Girl Friday

Audio: https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6yr4OoJNO21bDJxdmlueGt3UlU/view?usp=sharing

I don't want to die.

It's not because my life is so sweet that it should continue. I'm not nearly that conceited. I've not got some grand goal I have to accomplish either, nothing big outside some simple revenge. It's not even the fact I've got somebody to live for, though she certainly does exist -- short, surly, keeping me from stepping too far outta line. No, I don't want to die like this for one simple fact that I certainly can't escape:

It'd be too fuckin' embarrassing.

I'm tied to a chair, which isn't anything new. The Tomte with a crowbar, however, certainly is. She's four feet of fury, yellow eyes narrowed, small teeth clenched, an inconsequential little thing until you're brought down to her level. Then she's hell on heels. She's currently working on a problem, and its name happens to be Johnny Sinclaire.

It's a problem I'd rather remain unfixed.

"Where's the money, Sinclaire?" she asks. Me, I could tell her the truth. Where it's set, stored, make life a little easier for myself.

'Course, where would the fun be in that?

"Why's a pretty 'lil dame like you worryin' 'bout money?" That's at least worth a rap on the knuckles -- she gives me two. I jerk forward, teeth clenched and feet stampin', ready to come up out of the chair and give the bitch a taste of her own medicine. Sadly the ropes hold and so do I, easing back down.

"Where's. The. Money?"

"Where's yer husband? I'll be happy to tell the man of the house." I probably deserve the crowbar to the teeth. She knocks my smile crooked and certainly makes it a sight redder. My fingers flex against the wood of the chair, a solid sort of cypress. There's no way in hell I'll be tearing through the wood, especially with an abused set of digits.

"What are you? Retarded? Dumb? Or do you just like pain? If so, I can give you a lot more where that came from." One thing I gotta respect about this broad is that she does exactly what she says. The Tomte winds back like a batter, steel slung over her shoulder. It's an admirable sort of stance, worthy of the Babe himself. What ain't so admirable is when the crowbar comes down, taking me right in the breadbasket. She shatters something deep inside, bringing black blood bubbling up on my lips and running down my white shirt.

I really liked that shirt.

"Yer gonna talk, human, one way or another. Why not save yerself the pain and me the effort?"

"What if I said I'm a conversationalist?"

"What if I said you were insane?"

"You probably wouldn't be too far off the mark." I flash a grin, my eyes glancing up to the shifting shadows. "Listen, you want somethin' and so do I. I spill the beans 'n what use do you got for me? At best, I get left here to rot away. At worst, you finish the job you already started. What's the fuckin' benefit for me? You gotta incentivize this shit." That seems to get her gears grinding, a frown lining her thin little face. Me, I've got no problem waiting. Every second passed brings the end a little closer.

At least, that's what I tell myself.

"What if you've got my guarantee? You tell me and I let you go, no harm, no foul. You leave me alone and I do the same to you, you of course forgetting about this 'lil money situation. That way we're not looking behind our backs, waiting for someone to jump us." She's lying, of course. It's all in her expression, an earnest face, but dishonest eyes. She'll get what she wants and then I'm fucked. No, I've got another plan.

"That's actually a problem for me." Her eyes slit.

"And what part of that's exactly a problem?" she asks in dangerous tones, lifting that crowbar up from her side. I ease up a finger, pointing at her. Or rather, behind her.

"I might have somebody here t'jump you." The Tomte freezes. Turns.

Me, I've got a reason for living. She's short, surly, and keeps me from stepping too far outta line. If I do manage to go too far, then she pulls me right back in. I say too much, she shuts me up. Ethel's a good gal.

She's also throws a mean sucker punch.

The story was decent, but I wasn't so pleased with the audio. I recognize in certain points I could have emphasized more, or brought more panache to it. We'll just chalk this down as a learning experience. Else I'm going to do twenty more takes on this damned thing, and slowly slip into madness.

Ia, ia, Cthulhu fhtagn!

Sorry

Audio Version:
https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6yr4OoJNO21ZDFVeDB3MHVwcjQ/view?usp=sharing

I put in my deposit.

I guess you never thought I would.

I suppose it's because I threatened to for months without much else. I'd leave, I said, if you didn't get your act together. I'd put in my deposit if you didn't change. Then I'd hang around, hopeful, waiting for my words to spur your actions. And really, I knew it could work! I was so proud of you when you stopped smoking. Two hundred dollars a month was a hit to our finances, two packs a day was a hit to your health, and you ultimately overcame it for me. It touched me, moved me, made me feel like you loved me.

