Throwback: Acceleration

This is the second of my older pieces of fiction. Again, the only changes I made to this 10-year-old piece were grammatical (and the title, which blew), though I wanted to make more. Please, leave your comments and critiques, and in a few days I'll add my own thoughts about where this story came from and what worked and didn't work. Enjoy!

Acceleration

I still don’t know how I got here. Actually, that is not entirely true; I know, but I can barely believe it. I look around me and this world is so foreign, so different from my life past. My entire existence has been reduced to this eight-foot by eight-foot cube of concrete, no window, and a door made of steel bars. Looking on the walls, I see not the pictures familiar to me, the poster of the tiger I someday wanted to own, the dedication of Mark McGwire’s 70 home runs, and the remembrances of my favorite movies, but rather crude, vulgar etchings of naked women made with the simplest of tools, and a tally of the consecutive days some guy named Butch masturbated into the sink.

Only the barest semblance of living space now exist in my world. The place where I sleep (I hesitate to call it a bed) has no springs and no shape, it feels like I am lying on the concrete itself. My toilet consists of a hole in the ground, and I do not always have toilet paper. The sink is covered in rust and encrusted with some sort of substance (I have been very hesitant to investigate). I have become used to the acrid smells that arise from both of these fixtures, but I long for the sweet smell of air on a spring day, the fresh smell that comes from an April rain shower.

The food here is edible, some of the time. I found myself refusing to eat the first few days, but eventually had to give in when I realized it was not going to get any better. Oftentimes I still cannot stomach a meal, and either I go without or come back to my cell and empty my stomach of the vile gruel.

When I try to think how I got here, I still have to struggle to realize that it actually happened, and not only that, but it happened to me. I have always been pretty laid back and accepting of life, never the guy who went out looking for a confrontation. My major in college was diplomacy for crying out loud! That is what makes this all the more difficult to accept. It was as if the person involved was not me but involved a whole other human being.

That day had begun pretty normally. I got up, had a light breakfast, kissed my wife goodbye, and drove to work in Beaverton. I had only been out of college for two years, but I seemed to be doing well for myself, working at this new business which had a need for people with proficiency in languages. They paid well, and I enjoyed the work, even though sometimes it was as tiresome as simple translation of documents.

Work went well that day. I finished the project I had been working on for the past few weeks and was able to knock off early. Unfortunately for me, that meant going home during the beginnings of rush hour. I usually worked from ten in the morning to six in the evening and was able to miss the rush hours, but I did not want to wait. I went out to the parking lot and got into my car.

I was so proud of that car, and I guess I still am, though there is nothing left of which to be proud. I had saved my money for the first six months of work so when I bought the car I would not have very high monthly payments. It was an Acura Integra GS-R, the sports version of the Integra. I had wanted one for years, and I babied her like my own child. She was a dark blue, the color of midnight in the desert, the deepest of sapphire hues. I had wanted all the options, and I had the windows tinted, bought the spoiler, and opted for the low profile tires and rims. When I was in that car, I was in a different world. The leather interior was so soft and plush, different from the 15-year-old Honda Accord I had driven for years. The transmission shifted so smoothly, and the engine let out a low, healthy roar, similar to the deep purring sound a person may hear from a happy feline.

I got in the car, turned on the engine, and headed out towards Interstate 5. I have always had a habit of driving a few miles over the speed limit, so I proceeded over to the left lane and pushed the car up to seventy miles an hour. The sun burned brightly on that fall day, and I put on my Oakleys, lowered the windows, and turned up the radio to my favorite radio station.

The guy on the late afternoon show I had not had the opportunity to listen to much, since this was a different time of day than usual for me to be on the road. Apparently he had just come on, and was going on and on about some crazy driver that had been moving through traffic like a maniac on his way to work. I grinned and nodded to myself, thinking, “Yeah, seen that guy a few times myself.” He wouldn’t let up though, and went on to describe the guy’s truck, a four by four Toyota, and telling all the listeners that guy needed to be stopped.

Again I laughed to myself, thinking how nice that would be, if there were a delete key on my dashboard, just move the maniacs out of my way.

After finishing his soliloquy, the DJ put on a song and dedicated to the guy who had cut him off, an angry song about road rage by the hard rock group The Offspring, “Bad Habit.” I smiled. For some reason I loved that song.

Hey man you know, I’m really okay

Dexter Holland sang out of my speakers.

After about five or six miles, I took the exit for Interstate 205 and headed towards home in Oregon City.

The gun in my hand will tell you the same

I saw the car in my rearview about thirty carlengths back, a big, bright red Toyota Tacoma four by four, weaving in and out of traffic like a hot coal, and other cars were avoiding it and moving out of its way.

