared about him, not even his children, sisters or Mom. So he had no outlets for his complaints. That’s why he needed a therapist, just to have someone to talk to about what bothered him.

The party wasn’t working out. Held at Michele’s house on the coast, he was a little jealous of everyone else. They seemed happier, more satisfied and better engaged. They laughed a lot. As they did, he slipped to the edges. Drink didn’t entice him. He thought that if he left, nobody would notice, so he tested that theory by slipping out.

A misty sea breeze regaled him outside. He heard the ocean but didn’t see it. Sunset was imminent, so he walked down a street in the beach’s general direction. Seeing a sign marked, “Beaches”, he followed a trail through some grass into a sharper, damper sea breeze. The trail went up, away from the beach, which disappointed him. He thought he’d walk along the beach at sunset, but after a while, he found himself on a bluff. Tule fog dominated the ocean’s horizon. The sun was just eating into it.

His ongoing internal treatise about who he was, what he wanted, and why he was dissatisfied, was resumed, and then he remembered how he’d flown. The memory burped up out of the nothing of thought in such stark clarity that he was certain he was thinking of a book he’d read, or a movie that he’d seen. But then, with still introspection, he recalled his flight when he was eight years old and his promise to his mother not to fly. He took out his cell phone with a thought that maybe he should call Mom and ask him if he was remembering that right, or not. But then, he thought, why hadn’t it been mentioned all these years? Also, he remembered it with more intimate details that whispered, “It’s true,” to him. And although he loved his Mom, she really was about herself, her health, and the grandchildren and great-grandchildren these days. She rarely actually asked him, “How are you?”

Instead he thought, why? I will just fly. Others were on the beach and the bluff, but he didn’t care. So, as the tule fog swallowed the setting sun’s dulling tangerine presence, he stepped forward, off the ground and into flight.

Others always argued about what was seen and what had happened. He would not know that. Flying felt so beautiful and natural that he immediately felt released. The sun’s last rays were warmer, and the breeze was less. Without thinking much about it, he kicked off his shoes and let them plummet to the ground. The rest of his clothes followed, piece by piece, even his cargo shorts with his wallet, and his boxer shorts, until all that he wore were his expensive sunglasses. So attired, he rose into the sky above the tule fog, into the space where the sun was still over the horizon, and continued flying toward it. Small craft were underneath. Swooping and laughing, he waved to their occupants, pleased with their reactions.

Why hadn’t he flown all these years, he asked himself. He’d been missing out an a powerful element of himself.

He continued on, climbing higher, until his sunglasses slipped off his face and he rose into the ether like a happy, unencumbered two-year old, leaving behind a huge mystery about what had happened to him. His BMW was still at Michele’s house, and they had the reports of what others had seen. There was one video of the flying man incident on someone’s cell phone but everyone thought that was faked. His shoes washed up on shore at different locations and were collected as unremarkable trash, as was his other clothing, and his wallet was found years later, hundreds of miles north of where he’d disappeared. Some claimed that was evidence that he’d been alive, hiding under a different name.

Only his mother, on hearing the news that her son was gone, understood, and accepted.

0

The Bored

I rarely have contact with such people, and their noise levels were high, so I watched and listened. Five females and four males, I guessed they were fifteen to eighteen years old. I’d seen several of them in the coffee shop before. One of the boys, with disheveled, thick blond hair, was louder and goofier than the rest. One girl looked older, exhibiting an awareness of body and attractiveness that the others didn’t. The swarthy, muscular guy with tight, short hair trying to get attached to her could have been eighteen.

Oddly, their syntax hadn’t changed much from teenagers I encountered decades ago. Many “Oh, my God,” “OMG,” and “I know, right,” spiced their cryptic exchanges, along with staccato bursts of laughter and giggles. The biggest difference between what I’d known as teenagers and this herd were their phones. Even while talking to one another, their phones were sirens calling their attention. Most held them close to their faces or bent their heads and peered intently, like oracles searching for the future.

Something, perhaps overheard, or in their demeanor, kept me focused on them because I thought they were planning something. Then one girl, white, with a veil of dark heavy hair swept over half her face, looked up at the others and smiled. Her mouth, with lips painted bright red, was partially open. “Okay, everyone ready?” she asked. “Got a number?”

“Yes,” answered the group with an impatient chorus. The oldest male seemed less enthused with this. I suspected whatever was happening was an obstacle to interfering with the girl sexually, and he’d been ready to get some. The group started calling out numbers. As the numbers were announced, another yelled, “Mine.” They handed phones to one another with squeals of discovery. A phone swap, I realized.

“Okay,” the dark-haired girl said. “Everyone swapped? Everyone swapped? Okay, then. For the next twenty-four hours, until this time tomorrow, everyone uses the phone they have now, acting like they’re that person, okay? Then we come back here tomorrow to give our phones back. And you can’t tell anyone, okay? Those are the rules.”

New phones in hand, laughing but somehow seeming like they were a little more malevolent than before, the group broke up, heading for the door in pairs and threes, leaving the oldest boy walking slowly in trail.

He was the only one without a smile.

