Kate Leibfried's Blog, page 2
October 6, 2016
Kermit McDermit and the Day of Fire [Story #24]
I'm planning on writing a series of exposés that delve into the backstories of certain characters in my yet-to-be-written young adult novel. Working title for the novel: Ellie Half-Shadow and the Mayan Curse.
This one's about Kermit...
Kermit McDermit had the double bad luck of being born to parents with a shitty sense of humor and attending a middle school where the children were not known for their acceptance of anything outside the norm. And Kermit was definitely not normal.
Not only did he have hair the color of fresh tomato sauce and a head that was far too large for his delicate frame, he had an attitude that perplexed and scared the other children. A kind of hot and cold temperament that swung back and forth with the slightest provocation. It had been that way since birth, as far as his mother could tell. Kermit was a moody baby—always crying about something or other, hard to please. By child number seven, Kermit’s mother thought that she had child rearing figured out, but this little fire ant made her feel like she was twenty-one again, completely flustered by little Molly’s outbursts and wondering if things wouldn’t be easier if she just smothered the tiny thing with a cross-stitched pillow.
She hadn’t smothered Molly, and now the eldest McDermit child was nineteen and willowy. A dancer. Her mother couldn’t be prouder.
Kermit often looked at his sister and wondered why she was allowed to use up all the pretty genes in the family. The rest of his siblings were almost as awkward-looking as him—with a smattering of freckles and too-large foreheads—but they fared better because they had sweet dispositions and cared about other people. Kermit had a hard time getting close to anyone, with one exception.
Ellie was a year above Kermit in school, even though she was really only nine months older. They had both worked their way up through Anderson-Fischer College Preparatory school and now Ellie was in sixth grade, Kermit in fifth. Despite passing each other in the halls and eating in the same cafeteria, Kermit and Ellie didn’t discover one another until the day Ellie the fourth-grader caused legendary havoc on the playground.
Kermit remembered that he’d been swinging at the time. He found it relaxing—the rhythmic back and forth of the squeaky chains, the air passing beneath his canvas sneakers. He was in one of his placid moods in which he liked to be alone, a turtle tucked inside its shell.
The moment with the tranquil swinging, the crisp autumn breeze, the cloud-dotted blue sky, the sand, the green-painted poles of the swing set, the legs kicking out—it all froze with the perfection of a paused movie. And then it started again, in slow motion, but this time a fire spread across the backdrop. Kermit’s jaw dropped.
The field was aflame, blazing from one end to the other, just beyond the edge of the playground sand. Children shrieked and ran toward the doors of the school, clambering past each other with the nimbleness and grace of a herd of hippopotamuses. Kermit didn’t run. He stood up on the seat of his swing and gazed at the fire. It tickled something primordial in him, something so raw that he forgot about being a human boy and started being a presence. A shadowy thing that swam with the dusty smoke and dive-bombed the wriggling flames.
“Aren’t you going to head inside?”
Kermit’s presence snapped back into his young boy body. He looked down. A girl with startling golden eyes and dark, stringy hair stared up at him, unblinking.
“Eventually,” Kermit said, lowering himself back to the swing’s seat, “but I like watching it.”The girl climbed onto the swing next to Kermit. “Me too. That’s why I did it in the first place. At least, I think that’s why I did it. It’s hard to tell sometimes.”
Kermit gurgled, choking on a thousand words that wanted to come out. His third grade self was in utter shock, in complete awe, in abject admiration for this girl. “You?” he croaked. “You did this?”
“What? Gonna rat me out?”
“No! I would never. It’s just…wow.”
“Wow?”
“Yeah. Wow. It’s brave of you, is what I’m trying to say. I’ve thought about lighting this place on fire more times than I can count, but I would never do it. Aren’t you afraid of being caught?”
The girl shrugged. “Nah. I wrecked the security cameras before recess.” She pointed at the building, then over at a tall fence. Security cameras sprouted from both places, perched at different angles to capture the entirety of the playground.”
“Wow,” Kermit said again. “How’d you do that?”
The girl shrugged. “I’m a good climber.”
They stayed there for a few minutes, swinging in silence, watching the blaze consume the field. Fire fighters had just arrived and they were pouring out the guts of their water tanks, shouting instructions to one another as they tried to circle and contain the growing flames.
“I’m Ellie, by the way,” Ellie extended a hand.
“Kermit.”
Ellie nodded and they both went back to swinging until a school para marched over and shouted, “What are you two doing outside? Can’t you see there’s a fire?”
“Of course we see it,” said Ellie. “We’re watching it.”
The para looked down her pointed nose at the girl. “Ellie Silvestre, you wouldn’t have anything to do with this, would you?”
Ellie frowned and looked up at the para with puppy-big eyes. “No, Ms. Elworth. I’ve been here with Kermit the whole time. Haven’t I, Kerm?”
Kermit nodded. He had never been given a nickname before and was trying to decide if he liked it. “That’s right,” he said. “We’ve just been swinging and watching.”
Ms. Elworth raised a sharp eyebrow. “You don’t exactly have the best track record either, Kermit McDermit.”
Kermit flushed and waited for Ellie to laugh at his name. To his amazement, she didn’t even crack a smile.
“I’m taking you both to the principal’s office,” the para said, grabbing each child by the ear and yanking them off their swings.
“Oww!” Ellie screamed. “You’re damn lucky the security cameras are broken, Ms. Elworth, otherwise you’d have a lawsuit on your hands!”
Ms. Elworth released their ears. “What did you say?” She looked up at the electronic eyes dotting the school building and the westward wall that separated the school from a busy road. “The cameras are broken? And how do you know that, Ellie Silvestre?”
Ellie shrugged. “Know what? I didn’t say anything.”
Ms. Elworth narrowed her eyes. “There have been far too many incidents in this school since you started here. If I had my way, you would have been kicked out before you completed Kindergarten. School performance statistics be damned. Mark my word, Ellie, if you had anything to do with that fire, this will be the nail in your coffin.”
“You can bury me, Ms. Elworth,” Ellie’s golden eyes danced, “but you can’t stop me from coming back to haunt you.”
Ms. Elworth marched forward, ignoring the fear that flooded her heart and burbled through her veins. She’s just a child, she told herself. Just a little girl.
Ellie was not expelled that day, or even given detention. No one could concretely link her to the fire or the broken security cameras. The principal couldn’t even punish her by placing her on the school’s watch list…because she was already on it. She had made the watch list in first grade after an incident involving marbles and another child’s broken wrist. After that, her backpack was searched every day before she entered the school by a stern security guard who opened every pocket and pouch, plumbing for contraband with gloved hands.
And Kermit? He finally found a friend in Anderson-Fischer.
Ellie and Kermit became inseparable after the day of fire. They calmed each other’s tirades or egged on each other’s mischief. They offered one another comfort and understanding. Kermit discovered that his mood swings paled in comparison to Ellie’s, that she was wracked with a daily internal battle. She was winning now, at age twelve, but she had to arm and armor herself every day to fend off the dark things that lived inside her.
Ellie was a shadow child. And Kermit was…something else. His shadow was softer, less ferocious, but it was still present. It still rose to the surface in angry waves; it still caused harm. But it was manageable with Ellie. Her presence turned the waves into ripples and the anger into fierce loyalty for his friend.
But the calm was once more disrupted in the spring of Kermit’s fifth grade year. It came in the form of a woman in a long, green dress. He knew—somehow he knew before she even uttered a word—that this woman was there to take Ellie away.
Kate Bitters is a freelance writer, founder of Click Clack Writing, and author of Elmer Left and Ten Thousand Lines. She is writing a story a week in 2015-2016 on the Bitter Blog. Subscribe to follow her journey.
This one's about Kermit...
Kermit McDermit had the double bad luck of being born to parents with a shitty sense of humor and attending a middle school where the children were not known for their acceptance of anything outside the norm. And Kermit was definitely not normal.
