Overheard at the Cafe Atchafalaya

“Look, I don't want to leave.”

“We've gone over this. There's nothing for you here, Dad.”

“How can you say that! There's a good hundred years of our family here. I love you, Molly, but I swear sometimes you don't have the sense God gave a toad. I know what this is about. That husband of yours put you up to this, didn't he?”

“His name is Martin, Dad... And yes, he's concerned. I'm concerned. Hell, all of us are concerned. Those trailers keep popping up in the news. I mean, look at this article from the Chronicle...”

“You mean to tell me you brought a horror story all the way from Houston to frighten me out of my city? Our city, I should say. You think I don't know how it is? I'm the one living it, not you, not your husband. That trailer may kill me, but at least I'll die where I belong. Something you'd do well to remember, Miss Lives-in-Houston-Now.”

“Daddy, Martin and I are only... And despite your wishes, that's Misses.” She exhaled. “Don't talk about dying, please. We've been through enough.”

“Oh, mon petite fluer, dying is the last thing I'll do.”

“We're about as Creole as Howard Stern, Dad. Lay off the patois.”

“All of a sudden, my daughter is an expert on our family tree? Even if we're not Creole by blood, it seeps into you. Probably through the food... Though I suppose it might skip generations here and there.”

“This? Again?”

“I have no idea what you're implying, Molly.”

“Just because he's... you know what? I'm not even going to give you the satisfaction. Thanks for brunch, Dad. I'll call from the hotel to let you know I got back safe.”

“Molly, please. Please. Stay. Just stay. Indulge an old man.”

“Dammit, Daddy...”

“I know, I know. I'm being less than pleasant company right now. I'm sorry... It's just... Well, I've been thinking more and more about your mother. It's been four years, today.”

“Oh... God. You're using Mom as an excuse for your behavior? Ugh. I don't know why I bother sometimes. She at least liked him.”

“This isn't about him, as much as you'd like it to be. And I think you know that. I know you two have rebuilt your life, put down roots. I just wish you'd respect the ones I have here.”

“What roots, Dad? A plot of land with a concrete slab on it? A bar covered in mold that needs to be torn down?”

“That plot of land has been our family's legacy. The same with that bar. That bar paid for your way through Tulane, as much as you hate it. That bar is where I met your mother. Your brother would have understood.”

“Malcolm? If you hadn't noticed, he left, too, And all that bar meant to me is that I didn't see my Daddy. You were always there, never home.”

“When did you get so cold? Yes, I worked a lot. I had to, I had the two of you to think about, and your mother. I didn't want to be away, but someone had to make the money. Your mother did her best. And yes, Malcolm left to join the Army, but he'll be back once his tour is done, I'm sure. He, at least, has this city in his blood.”

“What does that even mean? That's just something people say when they want to justify staying in this hell hole. I just wish you'd face the truth, Dad. New Orleans has seen it's day.”

“Says the 30 year old elementary school teacher. When did you become an urban planner? Or is this more clap trap from that husband of yours? Or was it a particularly prophetic finger painting from one of your students that showed the death of the Crescent City?”

“You son of a... God! You never respected anything I've done!”

“When you stop sounding like a petulant teenager, I just might.”

“Says the stubborn three year old. Malcolm's not going to come back to this city. He might have come back before the storm. There aren't any jobs, nothing's here. What kind of future is that?”

“He's got to come back, sugar. He's got to take over for me. That's why I'm rebuilding. That's his future. The jobs will come. As long as the music is here, we'll be here... Look, I didn't want to go into this with you, but I'm not going to be around for much longer.”

“What? You're only 55!”

“56, but that's splitting hairs.”

“Who gives a shit about exact figures? What the hell, Daddy?”

“It was the cigarettes, sugar. They're a killer. I quit too late, apparently. They say I've got about six months, maybe a year. That's why I've got to get the bar fixed. I'm working on borrowed time.”

“No, Daddy, you've got to sell that thing. Come move in with us...”

“I am not going to be babysat in my final months by my daughter and her white husband in some foreign desert wasteland! It's bad enough that you hate the city; I'll be damned if I'm an object of pity. I'll die on my own terms, in my own town, and be buried next to your mother.”

“Fuck you, Dad. Die in your bar. If you get in trouble, don't bother calling.”