But when I’m in my car, don’t give me no crap, ‘cause the slightest thing and I just might snap!

The chorus started to roar through my little car.

The Toyota must have been going at least 80 and changing lanes on the two-lane freeway almost at will cutting cars off and disrupting traffic. I really hate people like that with a passion.

The smart thing to do would have been to just pull over to the right lane and scream obscenities at the top of my lungs like I usually do at people who are idiots and drive like an underage teenager with a stolen car. For some reason, the intelligent part of my brain decided to click off at that moment and the macho side took over.

If you flip me off, I’ll get in your face!
You drive on my ass, your foot’s on the gas, and the next breath is your last, ‘cause I got a bad habit!

Screaming guitars filled my head, all I could see was the red, both of the car behind me and the fire running through my veins.

I refused to change lanes. The Toyota screamed up behind me tailgating me not five feet off my bumper. He flashed his highbeams at me, and in my rearview mirror I could see him gesturing at me and probably yelling obscenities.

We reached a part of the highway where there was no one in the right lane, and it became apparent to the Toyota that I was not going to move. He yanked his steering wheel to the right to go around me. I should have let him go, but I jerked my wheel as well, cutting him off. I was not going to let a creep like that get around me! Just as quickly, he pulled back to the left and was beside me before I knew it.

It should have been over then. He would have continued on his path, menacing the other drivers on the road until he got to his unknown destination. I would have gone home, eventually calming down. I would tell my wife about the nerve of some people and relax with a cold bottle of MacTarnahan’s.

But he was not going to get off that easy. Not today, and not on my drive home. It was personal now. I slammed the gas pedal to the floor. My Integra had no trouble keeping up with the Tacoma, and I was quickly alongside the truck, screaming out my window.

“You crazy fuck! You are nothing but a goddamn menace to society the way you fuckin’ drive, you psycho sonofabitch!”

My only response was the man’s middle finger.

I looked back at the road in time to see that I was coming up quickly on a minivan, and I jerked the wheel in behind the Tacoma, less than a foot from the metallic bumper about eye level with my car. I backed off a bit, and started giving him a continuous blink of my highbeams. The second we passed the minivan, and the Chrysler in front of it, I jerked back into the right lane and pulled alongside of the Tacoma. Now it was his turn:

“Leave me the fuck alone! You and your little piece of shit car can got to hell, for all the fuck that I care!”

It was very personal now, as if it had not been before. He had insulted my baby. I glanced at the speedometer, and with some measure of shock saw that my car was going 95 miles an hour. The full impact of that did not really register, for the testosterone had reached dangerous levels. I looked at the road ahead again, and I noticed alarmingly that I was screaming up on a new Mercedes. I had no choice, so I yanked into the right hand emergency lane and passed the Mercedes in an instant.

Drivers are rude, such attitude…

The speed was over one hundred by now, and we were both passing in the emergency lanes, he in an effort to leave me behind, me determined there was no way this psycho was going to get away. I did not know what I was going to do. If he pulled over, was I going to get out of my car and kick his ass? I probably would not do that. If we were caught by the police, anything I said would not matter, and I would lose my license for excessive speeding and reckless endangerment, at the least. I do not know why I kept up this useless exercise, but I did.

When I show my piece, complaints cease, something’s odd, feel like I’m God…

We reached another break in traffic, and I pulled along even with the Tacoma again. This time when I looked up into the window of the larger vehicle, I saw the muzzle of a large weapon, probably a shotgun. Time stopped.

Is it not a little strange how time can seem to have slowed, sometimes ceased to exist at all? Like when you drop a glass of Kool-Aid. The glass seems to hang in midair, the liquid floating, and almost every colored droplet is visible to the human eye as it moves towards the carpet. That is how I felt when I saw the shotgun. The scenery ceased to fly by. In fact, it ceased to exist at all. My thinking became clearer, I could actually see what would happen if I waited for him to pull that trigger. My only clear thought that was separate from what I was going to do was this:

“Shit like this doesn’t happen here! Not in Oregon, not where I live! It’s crazy, just plain fuckin’ psycho! Shit like that doesn’t happen here! No, not here! Only in places where people have no regard for human life, places like southern California! Shit like this only happens in L.A.!”

So, I did the only rational thing I could. I stepped on the gas, yanked the wheel to the left, slamming into the front of the Toyota. I heard the roar of the shotgun. The blast from the gun tore through the car about a foot behind my head and shattered the passenger side window. I know shards of glass dug into my skin, but I could not feel it. The impact of my car into the Toyota sent both cars into a deadly spin. The truck whipped into the grass median, spinning and slamming into the rear of my car. The pure force involved kicked my little Integra into the air. Before the airbags came out, I could see the world spinning away from me. I saw the tops of trees in the distance, then I saw the sky with a few fluffy clouds, and then I saw the ground. It seemed to be flying towards me, at a speed I could not consciously fathom. I saw the ground touch the front of my Integra, and my world spiraled into blackness.