Not only did he have hair the color of fresh tomato sauce and a head that was far too large for his delicate frame, he had an attitude that perplexed and scared the other children. A kind of hot and cold temperament that swung back and forth with the slightest provocation. It had been that way since birth, as far as his mother could tell. Kermit was a moody baby—always crying about something or other, hard to please. By child number seven, Kermit’s mother thought that she had child rearing figured out, but this little fire ant made her feel like she was twenty-one again, completely flustered by little Molly’s outbursts and wondering if things wouldn’t be easier if she just smothered the tiny thing with a cross-stitched pillow.
She hadn’t smothered Molly, and now the eldest McDermit child was nineteen and willowy. A dancer. Her mother couldn’t be prouder.
Kermit often looked at his sister and wondered why she was allowed to use up all the pretty genes in the family. The rest of his siblings were almost as awkward-looking as him—with a smattering of freckles and too-large foreheads—but they fared better because they had sweet dispositions and cared about other people. Kermit had a hard time getting close to anyone, with one exception.
Ellie was a year above Kermit in school, even though she was really only nine months older. They had both worked their way up through Anderson-Fischer College Preparatory school and now Ellie was in sixth grade, Kermit in fifth. Despite passing each other in the halls and eating in the same cafeteria, Kermit and Ellie didn’t discover one another until the day Ellie the fourth-grader caused legendary havoc on the playground.
Kermit remembered that he’d been swinging at the time. He found it relaxing—the rhythmic back and forth of the squeaky chains, the air passing beneath his canvas sneakers. He was in one of his placid moods in which he liked to be alone, a turtle tucked inside its shell.
The moment with the tranquil swinging, the crisp autumn breeze, the cloud-dotted blue sky, the sand, the green-painted poles of the swing set, the legs kicking out—it all froze with the perfection of a paused movie. And then it started again, in slow motion, but this time a fire spread across the backdrop. Kermit’s jaw dropped.
The field was aflame, blazing from one end to the other, just beyond the edge of the playground sand. Children shrieked and ran toward the doors of the school, clambering past each other with the nimbleness and grace of a herd of hippopotamuses. Kermit didn’t run. He stood up on the seat of his swing and gazed at the fire. It tickled something primordial in him, something so raw that he forgot about being a human boy and started being a presence. A shadowy thing that swam with the dusty smoke and dive-bombed the wriggling flames.
“Aren’t you going to head inside?”
Kermit’s presence snapped back into his young boy body. He looked down. A girl with startling golden eyes and dark, stringy hair stared up at him, unblinking.
“Eventually,” Kermit said, lowering himself back to the swing’s seat, “but I like watching it.”The girl climbed onto the swing next to Kermit. “Me too. That’s why I did it in the first place. At least, I think that’s why I did it. It’s hard to tell sometimes.”
Kermit gurgled, choking on a thousand words that wanted to come out. His third grade self was in utter shock, in complete awe, in abject admiration for this girl. “You?” he croaked. “You did this?”
“What? Gonna rat me out?”
“No! I would never. It’s just…wow.”
“Wow?”
“Yeah. Wow. It’s brave of you, is what I’m trying to say. I’ve thought about lighting this place on fire more times than I can count, but I would never do it. Aren’t you afraid of being caught?”
The girl shrugged. “Nah. I wrecked the security cameras before recess.” She pointed at the building, then over at a tall fence. Security cameras sprouted from both places, perched at different angles to capture the entirety of the playground.”
“Wow,” Kermit said again. “How’d you do that?”
The girl shrugged. “I’m a good climber.”
They stayed there for a few minutes, swinging in silence, watching the blaze consume the field. Fire fighters had just arrived and they were pouring out the guts of their water tanks, shouting instructions to one another as they tried to circle and contain the growing flames.
“I’m Ellie, by the way,” Ellie extended a hand.
“Kermit.”
Ellie nodded and they both went back to swinging until a school para marched over and shouted, “What are you two doing outside? Can’t you see there’s a fire?”
“Of course we see it,” said Ellie. “We’re watching it.”
The para looked down her pointed nose at the girl. “Ellie Silvestre, you wouldn’t have anything to do with this, would you?”
Ellie frowned and looked up at the para with puppy-big eyes. “No, Ms. Elworth. I’ve been here with Kermit the whole time. Haven’t I, Kerm?”
Kermit nodded. He had never been given a nickname before and was trying to decide if he liked it. “That’s right,” he said. “We’ve just been swinging and watching.”
Ms. Elworth raised a sharp eyebrow. “You don’t exactly have the best track record either, Kermit McDermit.”
Kermit flushed and waited for Ellie to laugh at his name. To his amazement, she didn’t even crack a smile.
“I’m taking you both to the principal’s office,” the para said, grabbing each child by the ear and yanking them off their swings.
“Oww!” Ellie screamed. “You’re damn lucky the security cameras are broken, Ms. Elworth, otherwise you’d have a lawsuit on your hands!”
Ms. Elworth released their ears. “What did you say?” She looked up at the electronic eyes dotting the school building and the westward wall that separated the school from a busy road. “The cameras are broken? And how do you know that, Ellie Silvestre?”
Ellie shrugged. “Know what? I didn’t say anything.”
Ms. Elworth narrowed her eyes. “There have been far too many incidents in this school since you started here. If I had my way, you would have been kicked out before you completed Kindergarten. School performance statistics be damned. Mark my word, Ellie, if you had anything to do with that fire, this will be the nail in your coffin.”
“You can bury me, Ms. Elworth,” Ellie’s golden eyes danced, “but you can’t stop me from coming back to haunt you.”
Ms. Elworth marched forward, ignoring the fear that flooded her heart and burbled through her veins. She’s just a child, she told herself. Just a little girl.
Ellie was not expelled that day, or even given detention. No one could concretely link her to the fire or the broken security cameras. The principal couldn’t even punish her by placing her on the school’s watch list…because she was already on it. She had made the watch list in first grade after an incident involving marbles and another child’s broken wrist. After that, her backpack was searched every day before she entered the school by a stern security guard who opened every pocket and pouch, plumbing for contraband with gloved hands.
And Kermit? He finally found a friend in Anderson-Fischer.
Ellie and Kermit became inseparable after the day of fire. They calmed each other’s tirades or egged on each other’s mischief. They offered one another comfort and understanding. Kermit discovered that his mood swings paled in comparison to Ellie’s, that she was wracked with a daily internal battle. She was winning now, at age twelve, but she had to arm and armor herself every day to fend off the dark things that lived inside her.
Ellie was a shadow child. And Kermit was…something else. His shadow was softer, less ferocious, but it was still present. It still rose to the surface in angry waves; it still caused harm. But it was manageable with Ellie. Her presence turned the waves into ripples and the anger into fierce loyalty for his friend.
But the calm was once more disrupted in the spring of Kermit’s fifth grade year. It came in the form of a woman in a long, green dress. He knew—somehow he knew before she even uttered a word—that this woman was there to take Ellie away.
Kate Bitters is a freelance writer, founder of Click Clack Writing, and author of Elmer Left and Ten Thousand Lines. She is writing a story a week in 2015-2016 on the Bitter Blog. Subscribe to follow her journey.
July 8, 2016
The White-Tailed Deer [Story #23]
It's been a while since I've written in the Bitter Blog. Been busy getting married and such. Today, I feel compelled to write about the recent shooting that took place in Falcon Heights, only a few miles from my doorstep. It's hard to know what to do or say in the face of such a horrific event, especially when it is just one in a long line of unjust, brutal acts against the black community.
But one thing is certain. Silence is not the solution.
Thinking about that, I wrote this poem:
THE WHITE-TAILED DEER
I am the white-tailed deer,
caught in headlights,
horrified by headlines.
My stillness causes earthquakes;
my silence is poison.
#silenceispoison #BLM #PhilandoCastile
Kate Bitters is a freelance writer, founder of Click Clack Writing, and author of Elmer Left and Ten Thousand Lines. She is writing a story a week in 2015-2016 on the Bitter Blog. Subscribe to follow her journey.
But one thing is certain. Silence is not the solution.
Thinking about that, I wrote this poem:
THE WHITE-TAILED DEER
I am the white-tailed deer,
caught in headlights,
horrified by headlines.
My stillness causes earthquakes;
my silence is poison.