“Sugar, that'll be the last thing I do”

New Assignment

So, I have to write a three to five page story that's all dialogue.

I'm thinking it'll be a chat log.

“The Sacrifice”

His feet thudded along the track, propelling his prodigious bulk forward. Sweat soaked every square millimeter of his skin, which was wicked into the cold evening air by the cheap cotton sweats Bill wore. At seven o'clock, it was well past sunset, but the track was illuminated by the arctic glare of the football lights, which created a false daylight betrayed by the multitude of odd, overlapping shadows. His head was down, his eyes were filled by the salt streams from his forehead and drenched scalp, but one foot landed in front of the other in a faltering approximation of rhythm. Other runners, clad in sleek spandex, passed him by. Their eyes flitted to Bill, and quickly looked away. Some smiled, others seemed stoney faced, but none stopped to speak to him as he plodded his four laps around the track. His joints clicked, groaned and creaked, but did their duty.

The fourth lap took Bill back to the bleachers where his gym bag awaited. He paced a bit more to cool down, tried stretching his muscles and took a few swigs of water. Unbidden, the gorge rose in his throat, and he was running again, this time, behind the bleachers. Harsh, organic sounds mingled with a quick splashing noise, and then all was quiet. Bill emerged from the darkness, pale and shaken, remarking quietly: “fuck me.”

* * *

“The terms we use are 'prediabetic' and 'hypertensive,' sir,” the doctor intoned as she read from the screen. “Your blood-work and EKG are encouraging, but you need...”

“Diet and exercise?” interrupted Bill, his chin down, his eyes at his feet.

The doctor tore her eyes from the screen, and regarded her patient. She spoke again, softer and warmer. “Yes. I'm glad you came in when you did. You have a chance to turn this around.” She stood, her white coat pressed, but her hair tousled, and hurriedly pulled back. She looked him in the eye and said “You can do this,” as she patted his shoulder. More words were exchanged, about programs and prescriptions, and pamphlets were given, but when Bill got to his car, it was at his shoulder he looked.

* * *

The ladies at the office couldn't stop talking. Ever. About anything. They never spoke to Bill; they spoke at him and perhaps even through him. Bill was a department of one in an office of fifty, his own little closet crammed with the tools of his trade: humming servers and spare parts galore. They did not often converse face to face with Bill, so it was four months until the chatter turned to him on occasion. They noted his trips to Little Saigon had stopped, and Marcy said “I think he's bringing in salads, and he skipped this month's birthday cake. When do guys in IT eat healthy?” The others quietly laughed. A month later, Wendy noted the new clothes Bill purchased. “It's not just the old polos and khakis. I think he's slimmed down.” It was Yvonne that had the killer two weeks later. “I saw Bill at the track last night. I was dropping the kids off at practice, and I swear he was there there running. He even had the whole runner's get up, you know, head to toe Underarmor crap.” This news set the hen-house in a tizzy, and a vital investigation was launched while Bill walked for lunch. The ladies stole into his office, and there was no sign of sweets or salts there at all. It was all just gym stuff and carrot sticks.

* * *

“Six months in, and you've shown quite an improvement! Down 35 pounds, it looks like, and your blood pressure looks great. Well done!” remarked Sarah Carmichael, MD. He had not remembered her name, of all those small details, but there it was, sewn onto her pocket. “Not many of our patients have such an improvement. You've done a remarkable job.”

“Thank you, Dr. Carmichael,” Bill blurted. He flushed a bit. She still held the calipers they used to test his body fat percentage as he put on his shirt. He did not rush to do so, like he was six months ago. “It's been tough, but I had a goal.”

“Goals really help. It's good to keep motivated,” she said to her clipboard as the pen glided over it, checking off boxes with a will of it's own.

“Well, see... The goal sort of involved you.” She looked up, confused. Bill muscled on. “I was wondering if you wanted to get some coffee after work? If you don't find that awkward? Doctor, patient and all.”

“Oh, Mr. Zywiec, oh...” The flush spread to her face, and she covered her mouth with her hand, in that little girl gesture. “Oh, no. I'm sorry. My fiance might object.”

“Oh, god. I'm sorry. I didn't see a ring.” Bill was redder than Mars, redder than Betelgeuse. “Otherwise...”
Dr. Carmichael looked stricken. “Yeah, I... I don't often wear it. You know, inspecting patients and all... Speaking of which, I have my next appointment. But, keep up the good work!” She then fled the room.