I woke up three days later, in the intensive care unit at Willamette Falls Hospital. My wife was there holding my hand. I tried to move my head, but a voice from somewhere warned me not to because my back was broken, along with about half the bones in body. My vision was blurry, like I was seeing everything through a glass of water. I saw my mother, my father, my sister, and a couple of friends from school. Then I saw something that did not click. A police officer was standing in the doorway. What the hell was he doing there? I heard another voice, I think it was my wife’s:

“Honey, can you hear me?” I nodded, almost imperceptibly. “You have a lot of broken bones, but no nerve damage. The doctor says you will walk again, in time. Oh honey, I have been so worried about you. When you didn’t wake up, I thought you were gone, and I never would have been able to say goodbye! Dammit, not yet, I don’t want to say goodbye! I love you so much sweetheart!” Her words trailed into tears and sobbing.

I tried to ask a question, but trying to move my mouth proved difficult. All I managed was, “Puhleeeess?” At that, my mother broke into a fresh batch of tears. I wanted to know why the officer was here. He came over to my bed.

“I know this is not the best time, but I am Officer Wilhelm. I have to tell you that you are being charged with vehicular manslaughter and you will be brought to trial as soon as the doctor says it is okay. The man in the Toyota, Jeffrey Leinham, died in the accident.”

I could not respond. Even if I physically could, I would not have known what to say. I blacked out again.

Though physical therapy I was able to bring myself to walk again, I can even play basketball if I want, though I am a shadow of my former self on the court. I went to trial, and was sentenced to five years in a minimum security prison without parole under a new measure that had been passed for dealing with people in a “road rage.” It has only been a year.

I miss my wife, I miss my parents, I miss my work, I miss my friends, I miss my cat, I miss my car, DAMMIT I MISS MY LIFE!

So what now? I wish I could say I was repentant, that I wish it had not happened. Actually, I do wish it had not happened, but repentant? I just do not know. Would I do it again? I would like to say no, to assure everyone something like this would not happen again, but I do not know if I can. Hard to tell, see where I am coming from? I mean, I did it once, and surprised the hell out of myself, so how can I say I would not do it again? If you had asked me two years ago, or told me this was going to happen in the future, I would have laughed. But now? I just do not know. I have more time to think about it though, and I hope that when my time is up in this hellhole, I will be able to look my family and friends in the eyes, tell them I am sorry, tell them it will not happen again, and mean it. In the meantime, I will try not to cry myself to sleep too many nights, wondering if I will be able to tell them that with an honest heart.

*****

Like with the previous piece I'm looking for insights because I'm not exactly the most objective about my own work. Please, be as constructive as possible, and if you like the story pass the link on to others you think may like it as well.

Throwback Fiction: Dashiell

This will be my first piece of fiction published here, and I will admit to cheating a bit. I wrote this for a college creative writing class, the place when I first thought I wanted to make this writing thing my future. Of course, I was halfway through my senior year at the time, too late to change majors. Oh well.

The only changes I made from when it was distributed to the class for review are grammar related. Anyways, here you go.

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Dashiell

My life has become delightfully fulfilling and easy since I came to live with Dashiell. Before him, I had been nothing, one without a home.


I remember that day vividly. It was a beautiful day, but again I had nothing to eat. I had been hanging around a rest stop along the freeway and, the time of year being summer, had been trying to polish off the scraps left after people’s picnics. The sun was high in the sky, and the rays of light reflected brightly off the high, sparse clouds. It was the time of year when the grass baked itself into a dull, brownish color, the time of year when people are told to stop watering lawns to conserve water.

I saw this young man step out of his car with a large basket, and I knew that it must be full of food. He was alone, his only companion being a brand new novel he was reading. I followed him from a distance, trying to be sly. I was hoping to steal a bite of sandwich or some cheese without him noticing, but he saw me anyway. He turned, looked straight at me, and knew what I wanted. He put a piece of a sandwich on the table and asked me to come and sit down. Starving, I obliged. I sat down on the bench when I was finished, saying nothing, only looking at him expectantly. He gave me more food, and began to talk.

“My name is Dashiell, what is yours?” I looked at him blankly. I could not remember my name, since it had been so long since anybody had called me anything.

“Not much of a talker, eh? No problem, I will give you a name. If you don’t like it, tell me. Now, let’s see…how about...hmmm…Jasmine? Yeah, Jasmine, do you like that name?” I did not know how to respond, I was ecstatic!