#silenceispoison #BLM #PhilandoCastile
Kate Bitters is a freelance writer, founder of Click Clack Writing, and author of Elmer Left and Ten Thousand Lines. She is writing a story a week in 2015-2016 on the Bitter Blog. Subscribe to follow her journey.
April 13, 2016
She Wrote in Rainbows [Story #22]
Continuing my series. This is definitely more of a poem than a story...
Today I will write in rainbows, she said, and took out her white pen.
All the colors filled the page and she began thinking of reds first, writing about poppies in the ditches and the strawberries on the vine. She wrote about the blood under her skin and raw chunks of meat.
She drifted into orange, as a cloud at sunset. Writing fire and tangerines. She saw faces, tanned by sunshine, turning jaundiced as her mind shifted to yellow.
Dandelions and daffodils sprouted between the cracks of her mind and made her sneeze. The yellow honey bees picked up their pollen; the gold finch darted and dashed among the petals. All dizzying sunshine and cat's eyes (waiting for the finches to dip closer).
Shoots of grass began pop-popping from her pen, covering the paper, blanketing the entire earth. Sinking into the sea and becoming weeds, wrapping around fences and becoming vines. Roots expanded, grew woody, became trees covered with puzzle-piece leaves that brushed the sky.
So blue, not a cloud across it. It spread to meet the ocean, tipping its hat to the spraying waves. It rode on the backs of jays and bluebirds, and across glittering sapphires on ladies' fingers. Winding down the river, the sky paused, looked over its shoulder
and found that it had turned to indigo, grew stormy. The pen paused and she thought of lapis-colored rain. It poured onto the petals of lupines, forget-me-nots, and lotuses in their muddy ponds. The sky darkened and she poured herself into violet.
The clouds darkened, shed their color into purple puddles and pitter-patted off grape vines and the backs of purple buntings and honeycreepers. She saw the lilacs quiver and the chives bob their heads wildly. A woman's hair whipped behind her, the violet dye dripping off the ends and onto the sidewalk.
She threw the pen.
The storm stopped. When she picked up the paper, it was heavy with dripping colors locked in its fibers. She folded the paper and stepped outside, into the gray world. Determined to bring color to the streets.
As she walked, a trail of multi-colored dust drifted behind her.
Kate Bitters is a freelance writer, founder of Click Clack Writing, and author of Elmer Left and Ten Thousand Lines. She is writing a story a week in 2015-2016 on the Bitter Blog. Subscribe to follow her journey.
Today I will write in rainbows, she said, and took out her white pen.
All the colors filled the page and she began thinking of reds first, writing about poppies in the ditches and the strawberries on the vine. She wrote about the blood under her skin and raw chunks of meat.
She drifted into orange, as a cloud at sunset. Writing fire and tangerines. She saw faces, tanned by sunshine, turning jaundiced as her mind shifted to yellow.
Dandelions and daffodils sprouted between the cracks of her mind and made her sneeze. The yellow honey bees picked up their pollen; the gold finch darted and dashed among the petals. All dizzying sunshine and cat's eyes (waiting for the finches to dip closer).
Shoots of grass began pop-popping from her pen, covering the paper, blanketing the entire earth. Sinking into the sea and becoming weeds, wrapping around fences and becoming vines. Roots expanded, grew woody, became trees covered with puzzle-piece leaves that brushed the sky.
So blue, not a cloud across it. It spread to meet the ocean, tipping its hat to the spraying waves. It rode on the backs of jays and bluebirds, and across glittering sapphires on ladies' fingers. Winding down the river, the sky paused, looked over its shoulder
and found that it had turned to indigo, grew stormy. The pen paused and she thought of lapis-colored rain. It poured onto the petals of lupines, forget-me-nots, and lotuses in their muddy ponds. The sky darkened and she poured herself into violet.
The clouds darkened, shed their color into purple puddles and pitter-patted off grape vines and the backs of purple buntings and honeycreepers. She saw the lilacs quiver and the chives bob their heads wildly. A woman's hair whipped behind her, the violet dye dripping off the ends and onto the sidewalk.
She threw the pen.
The storm stopped. When she picked up the paper, it was heavy with dripping colors locked in its fibers. She folded the paper and stepped outside, into the gray world. Determined to bring color to the streets.
As she walked, a trail of multi-colored dust drifted behind her.
Kate Bitters is a freelance writer, founder of Click Clack Writing, and author of Elmer Left and Ten Thousand Lines. She is writing a story a week in 2015-2016 on the Bitter Blog. Subscribe to follow her journey.
April 8, 2016
Field Notes: The Woman at the Gym [Story #21]
My 21st story. Work is ramping up. I'm ghost writing a couple of books right now and it's getting more and more difficult to find time to write for myself. Because of that, I didn't edit the following story. It's essentially a free write with some kind of message that I'm still figuring out. Here it is, in it's raw form...
The woman with no legs is on the treadmill. Her prosthetic limbs click slightly as she power walks up the steep incline. Sweat drips down her wide back and along her neck, but she keeps going.
I’m behind her in the gym, powering through one of my elliptical machine workouts. Round and round, go the legs. Forward and back, go the arms. Moving. Going nowhere.
I almost didn’t come to the gym today. My mind was lazy; my limbs felt knotted, like twists in wrought iron railing bars. But I dragged myself out the door and, once you’re out the door, half the battle is won.
I’d seen the woman with no legs before. She startled me when I walked into the locker room. There she was—legless, clad in a bathing suit as she rested on the floor on her stubs and backside. Her dark skin hung in folds around her body, like a curtain protecting her from outside oglers. People like me.
I pulled my eyes away from the woman and zeroed in on my locker. I wanted to look. So badly, I wanted to look. I wanted to kneel to the floor and ask her a thousand questions, but I resisted. No one likes to be harassed at the gym.
The woman is still in front of me now, pounding away at the treadmill. I can see the time counter on her screen: one hour and seventeen minutes. She’s in it for the long haul. A marathon treadmill session. I feel a pang of guilt slice through me as I remember my reluctance that morning to walk out the door and head to the gym. It’s not a hard thing for me to do. I dress myself; I walk to the car; I push go. Not so for the woman at the gym.
She has a caregiver-type. A grandmother, maybe. The older woman helps her snap her prosthetic legs into place. Helps her wriggle into her clothing. The grandmother works out too; they climb their treadmills side-by-side. I marvel at how young the legless woman is. Not more than twenty-five, I’m sure. Winnie-the-Pooh stickers dot her prosthetics and I wonder how long they have adhered to the plastic. What have they seen? Where have they traveled? Can they feel her sadness and joy and hunger and outrage seep through the plastic and into their sticker brains?
I can. I am a sticker on her side. A hair on the back of her neck.
I follow her home, sit with her as she watches T.V., writes in her journal, cries. She cries, not because she is missing both her legs, but because of the nasty people she meets every day. People who stare, jeer, jibe. She retreats into the folds of her skin. Sinking away from the ugly parts of the world.
I want to reach inside her chest and cradle her heart, but when I try to do it, I realize I’m not needed. Or wanted. Her heart is strong. And she’s making it stronger every day. It pumps as she sends herself up the treadmill’s incline. It throbs against her chest as she paddles in the pool.
She doesn’t need to be coddled and hugged. She needs to be told she is strong.
But not by me. I’m just an ogler at the gym.
Kate Bitters is a freelance writer, founder of Click Clack Writing, and author of Elmer Left and Ten Thousand Lines. She is writing a story a week in 2015-2016 on the Bitter Blog. Subscribe to follow her journey.
The woman with no legs is on the treadmill. Her prosthetic limbs click slightly as she power walks up the steep incline. Sweat drips down her wide back and along her neck, but she keeps going.
I’m behind her in the gym, powering through one of my elliptical machine workouts. Round and round, go the legs. Forward and back, go the arms. Moving. Going nowhere.
I almost didn’t come to the gym today. My mind was lazy; my limbs felt knotted, like twists in wrought iron railing bars. But I dragged myself out the door and, once you’re out the door, half the battle is won.
I’d seen the woman with no legs before. She startled me when I walked into the locker room. There she was—legless, clad in a bathing suit as she rested on the floor on her stubs and backside. Her dark skin hung in folds around her body, like a curtain protecting her from outside oglers. People like me.