* * *

He sat in his car, shaking and trembling. His face was a jumble, running from furrowed to downcast and back again. It then set in a mask of resolve. To himself, Bill said “Fuck it,” and pulled away from the clinic. He drove like a shot to the drive thru lane.

Genius in three photographs. Click through for more of the same.

"Because I Could Not Stop..."

I was assigned a to write a short story for class. It had to be a horror story, and it had to contain an element from Dracula. I chose the blue flames from the initial ride into Dracula's castle.

I hope you like it, and that it makes sense.
******

I never wanted it to end like this. What were we doing out here? I should have known this was a bad idea from the get go. “Let's go camping,” Jen said, “state parks are boring. Let's camp in the Pine Barrens.” Well, she's not saying much now, is she?

It all started so simply. Jen, Liz, Kris and I were all itching for a chance to get out of the city. The economy tanking hit us all quite hard, and we needed a break. Jen's bank was downsizing, and she was holding on by the skin of her teeth to her job, and her luxury Manhattan apartment. Kris had just finished his divorce, and had started dating Liz. They both worked at City Hall in the same department. She was about ten years younger than he, but they balanced it pretty well. It helped that they were both health nuts. As for me, freelance reporting paid like shit during a good economy, and now it was downright abysmal. They all had a week's vacation to use or lose, and as for me, I saw a nice fat travel article I dig out of this. Plus, I was the only one of us that had a car.

None of us really knew much about the Barrens before we went, unless you count that X-Files episode Jen and I watched a while back. That should have been warning enough for us: “never camp where an episode of the X-Files was filmed.” We'd all heard the stories of the Jersey Devil, of course, but what kind of person believes in ghost stories? Jen was beside herself; she got to organize everything. Liz was looking forward to the canoeing and putting her camera through its paces. Kris was mostly along for the ride. He was a city boy, born and bred. I think he considered visiting me in the Bronx roughing it. Liz had him snared but good if she got him to agree to camp for a week.

We all met up down near Jen's place to start the trip. Initially, the only horror we faced was downtown traffic. Gradually, we broke free and entered the tumble of concrete and rust that constituted New Jersey. Over time, the industry began to fade, and smaller and smaller towns graced the roadsides. Eventually, the towns faded, and the green began to surround us. We made it to the canoe rental place, and we had the locals show us on the map where we could camp. It was by mutual agreement that we took the deepest site to which we could drive. Man, it was eerie. All that peace and quiet that really isn't peace and quiet. The swamp teemed with life, and birds and insects sounded out in the spring air. We were all in awe at the size of the place. We seemed to be driving forever to get to our little patch of tamed wilderness.

The next few days went according to plan. We canoed during the day, the spring’s heat held at bay by the tall pines. All we could see were the trees and the waterway that we paddled through. Occasionally, we spotted some of the local wildlife, and we’d go to town with our cameras. We relaxed, ate picnic lunches, and killed more than a few beers at night when we got back to camp. It was so peaceful, and just what we needed. I wonder if they were watching us, even then. We didn’t even notice anything until the fourth night. Jen was midway through a story when she stopped short. “I didn’t think there were any other campers out here.”

I turned to where she was staring. “It’s not a campfire. Campfires aren’t blue,” I said.

“Well, thank god you’re here, Bill. That’s some crack investigative journalism right there,” quipped Liz, “still, it’s too blue to be a flashlight.”

“Maybe it’s one of those new LED lights,” interjected Kris, “or it could be swamp gas.”

“Then it’s aliens,” Jen said with a smile, “whenever a government employee talks about ‘swamp gas’, it’s actually aliens.” Kris grinned with one hand on his beer can, and the other waving a lazy finger in response. “I’m a permit guy; the professional liars are a few doors down, thank you very much. Still, we haven’t gone that way yet, we can check it out tomorrow.” We all agreed that would be a good idea, and would be fun. We all returned to our conversation, but we kept glancing over there to see if we could spot it again. No such luck, if that’s what you’d call it.