“Cat got your tongue, huh? Okay, Jasmine it shall be. You don’t talk much do you, mind if I talk a little?” I waited patiently, wondering what it could possibly be that he would want me to know.

Dashiell talked all afternoon, about this and that, and then back to this again. He told me about his work in the city, about the girl who had just recently decided to be his ex-girlfriend, about his family who lived in the next state, and about his dreams and aspirations. Dashiell wanted to write, but so far no one had wanted to read. He told me some ideas and I voiced some opinions, finally.

He listened politely, and then after a little bit he decided he had to leave. The sun was turning the sky purple, the high clouds changing into a rainbow array of color.

“Maybe I will see you here again.” Dashiell smiled and walked to the parking lot, to his car. He turned, waved to me once, and was gone.

I thought I would never see him again, and for some reason that bothered me. There was nothing special about me, just another homeless statistic, why would I see him again? What could I possibly do for him?

Three days later, while I was searching for scraps after a family picnic, I saw his car pull into the parking lot again, and my heart jumped into my throat. I waited, watching from the underbrush in the shade. Dashiell left his car and walked to a nearby table, spread out his lunch and opened his laptop computer. As he popped the top to a can of Pepsi, I quietly walked out from the shade and sat down next to him at the table.

He turned to me, and almost jumped.

“You’re still here? I thought by now someone would have helped you out.”

Crestfallen, I got up to leave.

“Wait, don’t get me wrong, I am glad you are still here. I could use your company, not having anyone else to talk to.”

I turned back, looking at him expectantly. Dashiell cut me half of his ham sandwich, which I wolfed down, then proceeded to talk. He told me about his graduation from college three years ago. He told me about the party afterwards, about the drinking, and how things got out of hand. He told me about the fight, about his arrest, and his subsequent thirty days in jail.

“Do you think bad of me for that, Jasmine?”

I did not know what to say. This man I had not known for very long, wanted my opinion, and actually seemed to care what I think. I could not think of the right thing to say, so I moved closer to him on the bench.

Dashiell smiled warmly at me. “I don’t suppose you have any big plans do you? How would you like to come home with me? I could give you a bath, give you some food, put some meat on those bones of yours, whatta ya say?”

I looked at myself, and almost recoiled in horror. I had not done that in awhile, and I was shocked to see how skinny I had become. My ribs were visible beneath the surface, and my legs had lost all muscle tone. I looked back up into Dashiell’s face and nodded, I think.

“Well let’s go then. My car is that old blue Honda over there. You’ll just love my home, I’m sure!” Dashiell was almost giddy with excitement. I followed him to the car and he unlocked the door and held it open for me. I hesitated for a minute, looking back at the rest stop, saying goodbye. Times here had been hard, but I did not know what the future would hold. I turned my back, threw caution to the wind, and got into the car.

That was the best decision I have ever made. Dashiell brought me to his home and he was right, I immediately fell in love with it. It was a large house with high ceilings and many rooms to explore. Trees surrounded it, hundreds of feet high, the branches swinging in the light breeze of a summer night. There was a field in front of the house. Dashiell led me into the house and fixed me a warm meal. I had not eaten a warm meal in a very long time; so long I had forgotten warm meals could be eaten. He gave me milk, something I had not tasted in a long time as well. I ate until my sides hurt, until I could eat not more. Dashiell led me into the bathroom and gave me a bath. I hate water and fought every step of the way, but Dashiell insisted and, I must admit, I was pleased with the results.

I still am. Looking out the window I could see the sun falling towards the horizon, Dashiell should be home soon.

My days have become lazy. The summer days I spend outside while Dashiell is at work. I go exploring in the woods, looking for wild animals, seeing plants I have never seen before. I explore the field in front of the house, lying in the sun for hours and hours amidst the sweet smells of grass and flowers.

Today is not that kind of day though. The weather had turned bad, and it had not stopped raining for three days. Dashiell talked at meals about how the rivers were getting higher, and if that kept up he might have to find a different way home, a route which may take a much longer time. I hoped that would not happen, I looked forward to our dinner conversations. They were actually pretty one-sided, but I liked to hear the resonate sounds of his deep voice, it could captivate me for hours. Luckily we did not live near any water, Dashiell would say.

It was a little strange, Dashiell had completely accepted me into his home and his life. He gave me a bed, gave me food, and asked for little in return. It seemed to me that all he wanted was someone to listen to him, and I am too happy to provide that for him. Some nights he will put a warm, roaring fire in the fireplace and we curl up on the couch, me with my head in his lap, and we would watch videos. I watched anything he wanted, so it was a lot of action and comedy. The videos did not really interest me; I just loved the feeling of being needed.