Of course, you never really did quit.

You lied. You lied about the smoking, just like you did about everything else. Finances, actions, motivations, they all were lies, long kept, but always exposed. The smell of Febreeze was overwhelming when I entered your room. The loan notices were found easily enough in the mail. The repossession of the cars was obvious to everyone with eyes. You lied, and you lied, and when you couldn't lie anymore, you got angry.

God, you were always angry. Screaming, yelling, insulting, telling me things no mother should tell her son. I was a bitch, a bastard, a monster, the son of my father that I always feared. I was your regret, your sorrow, a chain around your neck, the reason you couldn't socialize despite my pleading, the source of your misery despite my attempts to help.

I got tired, so very tired. Tired of fighting, and arguing, and screaming. Tired of crying, and hoping, and begging. When I tried to leave, you said nobody would take me. When I attempted to go, you said I would never be able to make it on my own. Who could love me, who could understand me, who would tolerate me? You called me immature and awful, angry and cruel, without ever realizing the irony that if I was all of those things, it was because of you.

You landed a million little hurts that drove me away.

I wanted to save you. From your demons, your past, the specter of my father, and the memories of your mother. I wanted to save you from years of hurt and decades of pain, and their ever-expanding march into the future. I wanted to save you from the worst enemy you had: yourself.

Ultimately, I chose to save myself. I put in my deposit, then I'll pay my rent. I'll pack and I'll leave. What we had will disappear, a bad memory from worse days. I'll grow and I'll expand, and I'll make you proud, and maybe I'll even save you. But not here, and not now.

I put in my deposit, and I left you behind.

I'm so sorry.

Audio

Just a small update here.

A friend of mine gave me a powerful and compelling reading of an author's work. I decided to try it myself. I've always been proud of my voice, and I ultimately want to do something with it.

Why not use it to read my own stuff? I experimented a bit with this last week (20 takes, maybe) and this was the result. A bit thanks to Katie for listening to it and giving me her critique. There's a reason it's called Old Man Katie, after all!

https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6yr4OoJNO21Wnk2N3NyYUVuTHc/view?usp=sharing

Old Man

He greeted me with a joke.

The fact that it wasn't funny didn't really matter. It was inconsequential, really. What was important was that he started off on the right foot, trying to make a good impression to someone he didn't know and had no reason to sway.

It was the fact that he cared.

He was old but alive, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, despite a body that slowly, but surely, held him back. When he and his wife sat at my desk, he introduced her as the love of his life. Fifty years total, if they included the courtship. Even longer than that if their first-grade acquaintance could be counted.

They looked into each other's eyes and smiled.

I asked how he had been doing. His answer was surprising. It wasn't the usual bullshit. Usually it's "fine" or "I could complain, but who would listen?" with a weak laugh. Instead, he was upfront and honest. "I've been better." He spoke of kidney failure and neuropathy, the slow shutdown that lead to intense pain. Every moment was agony, he admitted, and a replacement wasn't in sight. He was approaching seventy, and wasn't exactly a priority when it came to the ever-finite pool of organ donation. Life was for the young, and he had left youth behind a long time ago.

He was afraid of what would follow.

He asked me about what I was doing with myself. I told him of completed a teaching degree, a failed teaching career, and a newborn novel. I told him of hopes and dreams, and my impatience for the future. I told him all of these things, and he listened.

He said I was a talented man.

It was touching. It's always so easy to hear compliments without registering them. Either people mean them, or you don't care that they do. The older you get, the rarer actual praise is from someone you admire, whether there's less praise overall or simply less people worth admiration. But the old man meant them, and that meant the world to me.

Then he asked me if I knew Jesus.

I lied. In the South, you have to lie about that particular question. To be an apostate, an atheist, is tantamount to inhumanity. You're worse than white trash, worse than a Muslim, the scary Other that people whisper about, but rarely face. So I lied, and he smiled. He spoke of Timothy and Paul. How Paul had put Timothy in charge of his ministry. It was a big regret for the old man.

He hadn't had the pleasure of meeting his Timothy.

