Wednesday, January 30, 2008

A Stone’s Throw Away

This is one of the first stories I ever wrote. It was interesting to go back through the stuff I have written and pick a story to use as my first piece. I kind of feel like Dr. John Dorian when he asked Dr. Perry Cox concerning his screenplay for 'Dr. Acula': "What did you think of the Transylvania dream sequence because I wrote that part when I was on call and I looked at it the next morning and I was like 'What was I thinking?!'" Honestly, I don't know what I'm thinking when I come up with my story ideas. I think I take conventions and then think 'How can I flip this on it's head?' In fact, I'm fairly certain that is how I live my life in general. You know what? This blog has already helped me get in touch with the inner me! So whether anybody else reads this, I could care less! I have peace of mind! Anyway, without further ado, my first story post...

-Wes

A Stone’s Throw Away

The warm breeze that gently blows through the air rustles the weeds and shrubs as well as the flag positioned on a post along the fence in the dry desert heat. Layers of red and white which once were rigid lines now find themselves quivering unevenly as they flail helplessly about. The suns rays are beating down on the earth like a brawler’s defiant gaze, daring anybody who is willing or stupid enough to stare back. The hot beams emanating from the sky pierce everybody and everything around me, and I am no different. Every so often, the sun’s blinding light gleams off of the barbed wire that runs atop the fence which extends for miles across this place, sending split second flares into the sky. Every so often, the scorpions will prepare for battle on the cracked ground. They circle each other like two prize fighters sizing their opponent up, determining the best method of attack. Their stingers are raised in the air like a poisonous harpoon patiently awaiting a fierce blow to its foe. A gopher will poke his head out of his hole periodically, observing the wasteland that surrounds him before he retreats back into his hole. I cannot tell you how long I have been here, but I can tell you I have witnessed many more things than these in my time here.

I have seen men, men who were just looking for opportunity, often times with only the clothes on their back, try to get over this fence. Some of them made it over, quietly slipping over the hills and out of sight as quickly as they appeared. Others, however, were not so fortunate. I have seen horrific acts, acts I shudder to think of now, transgressed upon those unfortunate souls who were discovered attempting to enter “the land of the free.” On this particular day, I watch as a family approaches the fence, the parents looking around nervously like a child sneaking into the kitchen to steal cookies from the cookie jar. There are five of them in total; a father, a mother, an uncle or some sort of relative, and two children. The father is constantly checking to make sure everybody is together and seems extremely alert. The mother is compulsively attempting to keep her children with her, her eyes daring around continually seeking them out. The uncle, a skinny man with a wispy mustache, seems the calmest out of all the adults. He has an air of indifference about him, although he is visibly wary, as if he is still conscious of what the consequences would be if they were caught.

The children, small, dark, and playful, are engaged in a game of tag which their mother is frantically attempting to stifle; nervous their youthful laughs will draw unwanted attention. They slowly approach the fence, the father reluctantly advancing toward it, searching for any sign of trouble. He looks through the fence, his eyes a combination of fear and hopefulness. When he sees that the coast is clear, he motions for his family to join him as he quickly removes his coat. He throws it over the barbed wire that lines the top of the fence and signals to the uncle to climb over. After he is safely on the other side, the mother goes next. As she gets over the fence, a siren becomes barely audible from somewhere in the distance. Screaming, the mother tries to climb back over but is pulled down by the uncle. The father hurriedly helps the children over the fence as the sound of the siren grows louder. They begin to cry as they are grabbed by the mother and uncle and take off toward the hills. The father throws himself over the fence and by the time he reaches the other side, the rest of his family is disappearing over a group of hills into the great state of California. A U.S border patrol car comes into view as the father watches his family slip out of sight. Over the hill, the wife tries to break back for her husband but is detained by the uncle as they keep moving. I turn my attention back to the husband as he takes off in the opposite direction of his family as the truck approaches him, running with all his might. He is quickly overtaken by the border patrol as is tackled to the ground. As they place the handcuffs on him, he seems nervous yet relieved that his family made it safely.

Another family torn apart by this fence; a fence that tantalizes thousands with its promise of opportunity only feet away. As the border patrol car drives by, I meet the fathers gaze as he is hauled away. He doesn’t notice me of course, for I am merely a rock. A rock on the border, which is seemingly never dull. A scorpion skitters past me, it’s tail raised high in the air.

Guinevere

One of the things thats always intrigued me about writing is that no matter how hard I try a piece of me always ends up in the story. I can write a story about an ice cream truck driver who kills children and then turns them into ice cream, and somehow a part of my own personality will be clear in that character. It's something that I have been trying to prevent for years. With this story I gave up. I allowed my own personality to shape the character, though there are some clear differences, and it was truly a joy to write and to see where it took Arthur. I hope you will enjoy it as well.
-dale

Guinevere

Arthur liked everything about the 125 bus. He liked the hard plastic seats. He liked the cool metal bars. He liked the accordion section in the middle. He especially liked the incredibly confusing timetable that seemed to have no bearing on what time the bus would arrive. He liked the little pieces of graffiti that were drawn on the back right window by an artist calling himself “beanstalk”. Most of all, he liked the girl that always got on the bus two stops after him. More than liked in fact. He did not know her name so he referred to her as Guinevere.

While she was not by any means unattractive, Guinevere was not the prettiest girl Arthur had ever seen. He couldn’t really explain it, but he was completely enamored with her. He didn’t think it was her shiny black hair, or her fair skin. He was pretty sure it wasn’t her light brown eyes or innocently white smile. Though she had a very trim and attractive figure he was relatively positive it wasn’t that either. He could not quite pin down for sure why, but he knew that he loved this girl.