I pulled my eyes away from the woman and zeroed in on my locker. I wanted to look. So badly, I wanted to look. I wanted to kneel to the floor and ask her a thousand questions, but I resisted. No one likes to be harassed at the gym.
The woman is still in front of me now, pounding away at the treadmill. I can see the time counter on her screen: one hour and seventeen minutes. She’s in it for the long haul. A marathon treadmill session. I feel a pang of guilt slice through me as I remember my reluctance that morning to walk out the door and head to the gym. It’s not a hard thing for me to do. I dress myself; I walk to the car; I push go. Not so for the woman at the gym.
She has a caregiver-type. A grandmother, maybe. The older woman helps her snap her prosthetic legs into place. Helps her wriggle into her clothing. The grandmother works out too; they climb their treadmills side-by-side. I marvel at how young the legless woman is. Not more than twenty-five, I’m sure. Winnie-the-Pooh stickers dot her prosthetics and I wonder how long they have adhered to the plastic. What have they seen? Where have they traveled? Can they feel her sadness and joy and hunger and outrage seep through the plastic and into their sticker brains?
I can. I am a sticker on her side. A hair on the back of her neck.
I follow her home, sit with her as she watches T.V., writes in her journal, cries. She cries, not because she is missing both her legs, but because of the nasty people she meets every day. People who stare, jeer, jibe. She retreats into the folds of her skin. Sinking away from the ugly parts of the world.
I want to reach inside her chest and cradle her heart, but when I try to do it, I realize I’m not needed. Or wanted. Her heart is strong. And she’s making it stronger every day. It pumps as she sends herself up the treadmill’s incline. It throbs against her chest as she paddles in the pool.
She doesn’t need to be coddled and hugged. She needs to be told she is strong.
But not by me. I’m just an ogler at the gym.
Kate Bitters is a freelance writer, founder of Click Clack Writing, and author of Elmer Left and Ten Thousand Lines. She is writing a story a week in 2015-2016 on the Bitter Blog. Subscribe to follow her journey.April 1, 2016
[Intermission] Let's Watch a TED Talk
I'm considering this week an intermission from my 52 stories in 52 weeks challenge. Please enjoy this TED Talk on the "surprising habits of original thinkers."
Kate Bitters is a freelance writer, founder of Click Clack Writing, and author of Elmer Left and Ten Thousand Lines. She is writing a story a week in 2015-2016 on the Bitter Blog. Subscribe to follow her journey.
Kate Bitters is a freelance writer, founder of Click Clack Writing, and author of Elmer Left and Ten Thousand Lines. She is writing a story a week in 2015-2016 on the Bitter Blog. Subscribe to follow her journey.
March 24, 2016
Seeing into the future is a drag [Story #20]
Daniel wasn’t thrilled about being a prophet. Seeing into the future was a drag. So much doom and gloom—animals dying, plants shriveling up from the too-hot sun, wars, famine, general malaise.
“Must be great,” people would say, “being able to see into the future and all. You must do a lot of gambling.”
“Only the normal amount,” Daniel would respond and walk away. He was always walking away from stupid conversations. When you’re acutely aware, like Daniel was, of the date and time of your own death, you develop an intolerance for pointless conversations.
Today, Daniel had already walked away from three such conversations and it was not even noon. He sat at the bus stop and flicked through the “Songs to Help Me Relax and Not Feel the Need to Punch Others in the Face” playlist on his iPod and did his best to ignore sideways glances from the other bus-goers. They obviously knew who he was. Daniel couldn’t buy a packet of crisps or a pint of lager without some knucklehead shouting out, “Hey, ain’t you the guy from the telly? Predicted every World Cup game, dincha?”
Yeah, that was him. Stupid, really. He should have followed the advice of his friend, Alvin, and only placed bets on a few key games. Then, he could have kept his ability under wraps. Instead, it went spilling out into the world and was paraded around like the half-man, half-walrus in a circus sideshow. Soon, people from the far corners of his life—ex-girlfriends, distant cousins, former classmates—were calling up news stations and reporting every oddity they had ever noticed about Daniel.
“Kept to himself a lot, he did. Was always afraid to ask out the ladies.”
“He told me once that I shouldn’t go to chemistry class—that was the day my lab coat caught on fire and I had to be rushed to the hospital.”
“He completely predicted last year’s elections. He was grousing about the new prime minister months before election day.”
Daniel had answered all these allegations with shrugs and one-sentence responses. “Yeah,” he’d said on multiple occasions, “I suppose that was true.”
It was a good thing he had Alvin. Alvin helped him feel perfectly normal. They did normal things together, like drink beer and watch football. They talked about ladies. They complained about their jobs. They sat next to each other at their favorite pub for hours and didn’t exchange more than a handful of words. They never discussed Daniel’s ability to predict the future, even though Alvin knew about it. It just didn’t seem important.
Daniel relished his casual friendship with Alvin. It was wonderful. But after the World Cup scandal, Alvin began asking questions.
“If you knew all this was going to happen, why’d you do it?”
Daniel rolled his eyes at his friend. “That’s just it, Al. It was inevitable. Who am I to mess with the big, grand plan?”
“Kind of fatalistic, isn’t it?”
Daniel shrugged and took a long slug of whiskey.
“So,” said Alvin, “did you imagine this conversation that we’re having now? Did you know I was going to ask you about your…ability before we stepped into the bar today?”
“It doesn’t quite work like that. I make predictions two ways.” He held up one finger. “Number one. I focus on something and that thing’s path becomes apparent to me. That’s what happened with the World Cup. I pictured each game in the series and I could see each outcome. Or two,” he held up a second finger, “the future comes to me in flashes. Major events will pop up in my head at random—floods, bombings, someone’s goldfish dying—”
“Goldfish dying?”
“That’s a major event for a five year-old.”
“I suppose, but—”
“I don’t know, Al. The whole thing is nonsensical and maddening. If I could control it, I would, but it’s unstoppable. I can’t go to films. I can’t date girls. I know precisely how things are going to end before they even begin.”
“Well, if that’s the case, then you know which girls will actually let you have a beginning before they opt out. I wish I had your gift. It’d make dating a hell of a lot easier.”
Daniel glared at his friend. Alvin was short with a pudgy face the color of a dusty green olive and thick glasses that sat at the brim of his nose—not the type of guy the ladies usually drool over.
“Believe me, Al, you do not wish you had this gift. Now, let’s shut up about it. The game’s on.”
“But don’t you already know—”
“I still want to watch it, Al! If a guy can’t watch football and drink whiskey in a pub with his best mate, what’s the goddamn point?”
After that, Alvin shut up about Daniel’s ability. That was four months ago and Daniel sometimes found himself wishing he could open up to his friend and talk about all the sidelong glances, letters from desperate strangers, and random weirdos approaching him on the street and asking him to predict if they would get caught for murdering the gas station attendants/pastry chefs/yoga instructors who were surely sleeping with their wives.”
A tap on Daniel’s shoulder jolted him out of his daydreams.
“Whatd’ya want?” Daniel barked, removing his earbuds. “No, I cannot read palms so—”
He froze. A woman with dark eyes and haphazard brunette hair stared back at him.
“Sorry to interrupt,” the woman said. “It’s just…I could hear your music. I’m also a fan of Vivaldi. His melodies make me feel so freaking relaxed. If I ever feel like punching someone in the face, I always turn on Vivaldi and let the world melt away…”
Daniel gulped and nodded. He stared into the dark eyes and could see a path stretching in front of them. Marriage, vacations, a daughter, a little house on the outskirts of London, wrinkled skin, old hands. A future. With him. He could see the end before it even began. He wanted to reach out and caress her cheek, like he would do so many times in their life together.
Daniel shook the images from his head and blinked his eyes. He noticed his hand jutting out, reaching for her face and he lowered it quickly and offered it to her.
“Daniel,” he said.
She grasped the outstretched hand and tossed him a crooked smile. “Sherry.”
“Sherry,” Daniel said, tasting the words. They felt familiar in his mouth, safe. He met her eyes. “I can’t tell you how nice it is to meet you.”