The conversation at yesterday’s meal had been different though. Dashiell went on and on about the weather again, about how the rain was causing landslides all over the city and roads were being closed. I listened, letting my mind trail off and remember the days of sunshine and laziness of the past summer. Then Dashiell said something that caught me completely off guard, and I gave him my full attention.

“I met somebody, Jasmine.”

I looked at him, not knowing what he could mean by such a statement.

“Her name is Andrea. She is a beautiful woman, I think you would like her. She makes me feel special, reminds me what it is like to be wanted.”

What the hell did he mean by that?! Is that not what I was for?! For the first time since I had come to live with Dashiell, I looked upon him with an angry eye. How dare he talk of someone else in front of me? I hated him at that moment, and I left the room without saying a word, leaving to stew in my anger.

I have not spoken to him since dinner yesterday, and I hoped that when he returned he would have put all that Andrea stuff aside and remembered why I am here.

The opening of the door snapped me out of my flashbacks. I jumped off the couch that faced the south windows downstairs, and ran up to the entryway, excited to see Dashiell again, putting my past thoughts aside.

“Hi Jasmine!” he called with the usual loving voice. I started to respond but stopped when I saw another figure behind him in the doorway. It was not any of Dashiell’s friends that I recognized, but my heart skipped a beat: It was a woman. Not just any woman, but a very beautiful woman. She had long, dark hair and sapphire-blue eyes. She was tall and thin, almost like a runway model. I shrank back; not quite sure why I did so, whether it was fear or something else. Anger maybe?

“This is Andrea, Jasmine. She is the new friend of mine I told you about yesterday.” I did not like the way he said that.

Dashiell turned to Andrea. “Andrea, Jasmine.”

With those introductions Andrea turned to me. “Hi Jasmine!” Her voice was sweet, like honey dripping off of a sugarcube, almost sickeningly sweet. I started back down the stairs, then turned and ran. I ran down to my couch, back to my window. I could still hear them talking.

Dashiell was telling her about how we met, and that sometimes I was a little scared of people I did not know. I was hoping they would talk about me more, that he would tell Andrea she had to leave because I did not want her there, but nothing of the sort happened. Their conversation quickly turned to other subjects.

I could hear them up in the kitchen, preparing dinner. Confusion reigned inside my brain. How could he do this to me? Was it not true we had something special? How could he even think of bringing someone else home? I saw the sappy way Dashiell looked at her. My Dashiell! She must have done something to him, put some sort of spell on him, that was the only explanation. I made up my mind to get rid of her. I did not know how I am going to do this, but I will!

Dashiell called my name for dinner. “Jasmine! Your dinner is ready! Are you coming?”

I sat still.

He waited for a few minutes, then, “Fine, be that way. Do what you want.”

I heard him walk to the dinner table and sit down. Andrea started talking again, drawing Dashiell into conversation with no mention of me. I wanted to cry, but I knew that would solve nothing. Deciding to do something about this, I marched upstairs, as loudly as I could.

I walked into the kitchen, yelling at Dashiell. I asked how he could do this to me, I thought we had something special, all the stuff The Jilted One always throws in the face of The Jilter. I could not stop yelling, and my voice began to get hoarse. Dashiell got up from the table, very slowly. His face was red and it wore something I had never seen in him before: Anger. Dashiell was livid.

“Dammit Jasmine, would you just calm the hell down!? I am trying to have a nice dinner here and all you want to do is yell! You know what? I think you need to go outside and get a hold of yourself!”

With that, he grabbed me, pushed me out the front door, and closed the door behind me. I did not dare try to go back into the house, not after how Dashiell had reacted to me.

The weather had not let up, the rain still pouring down from the heavens. It was dark now, and the wind from the east made it very chilly. I walked over and sat down underneath a huge redwood, an ancient tree over two hundred years old. I cried and cried and cried. I cried for how ungrateful I could be to Dashiell. He had let me stay with him for so long, and I had given nothing back to him. I cried for my selfishness in the way I responded to him tonight. I had not even given him a chance to explain himself, just had broken in yelling and screaming. But mostly I cried for the hurt of his words, the hurt of his anger. I had never seen it before, and I was sure I did not want to see it again.

I do not know how long after that Andrea left, for I was lost in my own thoughts. I snapped out when I heard her car leave. Dashiell came out on the porch and called my name.

“Jasmine! Jasmine! Where are you?! Come back! Jasmine!”

I was too far away in the woods to respond fast enough, and he went back in the house before I could get there. I walked around the house, trying to find him. Finally, in his downstairs room with this computer, I found him writing. I tapped on the glass.

Dashiell looked up, and a smile broke out on his face. “Jasmine!”

I ran to the sliding glass door and he let me inside. I stepped in, not knowing what to do next.

“I was worried about you girl! Look at you, dripping and shivering! Come here, in the bathroom and I will dry you off.”