But perhaps that's why he had met me. A hope, a prayer, a seed for the future. The old man, an electrical engineer my profession and a preacher by trade, wanted a successor. Perhaps I could look into ministry, possibly give him my thoughts on a few Bible studies. I smiled. I agreed. I would look.

But I knew I couldn't give him anymore than that.

The old man came in aching, dying, looking for a successor to his legacy, some continuation of the work he had put into the world. He feared death and so he sought life, not eternal, but temporal, not spiritual, but actual. He sought those things in me, the very foundation of which was faith.

Something I didn't have.

Something I'll never have.

But maybe, just maybe the old man will love on. Not his Jesus, nor his Timothy, but his memory. A kind old man who wanted more, and may have gotten just that in a writer, no matter how fledgling he may be. I'll remember his kindness and goodness, those twin sparks that he aimed at me, despite having no reason to.

I'll carry you always, old man.

I hope that's good enough.

Merry Christmas

The bottle of Scotch was a gift to him, from him.

Merry Christmas.

They used to be warmer. Full of cheer and light, sweet voices and happy times, even the occasional carol or two. Now it was the alcohol that warmed him instead, pumping through his veins, making cheeks ruddy and eyes twinkle.

He was a regular Kris Kringle.

The tumbler sparkled in his hand. He shouldn't be drinking. Drinking poked holes in his head, making old memories start to tumble out. A smiling woman and a happy home, a white picket fence and 2.5 kids, the American dream, complete with apple pie. It was best to leave those memories packed away.

Because, really, all they really were was a dream. It was a world built on cotton candy clouds, destined to crumble, but for a short time, held up by hope.

Oh, how they had hoped.

He had loved her, and as far as he figured, she had loved him, too. They kissed and they cuddled, sharing pieces of themselves. She spoke of happy summers at the shore, bright days that were never-ending. She whispered of angry boyfriends with heavy hands. He listened, and gave up little parts of himself, too, secrets he hadn't told anyone else. She was the first, the only, woman he had ever loved.

But then, love hadn't been enough. Secrets they spoke, but they started to creep in as well, nasty little things hiding in the corners, dark spots in their bright lives. They were easy enough to ignore at first.

The Past Due notices weren't, however. He had asked her to pay the electric bill. Dutifully, she took it out of the account, the exact amount, as always. Except the money never seemed to make it from Point A to Point B. The numbers stood out, insistently red. He approached her, confused, and she bowed her head.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Why?"

"Because I spent it." The words tumbled out. It had all been for him, really. Didn't he remember? A nice little gift, a pair of tickets to the White Sox game, front row and center. He'd been able to see hometown heroes Lefty Williams and Happy Felsch, stunning swings and sizzling strikes. Of course there was a price to pay for something he loved. There always was. Hadn't he realized that? Hadn't he liked the game?

"Yes," he admitted quietly. "But we can't do this again. I love you, and I appreciate you, but... Right now, we have to scramble to pay the lights. We've got to put the basics before ourselves." She agreed, apologizing profusely. She would never do it again.

Except she did. The next time it was the car payment, mysteriously missing. Again the perplexed husband went to his beautiful bride, and again she looked down. A simple explanation and a heartfelt apology followed.

She would never do it again.

The next time it was the house note, exchanged for a radio.

The next time it was the water bill, spent on a sweater.

The next time it was groceries, a down payment for acting lessons.

Each time he confronted her a little less patiently, and each time her apologies were a little less sincere. He'd get angry. Then so would she. Heartfelt talks turned into screaming matches.

Neither ever seemed to win.

"Stop," he had asked her.

"Please," he had begged her.

"Fucking stop!" he had screamed.

He had even hit her once.

That hadn't worked, either. She grew resentful and he adopted loathing, a His and Hers matching set of heartache. The white picket fence started to splinter, while the idea of children started to fade. There were more fights and fewer apologies. She stopped smiling, and he stopped laughing.

But now it was Christmas, a time for change, for cheer, a new beginning for a long hurt. Maybe, just maybe, they could forget all that happened. Maybe, just maybe, they could love one another again. He needed her to love him again. And how he had worked on a change. There was a roaring fire, a glowing tree, the house filled with the sights and scents of the holiday season. Of course, there was one other thing he had managed to get:

An empty home.

That last one hadn't been in his plans. He didn't even know it would happen until she was already gone, a note left on the coffee table. When he picked it up, the piece of parchment was short and to the point.

"Gone to Mom's."