7

Love’s Fabric

He saw him across the swirl of activity. It took some effort to press himself closer for a better look. As he made his way past an entanglement of shirts, jeans and underwear, the other spotted him.

Despite his heritage and their obvious differences, instant attraction occurred. Shedding regard for what others might make of it, the old black rayon polyester blend, a plain sock from an inexpensive store, began dancing with the young gray and black wool Gold Toe. Soon they found commonalities. Both were dress socks, although for different occasions, meant for a man, sizes ten through thirteen, and shared a calf-high design.

It wasn’t long before they were entangled in intimate acts within the dryer’s hot confines. Opprobrium rapidly followed. “You already have mates,” they were told. “Think of them. And the authorities will separate you, once the cycle ends.”

Knowing this was true, they spent as much time as possible together. Some sympathetic plaid boxer shorts approached them. “There’s a way out of here,” she said. Yes, stories of that underground dryer vent was woven through their society.

A buzzer’s warning pierced the cylinder. The cool down cycle. Little time remained. They made their decision. Love was hard to find among the clothes. They followed the secret route out, hopefully, to happiness.

It helped to be open to looking past another’s materials and age to find love, but to fully embrace it was to fully embrace the unknown, and venture into new realms.  It would be hard, but they knew it would be harder yet to give up without trying.

2

Truths, Re-discovered

I read a wonderful book during recent flights. ‘Ordinary Grace’, by William Kent Kreuger, won a few prizes since its publication. My wife recommended it to me. “It reminds me of ‘Peace Like A River’,” she said, a book we both enjoyed.

“Who wrote that?” I asked. We both came up with Leif and nothing else. We were in the car, without computers and the phone wasn’t picking up a signal, so we couldn’t look up the name. Finding the novel’s author was put on the to-do list.

Yes, ‘Ordinary Grace’ reminded me of ‘Peace Like a River’, but I also thought of some of Louise Erdrich’s novels, as well as ‘A Separate Peace’, by Thomas Knowles, and even Harper Lee’s treasure, ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’. Gorgeously written, it was beautiful story telling, the sort of writing that incites a riot of fears, envy and worry in me. I want to write novels like this, and after reading ‘Ordinary Grace’, I was afraid that I wouldn’t. I was afraid the current novel-in-progress (NIP) was a miserable failure.

After finishing the novel, I stewed while visiting with friends and family and suffering through the requirements of socializing. They say you’re not normal if you don’t socialize, if you fail to sit down and chat, making small talk or exchanging witticism and sparkling insights regarding movies, politics and the economy. Though I’ve lived sixty years, employing my tongue to make demands for food, answer questions, and make presentations and speeches, I remain a novice socializer. Contrary to some opinions, it’s not a choice I consciously embrace, but that’s an altogether different post.

When I was finally freed to sit down and write, I entered my NIP, prepared to revile it. Surprise instead comforted me, surprise that it wasn’t the miserable pastiche of words that I’d decided it was, because it came to me. After reading the opening chapters and correcting a sprinkle grammar, spelling and punctuation issues, I went away satisfied that I’m not the horrendous hack that I’d accused myself of being.

I continued to think about why I liked those books so much, what it was about their imagery, story-telling, pacing, arcs and characters that reduced my writing confidence. First, these stories all harkened to eras that I understood through living, television, movies or other books. That’s a helpful, useful advantage. Phrases and expressions of the times could be used without elaboration or explanation because we knew these things. 

Second, I recognized that I could love to read certain types of novels without being a writer in those genres. Third, I can create the imagery and other matters I regarded as so masterful. It is work, requiring more critical and ojbective appraisal of what I’ve written to refine, polish and improve.

Yet, another truth runs under the surface. Years ago, I learned about the window of five. Its application then was about approaching suppliers and customers, and viewing their requirements through five windows to develop deeper understanding and forge stronger relationships. I’ve since extended windows of five thinking into other realms, such as fiction writing. Without resorting to extensive diagnosis, dissection and explanation, it’s possible to utilize windows of five thinking to peel layers back and garner insights into novels.

The truth about these novels was their power to engage, involve and inspire me is intimidating because it was artfully accomplished. Regardless of the genre or author, my goal as a reader it to find books like these, because, in the window of five about what they bring to me as a reading experience, I escape now, and am transported to somewhere else. I’m moved by the characters’ experiences and I identify with their issues. I learn some lessons, often about myself and how I think and feel about different matters.

Those are also my writing goals. I want readers to be engaged in my novels, to become transported to somewhere else. I want them to be entertained, but I’d also like them to think, without me prodding them to think.

Through all this thinking, I end up where I began as a writer, wanting to write something that I enjoy, that others will hopefully enjoy. I need to satisfy myself first as a reader when I write, understanding that others’ enjoyment will depend largely on what they bring to the book, but that it’s my writing skills that will help them enter the book and live through its experiences.

I can’t say with authority that this is what it’s all about; I’m self-taught. I’m probably often profoundly incorrect about my conclusions. That’s acceptable. What’s required is to keep thinking about what’s been learned and to keep striving to learn more and improve. I will probably never been completely satisfied with anything I write, which can be useful incentive to encourage me to keep attempting to improve myself.

It’s a truth I lose and find, again and again.

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