Dashiell pulled me into the bathroom, rubbing me with a thick towel. After I stopped dripping, he turned the hair dryer on me, until my hair was barely damp. I felt so bad; he still cared for me after all! I had been stupid to do what I did, and now I was going to be lucky to not catch a cold.

I tried to say I was sorry, but it came out as a squeak because my throat hurt so much.

“Don’t talk girl, there is nothing you have to say. Come upstairs, and I will explain a few things to you.”

I followed him up the stairs and watched as he put a few pieces of wood in the fireplace and started a fire. When the fire finally caught and began to warm the room, he motioned for me to come over and sit next to him.

“Jasmine, you know I want you to be happy. I brought you home here that day last summer because I knew I could give you a better life than anything else you could have had. You have really changed, and almost all of the changes have been for the better. You have put on weight and filled out nicely. You are beautiful. I have given you a chance at a new life, and you have responded well.”

Dashiell paused, and I looked at myself just as I had on that day at the rest stop. Indeed it was true. I could no longer see my ribs and I was very clean, no dirt or scraps stuck to my body where I could not reach them. I looked back into his eyes.

“But there is one thing you need to understand. I am a man and I need to find companionship. You are a companion, true, but there is more than that I need for a lifelong relationship. Andrea is a wonderful woman, and I think I love her. I need you to like her too, Jasmine. I need you to at least give her a chance. Will you do that for me? Please, Jasmine?”

I did not know what to say, but I knew he was right. I put my head in his lap.

“Thank you Jasmine, thank you. You have helped me through the last few months, as I have helped you. Now we need to work together.” He put his hand on my head, rubbing my ears. He scratched my back, rubbing my body all over, scritching on my lower back.

That night, in front of that fire, with Dashiell’s hands rubbing my body, with my head in his lap, I began to purr for the first time since I came into his life. For once in my life I was truly happy, and I purred for hours.
 

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So, there you go. Now, dear reader, it's your turn. What did you hate about it? What did you like? Do you want to read more? Please leave comments below (and be helpful).

I do have some of my own thoughts I want to share - about where the story came from and some of my own critiques - but I'll wait a week or so before adding them to the comments below. I don't want to color anyone's own opinion with the author's thoughts, if that makes sense.

And if you like piece, share it with others - I love that.

Bring it on - I can take it!

Introducing.... Fiction!

It's time for me to do something writers will probably consider blasphemy: give some away for free. My plan is to periodically publish on the blog some pieces of original fiction, be that ficitionalized real life accounts of something, scenes that could be from a short story or a novel, or maybe entire short stories themselves.

So why, you may ask, would I give it away for free?

My long-term goal in life is to write fiction, to make a living off of people enjoying my fiction, and not to have to get up before 9am. I have found that given my busy schedule it's problematic to actually set aside some time to write fiction, so my writing is what I consider "raw." Basically, I need practice - my writing isn't refined enough for me to even submit it for publication, at least in my mind.

And that's part of the experiment here too - it won't work without you, dear readers (all three of you). When I publish a piece at the end of it I plan on explaining the thinking that went into the piece and what my future plans could be for it (a scene, short story, whatever). I will then invite critique - you don't get better unless you get that input. I encourage all kinds of input - what was good, what was bad, alternative suggestions - as long as its constructive. If you hate it, fine - just tell me what didn't work. If you love it, well, I want to hear that too - all writers love to have their egos stroked.

I'm going to offer a word of warning here too: there will be swearing. Sometimes a lot, if the story dictates it. Of course, I've done that in spots on this blog before, but one thing I will always remember from my UOregon Creative Writing class was this drop of knowledge from the teacher: "You take a risk when you swear in your writing, because you will immediately lose some readers. And you won't get them back."

That's a good piece of advice. I've tucked that nugget into the back of my mind, knowing full well the style of writing I both predominantly enjoy to read and write have plenty of cursing...and decided I don't fucking care. So, this is your warning. There will be swearing. Not always, not overdone...but it will be there when scenes or characters demand it.

So this is part experiment - will people participate, will they hate it or love it? - and part simple outlet for me. The only way I can get to the point where people will pay me to write is to write. And me, being me, I hate to see stuff go to waste - I don't see myself as one of those writers who writes a story or novel and just lets it sit in a drawer (or, probably more accurately, gather "dust" on my hard drive) - I'm going to share it.

Again, this is something a lot of writers, especially aspiring ones, are going to cringe about because of the what-if factor - what if they get huge and and some publisher wants everything they have ever written, even the stuff as crappy as 2Pac's posthumous albums?

Maybe I'll regret it someday, who knows. What I do know is I'll regret never starting in the first place.

And besides, now that I've put this out on the internet like this, I have no excuse but do it, right?