Kate Bitters is a freelance writer, founder of Click Clack Writing, and author of Elmer Left and Ten Thousand Lines. She is writing a story a week in 2015-2016 on the Bitter Blog. Subscribe to follow her journey.A note: I don't usually do funny. I don't usually do romance. I'm really breaking the mold on this one, so I hope I was able to pull it off! Thanks for reading. -KB
March 16, 2016
Find Frank Excerpt [Story #19]
A book within a book.
In my forthcoming novel, we find a maleficent mystery surrounding a children's book called Find Frank. An investigative reporter tries to unearth the truth behind its sinister pages while getting to the bottom of a year-long goose chase to find the source of a new and deadly street drug.
Painting by Kali Kolz, especially for Kate Bitter's forthcoming novel, Find FrankThe first pages of the children's book contain the following rhyme:
Meet Frank.
Where will he go? Nobody knows.Over hill and rock and lakeThrough desert and snow, and rivers that flowRed as a coral snake.
He’s a fellow who might, take a trip at nightOr wander all day in the dale.Try to catch sight of our adventurous sprite
As you follow him down the trail.
Sounds innocent enough, right? That's what they want you to think...
Kate Bitters is a freelance writer, founder of Click Clack Writing, and author of Elmer Left and Ten Thousand Lines. She is writing a story a week in 2015-2016 on the Bitter Blog. Subscribe to follow her journey.
In my forthcoming novel, we find a maleficent mystery surrounding a children's book called Find Frank. An investigative reporter tries to unearth the truth behind its sinister pages while getting to the bottom of a year-long goose chase to find the source of a new and deadly street drug.
Painting by Kali Kolz, especially for Kate Bitter's forthcoming novel, Find FrankThe first pages of the children's book contain the following rhyme:Meet Frank.
Where will he go? Nobody knows.Over hill and rock and lakeThrough desert and snow, and rivers that flowRed as a coral snake.
He’s a fellow who might, take a trip at nightOr wander all day in the dale.Try to catch sight of our adventurous sprite
As you follow him down the trail.
Sounds innocent enough, right? That's what they want you to think...
Kate Bitters is a freelance writer, founder of Click Clack Writing, and author of Elmer Left and Ten Thousand Lines. She is writing a story a week in 2015-2016 on the Bitter Blog. Subscribe to follow her journey.March 10, 2016
Ruby [Story #18]
Story #18 is based on true events. Names haven't been changed because I hope ol' Ruby will stumble upon this blog someday and remember...
Ruby’s voice was made of gravel and Virginia Slims. She would wake up at noon and stomp around the restaurant during the lunch and dinner rushes, muttering to the servers and cooks as she walked past. “Thesoupshouldbe…” her indistinct voice trailed off as she passed by. “Anddon’tforgetto…”
I snickered with the other servers behind her back. She was cracked, old Ruby. The restaurant business had snapped her in two and pulled out her meat—just like the all-you-can-eat crab legs we served on Friday nights.
Ruby didn’t notice our snickering. She was too busy tromping around, refilling her gin and tonic, and fretting about her ne’er-do-well husband and criminal son. We would see her son occasionally—Sean was his name—when he popped in for pepperoni pizza and a case of beer. He had been living on an island in the middle of Lake Pokegama to avoid time in prison. He camped, fished, and canoed over to the restaurant whenever he wanted sustenance, Miller Lite, and conversation. To this day, I don’t know what Sean did that forced him into hiding; I never thought to ask.
Today, Sean waltzed into the kitchen at the peak of dinner rush. He had the annoying habit of doing that—materializing at exactly the wrong time.
“Hey Sean,” I said, seeing his lanky figure appear at the back kitchen door. “You’re gonna have to wait on your pizza. I’ve got a 12-top that just ordered four of them.”
“Ah, Jesus,” Sean grumbled, and lit up a Marlboro. Those were the days when you could smoke anywhere inside a restaurant and no one blinked an eye—except in the non-smoking section of the restaurant, of course. But the non-smoking side abutted the smoking side and it was hard to distinguish between the two, air quality-wise.
“Hey,” said Sean to one of the cooks, “you busy? Wanna smoke some grass out back?”
“Yes, he’s busy!” I interjected. “It’s dinner rush, Sean. Leave him the hell alone so he get those pizzas going!”
Sean muttered something indistinguishable, reminding me of Ruby, and stepped outside to smoke by himself. As soon as Sean stepped out, Ruby stepped in.
“Thewalleyefillets…” she said as she walked past Kim and me. We exchanged glances and shrugged. No one paid much attention to Ruby.
“Hey Ruby,” one of the cooks called out as Ruby shuffled past. “We’re running low on mozzarella. Didn’t Harry place that order?”
Another murmur that ended with “goddamnkill’em” and Ruby trundled to the back office. I knew what she’d find there. A smoke-filled room with dark paneling and her husband hunched over his desk, playing video poker. That’s mostly what Harry did throughout the day—smoked and frittered away his money. Occasionally, he’d leave his lair to come out to the bar and shoot the shit with some of the regulars. He was a man with a hollow look, like he’d lived in a cave for seventeen years and left part of his sanity (and all of his melanin) back in the rocky walls.
I was scared of him. I couldn’t put my finger on why, exactly, but I knew the others felt it too. Harry was the type who might snap at any moment.
Shouting from the back office jolted me out of my thoughts and back into the kitchen. I had to prep a dozen salads and carry them out to my table of twelve. I threw iceberg lettuce onto the salad plates with all the grace of a stable boy shoveling shit. “What dressings did they want, again?” I said to myself as I looked down at the plastic salad dressing cups. “Damn. Ranch, probably. Ranch will have to do…”
“You turning into Ruby?” Kim was at my shoulder, nudging me aside as she cobbled together a Caesar salad. “You’re talking to yourself just like that old bat.”
“I just might be,” I replied. “Soon I’ll be living in the basement of this place, just like our loving couple.” I nodded to the back office where the sound of Ruby and Harry’s bickering could be heard distinctly over the sizzle of the grills.
“Just lay off the Virginia Slims,” Kim winked and we both exited the kitchen and strode into the smoky dining room.
The dinner rush was short—it always was. Looking back, it wasn’t much of a rush at all, compared to some of the other places I’ve worked. But at the time it felt busy, and that busyness is compounded when the kitchen runs out of food, burns the pizzas, or makes a customer’s steak medium-rare when it’s supposed to be well done (Really, Mike? It’s supposed to be well done! Everyone in this town orders their steak well done!).
I made it through the night just like I always did—with a pasted-on smile and a quick step. By the time the last of the dinner crowd ambled out the door, I felt sweaty, smoky, and ready to go home.But I didn’t rush out the door that night. Something held me up. I don’t remember what it was now—maybe the ketchup bottles needed cleaning—but I do know that I’m grateful for my delayed freedom. It’s how I found out about Ruby and her art.
Ruby must have been drunk by that time—it was nearly nine o’clock and she was usually good and sauced by eight bells.* And when she was drunk, she was talkative. Usually, she found some listening ears at the bar, but tonight she decided to venture into the kitchen and scrub down the grills. That’s where I found her when I began counting down my money from the night’s work.
“Y’ know what this place needs?” Ruby asked me.
I looked up. Rarely had I heard her sound so clear and lucid. “What’s that, Ruby?”
“Bit o’ artwork, that’s what. It’s dull as an old nail ‘round here. Just look at the dining room walls! You call that art?”
I thought about the décor in the dining room. It consisted of prints of fish jumping out of gleaming lakes, heavy-antlered moose tromping through ponds, and at least one black bear ambling through snow-covered woods.
“There seems to be a theme,” I commented.
“Psha,” Ruby waved a hand. “It’s not art. It’s just some outdoorsman’s wet dream.”
I chuckled. “You’re right about that.”
“Course I’m right. I know what real art is. I made it once.”
I cocked my head and stopped counting the money. Ruby had never opened up like this before. I realized I really didn’t know anything about her, besides what I’d observed. I knew about her vices, her spats with Harry, that she lived in the concrete block basement of that shitty restaurant—nothing about the woman, herself. I was fascinated.