He got on the bus and took the first seat available on the right side. Guinevere generally sat on the left side and Arthur liked to look at her.

At night sometimes he would talk about her to Shelly, his tortoise. He would talk about the short conversations she had with the bus driver or on her cell phone. He would describe the things she wore, and her facial expressions. He would plan out things to say and try to predict her responses. “Conversations are like chess,” he would tell Shelly. “I just need to be three moves ahead, I need to be ready for anything she says.” For her part, Shelly just chewed her lettuce.

He would very often dream about her. These dreams would almost always take place on the bus and they followed a pretty standard formula. Something would go wrong – a passenger would choke and need the Heimlich, for instance – Arthur would save the day and Guinevere would jump lovingly into his arms. Much lovemaking would ensue. Arthur very much enjoyed these dreams.

At the next stop a gaggle of teenage girls got on the bus filling it at once with inane giggling. This woke Arthur out of a very pleasant daydream. He took this opportunity to check his reflection and make sure his curls were falling naturally, especially the curl he called Mr. Cannoli – after the Sicilian delicacy even though it didn’t resemble one at all – that had developed the unfortunate habit of hanging down over the middle of his forehead. He liked his hair, and thought it unfortunate that he would probably go bald when he hit thirty like all the other men in his family.

Guinevere’s stop was only a few minutes away and Arthur was growing increasingly nervous. “What if we arrive early and she isn’t there?” he thought. He looked at his wristwatch, atomic of course, and breathed a sigh of relief upon noticing that they were actually running slightly late. With the bus slowing to a stop, Arthur noticed that there were no open seats.

As Guinevere climbed the staircase the clouds parted and sunlight poured in through the windshield giving her an angelic glow. She said hello to the bus driver, handed him the money and wished him a good day. After taking a few steps she realized that there were no seats and stopped directly in front of Arthur. She grabbed hold of the cold metal rail as the bus began to move again.

“Give her your seat.” Arthur’s brain implored him. “Stand up, get her attention and offer her your seat.” His brain continued. But, Arthur was all nerves, and all his nerves said no.

It was not a particularly long ride and Arthur knew this was a great opportunity, so he tried to gather all his mettle.

He tried thinking about all the brave things he had ever done. He thought about the time in third grade when told Debbie Pinsky that she had very pretty hair. He thought about the time in high-school when he confronted his friend Jimmy Connors about cheating on his trigonometry test. He thought about the time at his first job when he demanded a raise. Unfortunately, he then thought about Debbie Pinsky laughing at him, Jimmy Connors beating him up and the fact that he was on his way home from a different job.

The bus had gone three stops already and there was very little time remaining.

"What could possibly go wrong?" his brain pleaded with him. "What's the worst thing that could possibly happen?" This line of questioning was a mistake because at that moment Arthur began to imagine things that could go wrong and eventually reached the worst of them. He was now terrified of even the possibility of standing up.

"If you don't do this, you'll regret it for the rest of your life," his brain screamed at him. "You'll never forgive yourself." He knew this was true, but was still unable to gather the courage to approach her.

The bus stopped and Guinevere looked down at him. She was positively radiant. She said something to Arthur, but he couldn’t make out the words. "Isn't this your stop?" she repeated to Arthur. He looked outside and was shocked to realize he had almost missed his stop. As he stumbled out of his seat and towards the door up he tried to thank her, but the words stuck to the roof of his mouth like peanut butter, all he managed to do was cough a little bit.

He scurried off the bus and ran towards his apartment building. She knew his stop! He couldn't wait to tell Shelly.

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

A Word About Me

I can tell you that my head is a strange place to be. Countless thoughts of just about the most random things you can imagine come and go relentlessly. Some of these ideas are grand, some are trivial, most are fairly odd. When an idea excites me, I try to craft it into some sort of story. Sometimes this is successful, sometimes it isn't.

I have no real indication of whether or not the stories I post here will be successful in your eyes. David Mitchell, who I would consider my foremost idol in terms of authors said in an interview "Writing is a strange business transaction, which occurs largely between the imaginations of complete strangers who will stay complete strangers, but I enjoyed writing the book a lot and if it brought any of your readers a bit of pleasure then, well, great." That is exactly how I feel. I enjoy writing what I write, and I don't know who is going to end up reading my writing, but I sincerely hope that if you do somehow end up encountering some of my work, you enjoy what you read. Feel free to leave comments as well, after all, this is a blog and I'm a big boy. Seriously though, any input would be much appreciated. Thank you and enjoy.
-Wes

Monday, January 28, 2008

Welcome

So I guess I should start this by welcoming you to the blog.

Welcome to the blog.

There. You've been welcomed. Come in. Take off your coat, sit down, make yourself at home. Great. Are you comfortable? Great. Now, lets talk for a minute or two.

What is the point of this blog?
Good question. We have stories and we want to tell them. We know that there's a pretty good chance no one will ever find this blog or take the time to read its contents, but that's cool. We're not writing stories for other people. The point isn't to bring random people we have never met some sense of satisfaction. The point isn't even to be discovered and end up on Oprah, though admittedly that would be pretty cool. The point, put simply, is to write. If our writing somehow brings you pleasure than we'll consider that a nice bonus.

Feel free to enjoy our work to your heart's content.

pea's
-dale