So join me in my journey, and please, weigh in with comments early and often. I've got a ton of ideas already...now to just find that time...

Writer's Manifesto

I'm adding this just to head off any potential problems. Plus, I always wanted to have a manifesto. I man, who wouldn't?

1 - All writing on this site, unless otherwise noted or quoted, is mine alone. I created it, I own. So don't take it - that's rude. Link to it, or even email me and ask if you can use it for something, but don't just take it. I'll know. I always know.

2 - Any resemblance to real life events in publications of fiction isn't necessarily intentional, so don't take it that way. We are all products of our own experiences, be it from personal or anecdotal experience. My point is, if you know me and you did something, and I write a character that does the same thing or something similar and you think it's you and don't like how it's portrayed, trust me when I say it's circumstantial. So please, don't come to me whining about something I have written - fiction is fiction, and I don't write to judge. Well, usually don't.

I will revise and add to this Manifesto as I see fit, because what is life without rules?

Little Jillian

Wifey and I have a home gym, replete with free weights, treadmill, elliptical machine, and a bench. And very little space to move around in. Still, we like the setup because it means we don't have to go anywhere to work out - the old "I don't want to leave the house" excuse doesn't work when the gym is literally in your house.

Our pets put up with our daily forays into the world of exercise, trying to stay away from the swinging weights and the mom and dad who won't move out of their way (you know, because I've got 100 pounds on my back I'm squatting). Actually, that's not true - they don't care at all, just flopping down in the middle of the only floor space available despite the fact we need to do our crunches.

Still, they pretty much leave us alone to our crazy time. Well, all except little Lilo. It turns out she thorougly enjoys our workouts and apparently was a trainer in a previous life. We've taken to calling her Little Jillian during the workout sessions because she reminds us of The Biggest Loser's Jillian Michaels. How so?

Well, this little ball of fluff - barely six pounds - has a voice capable of shattering glass. And it carries. When she has something to say and she wants you to hear it, you will hear it. You can be sitting in a room downstairs and at one end of the house, she can be upstairs at the other end, she will yowl, and you will jump because is sounds like she yowled in your ear. It's not pleasant.

Time to get your ass in shape!

She brings this voice to the gym and uses it. Constantly. We usually work out in circuits, going back and forth between a couple exercises with the idea being you don't take breaks. If one of us slows down to catch our breath or take a drink, she will literally yell at us. Loudly. It's pretty amazing - like she's taken it upon herself to yell at us like Jillian does on TV, like it's her responsibility for us to get our asses in gear and put in the work.

She also makes us work harder, which is funny. She demands to be held whenever possible, so Wifey and I will do sumo squats or wall sits while holding Little Jillian. If we are on the floor doing crunches, she will sit on our stomachs. If we supposed to be holding a plank position for a minute, she'll walk under us, swishing her tail in our faces. And yes, talking the entire time.

You can lift more than that you candy ass!

I'm not exactly sure who put her in charge, but we've actually taken to this pretty well. Probably part of those furry little ones' plan to take over the world - they already have us under their control. If we pause and she yells, we apologize and get back to work. If you ever have seen the TV show where Jillian yells at the fat people and they bitch and moan about how hard everything is, that's kind of us. We don't bitch as much (then again, we aren't beached mammals training like Kobe Bryant), but the dynamic is similar.

I have no idea why I'm admitting this on the internet, but oh well. I'm here to entertain you.

You know what though? On more than one occasion we have wondered if she ever lived at or near a gym (she was a stray so we don't know her full history). She's not scared of the big weights, she loves the body heat generated by a gym session, and she literally loves being in charge. If I could ask her about that, I would.

You know what.... Here she is now. Lilo! Come here!

Lilo: What?

Me: You know this whole trainer persona you have going on? Where did that come from? Why do you enjoy torturing us so much? Does that come from something in your past, which you never talk about?

Lilo: I don't like to talk about my past. It was violent, scary, and life is better now. Why do you have to ask about that?

Me: You do know I'll get the stories out of you, right? Might be one at a time, but they must be told!

Lilo: Whatever.

Me: Tell me this though - were you ever around a gym before you came here? Is that where Little Jillian came from?

Lilo: I was. It was actually a boxing gym. It wasn't my first home, but I was really hungry being out on my own, and it was raining. Everything in the area was closed up because of the rain, people hiding from the wet. On good days there are usually plenty of doors that are slightly open where I could sneak in and dig around for something to eat, but not this day.

Except for this one door. It was in the back of the building, facing an alley - the door was open to the cold rain, held by a brick. That was plenty of room for me to sneak in and the warmth  coming out of there was enticing. As I snuck through the back area I could hear loud smacks and a lot of grunting punctuating some really fast rock music. Unsure as to what exactly was going on - you wouldn't believe the stuff I've walked in on in the past - I stuck my head around the corner and saw the gym.