And with that, his revival was repulsed.

He reached for the bottle, filling the glass. The Scotch swam over the ice, driving it to tink off the edges of the glass, a lazy motion on a special day. Down came the bottle and up came his hand, wrapping around his other Christmas present to himself. It was a reassuring weight in his hand, the sort of heft that Smith & Wesson were eager to offer.

All it took was a flick of the wrist to open the barrel of the gun. Six empty chambers stared up at him hungrily. It was a scant Christmas dinner that he offered up, one bullet for every year of heartbreak. Another flick of the wrist, and the revolver clacked shut. Back he leaned and started to play a Christmas game.

Which would empty first, the bottle or the barrel.

Had this sad little bit on my mind after a fight with somebody. You get tired of constant confrontation, and no more than on Christmas, I'm sure.

I originally thought this was going to be Johnny, but it just didn't quite fit. Perhaps another sad soul, somewhere in his world.

Homecoming

"You shouldn't have come back."

Brian knew that. He had fled into the night years ago, trying to forget this house, trying to forget this man. Time had passed, but the memory always remained. It stalked him, haunted him, filled his waking hours with anxiety and his sleeping with horror. He tried to forget. He honestly had. Brian went to counselors, made friends, even dated a girl or two, all the sort of things a man does when he tries to heal.

But he simply, couldn't, forget. That's why he was back, ready to confront his demons. His Demon. The old man sat with his back to Brian, fingers gripping the armchair, form distorted by the flicker of the television. He was as terrible as the man remembered, a Bogeyman of boyhood days. The old man would always sit there, illuminated by the screen's light, black and white playing across his features, the shine of the screen making his glasses glow. It was his habit to make the boy wait, standing behind, watching the play of shadows, dreading the beating that invariably came. He would watch, and the boy would wait. Brian couldn't lift his legs to walk, to run, to escape those horrible days.

He could, however, lift the knife to confront them.

"I know, Dad. But here I am."

The novel is progressing better than expected. I expected it to suck, to be honest. Maybe all writers think that, especially when they're trying to tackle an ambitious project. But here I am, feeling positive, like this can work. The characters are likable, interesting, different. I can spot a thing or two already that I'll need to change, but we'll worry about that in revisions.

For now, I'll just enjoy the experience.

The story's origin comes from the most recent Castlevania games (Lord of Shadows). There's something so very epic about a son coming home to confront the father. There's something primal in that. It worked for Shakespeare, and I suppose it works for me, too.

Agents

So.

I don't know what I would do without my agent.

They're big, bold words, sure. Most writers aspire to an agent. They're the gatekeeper, the status symbol, that banner that shows we've made it. We're above the humdrum, above the day-to-day, having fought tooth and nail to get out from the bottom.

But they actually have a use outside of our ego.

These people, at least the right ones, are our champions. They cheer on our successes, mourn with our failures, care about us as clients, sure, but also as human beings. They want to see us grow, for business, but also for ourselves. They're busy people, and they can't be there all the time, but goddammit, when they are, it's wonderful.

There's more, though. They just aren't champions -- they pull a motherfucking twist, turn that noun into a verb, and champion us. They push us to editors, publishers, these big ivory tower sorts who we probably have never heard of, and who certainly haven't heard of our unwashed masses. They bring their enthusiasm everyday, speaking excitedly about a project they've read in and out, edited until their eyes bleed. They talk up our material in ways we can't see, and what we sometimes don't deserve. Again, it's business, but they also believe.

These motherfuckers looked through hundreds of other submissions. They literally had their pick of hundreds, if not thousands, of other desperate voices, wanting to do this mad thing we call "writing." The agents slapped them aside for weak queries, poor grammar, uninteresting plotline, but you... you were different. They swatted away all the other contenders, pointed to you, and said, "Let's boogie on the dance floor."

They believe this shit they're saying. They believe that you're good, capable, and people will love your shit. Sure, some of them are soulless husks, operating on what might turn a quick dime. But the good ones, the quality ones, want to grow your career, and grow with you.

I know self-publishing is big. I know it's great. But goddammit, somewhere in your career, get an agent. Get someone who will be your champion, who will champion you, who will be there on the good days, but also the bad. Someone who will do their best to see your art grow, and also see you grow.

If your experience is half what mine has been with Jennifer Azantian, I don't think you'll come away unhappy.