Story Theft and Other Nasty Business
Monday April 20, 2009
I’m sick today. I’ve been sick for a while, and in a bad mood longer. I’m not sure exactly what’s got me in a funk; I assume it’s a collection of things. I want to take a break, a little vacation from my life where I can do a whole bunch of nothing for a while.
My buddy Kieran wrote a story the other day that didn’t suck. He was asking for some feedback on it, so I gave him some, and then decided to steal it and make it my very own. You can find his version here.
The fog rolls in from the east, a wall of grey that slowly envelops the town from the ravine bridge to Gull Lake. It’s a thick, wet thing, filling the lungs like pool water. It seeps into the houses, pushing through cracks in the windows and under the doors, clawing at whatever space it can find.
With the fog, comes the rain, a slow drizzle that speckles the cement sidewalks with freckles. Slowly, the pavement transforms from white grey to charcoal, one drop at a time. For a while, the old man stares at the street, apparently enthralled. He cannot, for the life of him, remember where he was going. This doesn’t bother him near as much as you might think. As a youth, he would often say “I would hate to be one of those geezers, always forgetting where they’re going,” but now that it’s on him, he thinks it something of and adventure. He may be going out for the mail, or to the grocery, or to fly a biplane like he did so many years ago. No flying in this weather, though.
Somewhere down the street, a soft rhythmic sound. A ball is hitting wet pavement, thump. thump. thump. Always the same speed, always the same sound. Like a slow heartbeat, the old man thinks. It’s a reliable sound. He walks towards it, old joints creaking in familiar places. His back is not what it once was (not that anything is what it once was), and it cracks and pops while he moves. There are no cars on the street. No one will be wanting to drive now, he thinks. And a good thing, too. He always preferred to walk when he could, and even as an old codger he preferred his own legs to the premature interrment of a motor vehicle.
At the end of the block, a park materializes out of the haze. A few trees, a bench, a winding walkway designed for aesthetic. A small figure sits on the bench, legs waving lazilly over the ground. She’s slumped in on herself, intensely studying her own knees. Her dress has big lady-bug polka-dots that match the ribbons in her hair.
“Shouldn’t be out in this miasma,” the old man says. “You’ll catch cold.”
“So will you,” says the little girl.
“Suppose you’re right, at that,” the old man says and he sits on the bench a respectful distance from the little lady. “What’s got your head down?”
“I’m not as pretty as the other girls,” she says. This close, he can see her eyes are big and puffy, red from crying. “They all say so.”
“Well that’s just not true,” he says. “You’re cute as a button. I’m sure your parents tell you so.”
“I don’t have any parents.”
“Oh?” He says, leaning back a touch. He’s never sure what to say to orphans. His own parents lived until he was well into his fifties.
“They left me three years ago,” she says. “They all did, except the ones who left before that.”
“Who takes care of you, then? Surely you’ve got some family.”
“I just told you,” she says, scolding. “They all left. They always said I should be prettier, that I could never be good enough. So they left me all alone.”
They sit in silence a time, her studying her knees and him the pavement. The fog seperates them from the world; no sounds from the town around them save the soft wet thumping of a ball down the street, no birds or cars or sirens. They sit in their own little bubble of discomfort.
“Do you know what happens when you die?” the little girl asks. She doesn’t shift or fidget when she asks it.
He looks at her quizically for a moment. The question fills him with a strange sense of discomfort, as though he should know the answer, but can’t pull it forth. Like trying to remember why he had left the house, it’s on the tip of his tongue, but refuses to dislodge itself. “I’ve no idea,” he says. “Why do you ask?”
“I know what happens,” she says with the finality of children. “When you die, it’s like you’re staring at a door. And you stare for hours and hours and forever and ever. And sometimes, it’s like you can see where the door goes, but when you try to figure out it, it’s just a big pink door. And you want to open it, but you can’t remember how. All you want in the whole world is for the door to open and for you to be let in, to get out of the cold and away from the rain. But it never opens.”
Somewhere down the street, a ball thuds against driveway pavement, slowly picking up speed. thud. thud. thud-thud. thud-thud. thud-thud-thud. The blood slowly drains from the old man’s face, and his hands are shaking. He can’t make them stop. He tries to remember what he’d come out for, where he lives, who he is, anything. This isn’t the adventure that he’d been hoping for. “How - Why - Why do you think that’s what happens?”
“I’m dead,” the little girl says, staring at her knees. “And so are you.”
So that’s my take on it. Let me know what you think. Let Kieran know what you think. Write your own stories and send me links.