The boxing ring was in the middle and two younger men were fighting. They looked tired, like they had been there for awhile, but I couldn't stop watching the game of - you'll love this - cat and mouse they played. Feinting one way, then the other. Blocking, counterpunching, moving light on their feet. I was still hungry though, and through the thick air I picked out a little bit of meat. I followed the smell, keeping to the shadows so no one would notice me. It was also my experience that it's way better to not be noticed for a whole slew of reasons.

I snuck into a side room, a small one you would probably call an office, and found the source of the smell in a brown paper bag in the form of a turkey sandwich. As I sat there munching contededly I didn't hear the person step lightly into the room over the sound of punches and music. Thankfully for me this person - Coach everyone called him - liked cats. He scooped me up, scaring the hell out of me, and started talking to me, pulling out his sandwich and offereing it to me. Apparently I must have looked pretty hungry.

After I ate he brought me out to the gym, showing the boxers what he had found (I let that slide, since technically I found this place - whatever, humans always like to think they're in charge). He set me on a table next to him and proceeded to put the boxers through a rigorous set of ab exercises while I watched. He would push and coerce the guys when they thought they had enough, when they thought they couldn't do anymore. Occasionally he would ask me if I thought Joe or Buck or Ronnie was working hard enough, and I'd offer my thoughts.

Probably to them it just sounded like "Meow!" but I got to where I could pick out the ones who weren't working hard enough.

At the end of the day Coach let me curl up inside a box of handwraps and sleep, probably figuring I needed it. And I probably did.

The next day he brought me more turkey and during the workouts I walked among the boxers, watching them. They were all nice to me - none of those jackasses who like to kick little kitties I saw a lot of on the streets. I would occasionally yell at one of them when I thought they weren't working hard enough, just like Coach, and the boxers were entertained by that.

Well, until Coach figured out what I was doing, and then he'd take the cue when I said something and chastise a boxer for not working hard enough.

I think you can go 5 miles an hour faster

Still, it was good times. I really enjoyed it...

Me: So what happened?

Lilo: What do you mean?

Me: Well, obviously you are here and not there anymore. And I know before we adopted you the hospital was your last stop. It sounds like you had a good thing going, so what happened?

Lilo: I had a few good things going like that, but you're right, something obviously happened otherwise I might still be there. Something always seemed to happen to my good things.

The back door, the one I had snuck in originally, was almost always open. For me it was nice because I could duck out whenever nature called, then come back.

However, one day I was out doing my business when some kids came walking down the alley. They didn't see me because I was in the bushes, but they were acting like your typical punk kids: swearing like sailors, throwing rocks, smoking joints. One of them kicked the brick out of the way, closing the door. Apparently no one in the gym heard it or noticed, at least not very quickly. I would have thought that gym would heat up pretty dang fast without that open door, but I don't know.

Right at that time it started to rain - hard. I had to find myself some cover, so I took off. By the time the rain let up and I came back it was late so the gym was locked up. So I just moved on - I never saw the gym again. I think I was there for about three weeks, but it was one of the most memorable - and positive - stops on my journey.

Me: How sad. I mean, it sounds like you enjoyed that place. Is that why you enjoy it so much at home when we work out? You get to channel your Coach?

Lilo: That's part of it, yeah.

Me: So you know we call you Little Jillian, right? After Jillian Michaels? How do you feel about that?

Lilo: Jillian is awesome, I love it! How many people can get away with yelling at people for weeks at a time and still have them love her? Gordon Ramsay has the yelling down, but no one can stand him.

Jillian yelling on The Biggest Loser

Lilo yelling at the My NW Experience Home Gym

This is something I'm good at, and you in particular are a lazy ass. You need someone to get your ass moving so you can work off that weight.

Me: Um, thanks...I guess. Well, we appreciate it. And now I know why you surprised us with this whole trainer thing.

You probably have some more stories in there, don't you? Shall we do this again?

Lilo: I guess. Just don't ask about the red robes.

Me: Red robes? What the hell are you talking about?

Lilo: See ya!

****

Sorry all, she took off. I'm going to have to ask her about this whole red robes thing at some point...you just shouldn't be allowed to drop nuggets like that into a conversation and then disappear. Catholic cardinals? Some cult? It's just not right.

No water for you! You dissappoint me. Have I taught you nothing?

Hmm....we learned a lot about Lilo today - I bet Jillian would be just as proud to have a mini me as Lilo is to be named after Ms. Michaels. She probably didn't figure it would be a cat, but that's besides the point.

We'll have to do this again - see what other kinds of craziness in this household we can explain.