“You were an artist, Ruby?”
“And a damn good one too.” She reached for her gin and took a slug. “Worked in California for a while. Sold some paintings to hotels and rich ladies with tiny dogs—that kind of thing. Went back to Cali not long ago and saw one of my paintings in one of them boutique hotels in Santa Monica. It was kind of a jungle scene, but abstract—every color of the rainbow and a big jaguar in the middle. I plumb forgot about that one until I saw it again. Brought back some memories, that’s for sure.”Ruby went on about California and painting along the boardwalk and romantic trysts with other “artsy types.” I could taste the sea salt and smell fresh acrylic paint. I could hear the crash of ocean waves. Ruby’s face was animated, bright. She gestured wildly when she told me about some B-list celebrity buying one of her paintings.
“And then I met Harry.” Her face darkened. “And that was that, I suppose.”
She finished the rest of her drink and returned to scrubbing the surface of the grill.
“That’s that?” I said, jolted by the story’s sudden nosedive. “There has to be more, right? What about buying this restaurant? Settling down in the Midwest?”
When Ruby was silent, I pressed on. “Are you still painting? Do you have anything I could see?”
Ruby looked up from the grill. “Don’t you have to cash out? Brenda will be shitting bricks if you don’t get that money in the till.”
I bit my lip. “Yes, Ruby. I have some money to count.”
“Then hop to it.”
The rest of the summer passed without another word from Ruby about artwork and oceans and lost lovers. She’d walk past me, mumbling about “damnbeerlinesneedchanging” and “makesureyouget…” but she never opened up to me again, never engaged me in more than a three-second conversation.But I looked at her differently after that night. She was a Greek tragedy, a beating heart trapped in a cage of rusty iron. I could no longer poke fun at her gravel voice or her loud spats with Harry. These things split my heart in two, made me want to run, sobbing from the restaurant.
I didn’t run; I didn’t sob. But I also didn’t forget. Ruby made me realize that everyone has a story lurking under their skin. All you need is the right amount of silence and gin to let it out.
*I realize this is a nautical term and really refers to the time when your watch is over, but let’s go with it. It has a nice “ring” to it ;)
Kate Bitters is a freelance writer, founder of Click Clack Writing, and author of Elmer Left and Ten Thousand Lines. She is writing a story a week in 2015-2016 on the Bitter Blog. Subscribe to follow her journey.
Ruby’s voice was made of gravel and Virginia Slims. She would wake up at noon and stomp around the restaurant during the lunch and dinner rushes, muttering to the servers and cooks as she walked past. “Thesoupshouldbe…” her indistinct voice trailed off as she passed by. “Anddon’tforgetto…”
I snickered with the other servers behind her back. She was cracked, old Ruby. The restaurant business had snapped her in two and pulled out her meat—just like the all-you-can-eat crab legs we served on Friday nights.
Ruby didn’t notice our snickering. She was too busy tromping around, refilling her gin and tonic, and fretting about her ne’er-do-well husband and criminal son. We would see her son occasionally—Sean was his name—when he popped in for pepperoni pizza and a case of beer. He had been living on an island in the middle of Lake Pokegama to avoid time in prison. He camped, fished, and canoed over to the restaurant whenever he wanted sustenance, Miller Lite, and conversation. To this day, I don’t know what Sean did that forced him into hiding; I never thought to ask.
Today, Sean waltzed into the kitchen at the peak of dinner rush. He had the annoying habit of doing that—materializing at exactly the wrong time.
“Hey Sean,” I said, seeing his lanky figure appear at the back kitchen door. “You’re gonna have to wait on your pizza. I’ve got a 12-top that just ordered four of them.”
“Ah, Jesus,” Sean grumbled, and lit up a Marlboro. Those were the days when you could smoke anywhere inside a restaurant and no one blinked an eye—except in the non-smoking section of the restaurant, of course. But the non-smoking side abutted the smoking side and it was hard to distinguish between the two, air quality-wise.
“Hey,” said Sean to one of the cooks, “you busy? Wanna smoke some grass out back?”
“Yes, he’s busy!” I interjected. “It’s dinner rush, Sean. Leave him the hell alone so he get those pizzas going!”
Sean muttered something indistinguishable, reminding me of Ruby, and stepped outside to smoke by himself. As soon as Sean stepped out, Ruby stepped in.
“Thewalleyefillets…” she said as she walked past Kim and me. We exchanged glances and shrugged. No one paid much attention to Ruby.
“Hey Ruby,” one of the cooks called out as Ruby shuffled past. “We’re running low on mozzarella. Didn’t Harry place that order?”
Another murmur that ended with “goddamnkill’em” and Ruby trundled to the back office. I knew what she’d find there. A smoke-filled room with dark paneling and her husband hunched over his desk, playing video poker. That’s mostly what Harry did throughout the day—smoked and frittered away his money. Occasionally, he’d leave his lair to come out to the bar and shoot the shit with some of the regulars. He was a man with a hollow look, like he’d lived in a cave for seventeen years and left part of his sanity (and all of his melanin) back in the rocky walls.
I was scared of him. I couldn’t put my finger on why, exactly, but I knew the others felt it too. Harry was the type who might snap at any moment.
Shouting from the back office jolted me out of my thoughts and back into the kitchen. I had to prep a dozen salads and carry them out to my table of twelve. I threw iceberg lettuce onto the salad plates with all the grace of a stable boy shoveling shit. “What dressings did they want, again?” I said to myself as I looked down at the plastic salad dressing cups. “Damn. Ranch, probably. Ranch will have to do…”
“You turning into Ruby?” Kim was at my shoulder, nudging me aside as she cobbled together a Caesar salad. “You’re talking to yourself just like that old bat.”
“I just might be,” I replied. “Soon I’ll be living in the basement of this place, just like our loving couple.” I nodded to the back office where the sound of Ruby and Harry’s bickering could be heard distinctly over the sizzle of the grills.
“Just lay off the Virginia Slims,” Kim winked and we both exited the kitchen and strode into the smoky dining room.
The dinner rush was short—it always was. Looking back, it wasn’t much of a rush at all, compared to some of the other places I’ve worked. But at the time it felt busy, and that busyness is compounded when the kitchen runs out of food, burns the pizzas, or makes a customer’s steak medium-rare when it’s supposed to be well done (Really, Mike? It’s supposed to be well done! Everyone in this town orders their steak well done!).
I made it through the night just like I always did—with a pasted-on smile and a quick step. By the time the last of the dinner crowd ambled out the door, I felt sweaty, smoky, and ready to go home.But I didn’t rush out the door that night. Something held me up. I don’t remember what it was now—maybe the ketchup bottles needed cleaning—but I do know that I’m grateful for my delayed freedom. It’s how I found out about Ruby and her art.
Ruby must have been drunk by that time—it was nearly nine o’clock and she was usually good and sauced by eight bells.* And when she was drunk, she was talkative. Usually, she found some listening ears at the bar, but tonight she decided to venture into the kitchen and scrub down the grills. That’s where I found her when I began counting down my money from the night’s work.
“Y’ know what this place needs?” Ruby asked me.
I looked up. Rarely had I heard her sound so clear and lucid. “What’s that, Ruby?”
“Bit o’ artwork, that’s what. It’s dull as an old nail ‘round here. Just look at the dining room walls! You call that art?”
I thought about the décor in the dining room. It consisted of prints of fish jumping out of gleaming lakes, heavy-antlered moose tromping through ponds, and at least one black bear ambling through snow-covered woods.
“There seems to be a theme,” I commented.
“Psha,” Ruby waved a hand. “It’s not art. It’s just some outdoorsman’s wet dream.”
I chuckled. “You’re right about that.”
“Course I’m right. I know what real art is. I made it once.”
I cocked my head and stopped counting the money. Ruby had never opened up like this before. I realized I really didn’t know anything about her, besides what I’d observed. I knew about her vices, her spats with Harry, that she lived in the concrete block basement of that shitty restaurant—nothing about the woman, herself. I was fascinated.
“You were an artist, Ruby?”