The next day, we all got in the canoes and headed north. The currents were in our favor, and we made excellent time. We docked on a small island for lunch, with Liz tying the canoes down, and ate lunch. The four days of paddling must have worn us out much more than we knew. We all passed out for an unexpected nap. When we awoke in the late afternoon, we found the canoes moving in the current, freed somehow from their moorings. Most of our gear floated serenely by us as we chased after it. Liz was our only real swimmer, and she dove in to get them, but they were too far away. All it got her for her pains was to be muddy and wet.

“Now what do we do?” yelled Kris, “we’re screwed. We’re in the middle of nowhere, it’s nearly dark, and we’ve got no gear, no cell reception, and no way of getting back to camp!” Jen took over. “Look, this sucks, but we’re going to have to walk back. We’ll laugh about this later.” Kris looked like he was going to respond, but Liz put a hand on his shoulder, and it calmed him a bit. I asked Liz if she still had the compass, and she nodded. “Let’s start heading south, then,” I said. Jen looked at me and mouthed the words “Great knots, Liz”, and I rolled my eyes. Knowing what I know now, I don’t think it was her fault.

What remaining daylight we had was a hell-march of mud, swamp water and bumps and bruises. We all hated each other at that point. As night fell, we found a grassy spit of land to collapse on. Sleep came quickly, whether from exhaustion or something else, I’ll never know. We all awoke with a start. Some strange sound had awoken us. It was neither man nor beast, but something other. The blue light, now visible as a flame, was what drew our eye south. It was a beacon pointing directly where we needed to go, though at times it seemed to move. I turned to Liz and Kris, and asked if they saw it, too. I looked for Jen. Jen was gone. I pushed the tall grass aside where she lay, and there was nothing. No sign of a struggle, no evidence to suggest that she was ever there, except for the depression in the grass. It’s as if the swamp had swallowed her. The three of us remaining felt the panic rise. We called her name, but there was no answer save a mocking echo of our voices. Kris lost it. He insisted we head out now, that we get back to camp as soon as possible, and that Jen was probably there waiting for us. We all knew that was a lie, but the need to do something, anything to leave this place was upon us. Despite the dark of the new moon, we took out our otherwise useless cell phones to light our way. We didn’t need them anyway. We knew where we were headed; the blue flame lit the way. We plodded slowly at first. But the sense of unease grew, and we all became aware of something watching us from the dark. We began to lope and crash through the wilderness. Kris got ahead of both Liz and I. We could see the dim light of his cell rounding a tree, and could hear him calling Jen’s name.

And then the calling stopped. Liz and I rounded the tree, and he was gone. The pool that claimed him was crowned with a cold blue flame. It seemed to have no source, and no heat came from it. As we stared, mesmerized by the flame, we became aware of a ripple in the bog that was moving toward us. Liz and I needed no words; we ran. We dashed headlong into the Barrens, not caring where we were going, just know it was far away from whatever it was that had claimed Kris.

Ahead of me, Liz stumbled. I thought it was a tree root, but in a moment of clarity, I saw a hand had reached from the swamp to grab her, and the wrist was adorned with a bracelet I bought for Jen last Christmas. Liz was being dragged into the dark waters of the swamp, and god help me, I didn’t stop. Why didn’t I stop?

I haven’t stopped running. The car and camp were destroyed when I go there. The days are safe, and I run then. At night, the things that used to be my friends hunt me, whether for sport or food I’ll never know. I don’t know if I’ll last the night.

I love you and yet love you not.
Clasped to me you are my anchor,
With distance found, soon forgot,
Sweet nothings now turned to rancor.
I cannot say what makes me so,
A broken heart turned monster,
Fickle fancies soon to go
The way of the impostor.

Love's fertile fields too soon turned fallow
The unloved self's ardor is cruelly hollow.

Not mine

One night to be confused
One night to speed up truth
We had a promise made
Four hands and then away
Both under influence
We had divine sense
To know what to say
Mind is a razorblade

To call for hands of above to lean on
Wouldn't be good enough for me, no

One night of magic rush
The start - a simple touch
One night to push and scream
And then relief
Ten days of perfect tunes
The colors red and blue
We had a promise made
We were in love

To call for hands of above to lean on
Wouldn't be good enough for me, no
To call for hands of above to lean on
Wouldn't be good enough for me, oh

And you, you knew the hand of a devil
And you kept us awake with wolves teeth
Sharing different heartbeats in one night

To call for hands of above to lean on
Wouldn't be good enough for me, no
To call for hands of above to lean on
Wouldn't be good enough for me, oh