“And a damn good one too.” She reached for her gin and took a slug. “Worked in California for a while. Sold some paintings to hotels and rich ladies with tiny dogs—that kind of thing. Went back to Cali not long ago and saw one of my paintings in one of them boutique hotels in Santa Monica. It was kind of a jungle scene, but abstract—every color of the rainbow and a big jaguar in the middle. I plumb forgot about that one until I saw it again. Brought back some memories, that’s for sure.”Ruby went on about California and painting along the boardwalk and romantic trysts with other “artsy types.” I could taste the sea salt and smell fresh acrylic paint. I could hear the crash of ocean waves. Ruby’s face was animated, bright. She gestured wildly when she told me about some B-list celebrity buying one of her paintings.
“And then I met Harry.” Her face darkened. “And that was that, I suppose.”
She finished the rest of her drink and returned to scrubbing the surface of the grill.
“That’s that?” I said, jolted by the story’s sudden nosedive. “There has to be more, right? What about buying this restaurant? Settling down in the Midwest?”
When Ruby was silent, I pressed on. “Are you still painting? Do you have anything I could see?”
Ruby looked up from the grill. “Don’t you have to cash out? Brenda will be shitting bricks if you don’t get that money in the till.”
I bit my lip. “Yes, Ruby. I have some money to count.”
“Then hop to it.”
The rest of the summer passed without another word from Ruby about artwork and oceans and lost lovers. She’d walk past me, mumbling about “damnbeerlinesneedchanging” and “makesureyouget…” but she never opened up to me again, never engaged me in more than a three-second conversation.But I looked at her differently after that night. She was a Greek tragedy, a beating heart trapped in a cage of rusty iron. I could no longer poke fun at her gravel voice or her loud spats with Harry. These things split my heart in two, made me want to run, sobbing from the restaurant.
I didn’t run; I didn’t sob. But I also didn’t forget. Ruby made me realize that everyone has a story lurking under their skin. All you need is the right amount of silence and gin to let it out.
*I realize this is a nautical term and really refers to the time when your watch is over, but let’s go with it. It has a nice “ring” to it ;)
Kate Bitters is a freelance writer, founder of Click Clack Writing, and author of Elmer Left and Ten Thousand Lines. She is writing a story a week in 2015-2016 on the Bitter Blog. Subscribe to follow her journey.March 3, 2016
The Scientist's House [Story #17]
I've been reading some short stories lately by Isaac Asimov. His bizarre plot lines, lack of character description, and oftentimes humorous writing style has definitely influenced this story. I tried to focus on developing an interesting (and funny, I hope) story, rather than concentrate on my writing style. That's a departure for me, so hopefully I pulled it off. You be the judge...
Image courtesy of the British Library open source album on Flickr
Even after three years, a distinct sulfuric smell remains embedded in my basement walls. It lingers, despite the coats of paint I’ve slathered onto the walls and the candles I’ve burned to rid my place of the stench. I was warned before I purchased the house that the previous owner had been a half-baked scientist—a physicist, to be precise—and he often conducted loud, noxious-smelling experiments in the basement. The neighbors had complained on more than a few occasions.
I didn’t think much about the previous owner before signing on the dotted line and moving in. I didn’t even care that Mr. Scientist had abandoned the house under mysterious circumstances, disappearing one night and leaving a garden shed-sized apparatus humming and whirring in the basement. When the hum-whir didn’t cease, the neighbors came over to investigate and found a vacated house with not so much as a note to indicate where the scientist might have gone. After a few months of vigilance and cursory investigation by the police, the house was declared abandoned and was taken over by the state.
I was elated when I saw it pop up on the market. Just the right square footage, the right neighborhood, and an unbeatable price. Apparently, homes associated with strange disappearances don’t sell easily. But I didn’t mind. I’m not the superstitious type and I didn’t believe for a second that the scientist’s ghost could be lingering in the walls.
But now, I’m not so sure.
The first incident happened almost six months ago. I was sitting in my easy chair in the living room, reading the latest Reader’s Digest, when a rat the size of an Idaho potato appeared in the middle of the room. Now, that may not sound unusual, but when I say appeared, I mean appeared. With a little pop and a puff of smoke, the rat materialized in my living room, only a few feet away.
I shrieked and jumped out of the chair, hurling the Reader’s Digest toward the critter. The magazine hit him squarely on the side, but he hardly reacted. His back spasmed a little and he blinked watery eyes—I was reminded of the look my cat gives me after she’s awakened from a particularly long nap and is still caught between reality and the dream world.
Unfortunately, the cat was nowhere to be found when the sleepy rat appeared. I had to get rid of the rodent myself, shooing him outside with a broom. The rat walked lethargically, trundling along like my great aunt Bertha.
After that day, I didn’t see the rat again and pushed the incident out of my mind until another odd event occurred two months later.
This time, it was a dog—a scraggly-looking thing with tawny fur. She appeared in the basement and I stumbled upon her when I went downstairs to do my weekly laundry. The dog was sleeping on my pile of dirty clothes and, when she heard me approach, she raised her head in mild interest. We looked at each other for a long moment, then the dog closed her eyes and lowered her head back to the pile of t-shirts and work pants.
The dog stayed in the same spot all day, sleeping like she hadn’t slept in several years. It was only when Ms. Meow worked her way down to the basement that the dog got up, stretched, and lazily walked over to the stairs to investigate the feline invader. It was then that I noticed the dog’s collar: “My name is Stella. If lost, please call Patty at (555) 848-8484.”
I was stunned. Patty was the name of my next door neighbor. Could this really be her dog? I’d certainly never seen it before.
It was. Patty cried with joy when she wrapped her arms around Stella and stroked the dog’s matted fur. “Oh my, Stella!” she sobbed. “You’ve come home!”
“How long has she been missing?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“A long, long time,” Patty answered. “A few years. It happened right before the Scientist disappeared.”
“Strange,” I said and watched as Patty coaxed her dog up the stairs and out of the house.
That night, I got rip-roaring drunk and thought about the dog appearing in my basement and the rat popping into my living room two months prior. Was I losing my mind? I had always been a sensible, rational person, but now I felt half-crazed and delusional. And, who could I tell about the mysterious appearances? Certainly no one would believe me.
I did my best to ignore the oddities I’d seen and move on with my life. Unfortunately, the future had different plans.
More animals started to appear around the house with alarming frequency. Guinea pigs, cats, dogs, a few squirrels, rabbits, a pair of parakeets, and a potbelly pig all materialized within three months of Stella the dog. They surfaced in the living room, on my kitchen counter, in the basement, in the bathtub, and—on one memorable occasion involving the squirrels—right alongside me in bed while I was sleeping.
It got so bad, that I started bunking down in my neighborhood bar, hunching over my whiskey until the bartender kicked me to the curb. I’d take the long route home and amble-stumble my way to my doorstep. Whenever I arrived, I dreaded turning the door handle and stepping inside. What would be added to the menagerie today?
During the last few weeks of the madness, monkeys—and only monkeys—started to pop up. They were of the ape variety, heavy-bodied things that scratched at themselves and refused to move when I prodded them with a broom. The monkeys were the most disconcerting of the animals because, unlike the others, they would continue to return to my doorstep after I deposited them outside. They would ring the doorbell, rap their knuckles against the windows while I was in the shower or in bed, and kick at the front door until I let them back in. If the neighbors noticed, nothing was ever said.
Over the course of two weeks, I accumulated nearly a dozen simian companions. They made a complete wreck of the house—opening cupboards, overturning trashcans, smearing fruit (and other, less savory items) across my countertops, furniture, floors.
I plunged myself into realty magazines and websites, desperately seeking a new home on the other side of the city. The appearing animals had driven both Ms. Meow and myself to the brinks of our sanity.
Finally, I made a decision. I would move into a hotel room for a little while so I could gather my wits and begin house-hunting in earnest. I began packing a bag, stuffing clothes and shoes into it without much thought.
I was almost done packing when I heard a voice issue from the living room.
“Good gravy, what on earth has happened to this place? Looks like a burgeoning trash heap in here.”
I froze. “Hello?” I said and picked up the nearest weapon I could find—my bedside table lamp—and tiptoed to the edge of the living room. “Who’s there?”
I raised the lamp over my head and stepped into the room. A man was sitting in my easy chair, smoking a pipe and wearing an enormous grin across his face.
“Ah yes,” the man said, leaning back in the easy chair with the air of an old friend who always appeared in my living room on a Tuesday night to smoke his pipe and chat. “You must be living here, then?” he asked.
I stood, gaping. “Well—uh, of course,” I sputtered. “This is my damn house, isn’t it? What on earth are you doing here?”
“I think you are mistaken, sir,” the man said. “It is my house. I was just…gone temporarily. Conducting an experiment, you see.”
That’s when it donned on me. “The scientist? You? You disappeared three years ago. People presumed you dead.”
“Pah!” the man scoffed. “I’m fit as a fiddle. And I’m about to become a very rich man, my friend. A very rich man indeed.” He fiddled with his pipe, fingers eager.
“You didn’t think to leave a note?” I asked. “You didn’t think people would notice your absence?”
“Why should they?” the scientist asked. “I certainly wouldn’t notice theirs.” He looked me over. “Ah, I see. The house was declared abandoned and you purchased it. Is that it? Well, as you can see, it’s clearly not abandoned, so I think you’d better scoot along.”
At this moment, one of the apes lumbered into the living room, picking at its teeth with one of my salad forks. When it spotted the scientist, it ran toward him, whooping.
“Hello there Kiwi!” the scientist said, patting the ape’s head. “Did you have a nice trip through time? I must say, the whole process wipes you out. Makes you sleepier than a mid-winter bear. If it weren’t for my elation, I’d be snoring in this easy chair right now, I tell you that.”
“No,” I said, “you wouldn’t. It’s my damn easy chair and it’s my damn house. Now, please leave before I call the police.”
The scientist found it all quite amusing. “Whatever you say, friend, whatever you say. It doesn’t much matter anyway. I’m about to be a rich man. A very rich man.”
“You keep saying that. What makes you think you’re about to become rich?”
“Good gravy, man, I thought it was obvious,” the scientist shook his head. “I invented a time machine, friend. A bloody time machine! I projected myself (and scores of animals—maybe you noticed some of them?) three years into the future. And it worked! Here I am! My machine is going to sell for millions—no, billions! You’ll see. My name will be in all the newspapers, all the magazines, all the—”
“What machine?” I asked, incredulously. “Do you mean that thing in the basement?”
“Yes, indeed! That’s the one. Don’t tell me you never got curious and fired it up once or twice. It’s not exactly conspicuous.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I’ve only heard of the machine. I never actually saw it. The state cleaned up all the rubbish in this place before I moved in.”
A moment passed between us that seemed to stretch out into space, wrap around the moon, and sail back again. The scientist’s mouth hung open. His eyes were wide and terror-stricken.
Over the past few months, I had become accustomed to the grunts and shrieks of animals, but nothing prepared me for the unearthly sound that issued from the scientist’s mouth as he tilted his head back and screamed.
Kate Bitters is a freelance writer, founder of Click Clack Writing, and author of Elmer Left and Ten Thousand Lines. She is writing a story a week in 2015-2016 on the Bitter Blog. Subscribe to follow her journey.
Image courtesy of the British Library open source album on FlickrEven after three years, a distinct sulfuric smell remains embedded in my basement walls. It lingers, despite the coats of paint I’ve slathered onto the walls and the candles I’ve burned to rid my place of the stench. I was warned before I purchased the house that the previous owner had been a half-baked scientist—a physicist, to be precise—and he often conducted loud, noxious-smelling experiments in the basement. The neighbors had complained on more than a few occasions.
I didn’t think much about the previous owner before signing on the dotted line and moving in. I didn’t even care that Mr. Scientist had abandoned the house under mysterious circumstances, disappearing one night and leaving a garden shed-sized apparatus humming and whirring in the basement. When the hum-whir didn’t cease, the neighbors came over to investigate and found a vacated house with not so much as a note to indicate where the scientist might have gone. After a few months of vigilance and cursory investigation by the police, the house was declared abandoned and was taken over by the state.
I was elated when I saw it pop up on the market. Just the right square footage, the right neighborhood, and an unbeatable price. Apparently, homes associated with strange disappearances don’t sell easily. But I didn’t mind. I’m not the superstitious type and I didn’t believe for a second that the scientist’s ghost could be lingering in the walls.
But now, I’m not so sure.
The first incident happened almost six months ago. I was sitting in my easy chair in the living room, reading the latest Reader’s Digest, when a rat the size of an Idaho potato appeared in the middle of the room. Now, that may not sound unusual, but when I say appeared, I mean appeared. With a little pop and a puff of smoke, the rat materialized in my living room, only a few feet away.
I shrieked and jumped out of the chair, hurling the Reader’s Digest toward the critter. The magazine hit him squarely on the side, but he hardly reacted. His back spasmed a little and he blinked watery eyes—I was reminded of the look my cat gives me after she’s awakened from a particularly long nap and is still caught between reality and the dream world.
Unfortunately, the cat was nowhere to be found when the sleepy rat appeared. I had to get rid of the rodent myself, shooing him outside with a broom. The rat walked lethargically, trundling along like my great aunt Bertha.
After that day, I didn’t see the rat again and pushed the incident out of my mind until another odd event occurred two months later.
This time, it was a dog—a scraggly-looking thing with tawny fur. She appeared in the basement and I stumbled upon her when I went downstairs to do my weekly laundry. The dog was sleeping on my pile of dirty clothes and, when she heard me approach, she raised her head in mild interest. We looked at each other for a long moment, then the dog closed her eyes and lowered her head back to the pile of t-shirts and work pants.
The dog stayed in the same spot all day, sleeping like she hadn’t slept in several years. It was only when Ms. Meow worked her way down to the basement that the dog got up, stretched, and lazily walked over to the stairs to investigate the feline invader. It was then that I noticed the dog’s collar: “My name is Stella. If lost, please call Patty at (555) 848-8484.”
I was stunned. Patty was the name of my next door neighbor. Could this really be her dog? I’d certainly never seen it before.
It was. Patty cried with joy when she wrapped her arms around Stella and stroked the dog’s matted fur. “Oh my, Stella!” she sobbed. “You’ve come home!”
“How long has she been missing?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“A long, long time,” Patty answered. “A few years. It happened right before the Scientist disappeared.”
“Strange,” I said and watched as Patty coaxed her dog up the stairs and out of the house.
That night, I got rip-roaring drunk and thought about the dog appearing in my basement and the rat popping into my living room two months prior. Was I losing my mind? I had always been a sensible, rational person, but now I felt half-crazed and delusional. And, who could I tell about the mysterious appearances? Certainly no one would believe me.
I did my best to ignore the oddities I’d seen and move on with my life. Unfortunately, the future had different plans.
More animals started to appear around the house with alarming frequency. Guinea pigs, cats, dogs, a few squirrels, rabbits, a pair of parakeets, and a potbelly pig all materialized within three months of Stella the dog. They surfaced in the living room, on my kitchen counter, in the basement, in the bathtub, and—on one memorable occasion involving the squirrels—right alongside me in bed while I was sleeping.
It got so bad, that I started bunking down in my neighborhood bar, hunching over my whiskey until the bartender kicked me to the curb. I’d take the long route home and amble-stumble my way to my doorstep. Whenever I arrived, I dreaded turning the door handle and stepping inside. What would be added to the menagerie today?
During the last few weeks of the madness, monkeys—and only monkeys—started to pop up. They were of the ape variety, heavy-bodied things that scratched at themselves and refused to move when I prodded them with a broom. The monkeys were the most disconcerting of the animals because, unlike the others, they would continue to return to my doorstep after I deposited them outside. They would ring the doorbell, rap their knuckles against the windows while I was in the shower or in bed, and kick at the front door until I let them back in. If the neighbors noticed, nothing was ever said.
Over the course of two weeks, I accumulated nearly a dozen simian companions. They made a complete wreck of the house—opening cupboards, overturning trashcans, smearing fruit (and other, less savory items) across my countertops, furniture, floors.
I plunged myself into realty magazines and websites, desperately seeking a new home on the other side of the city. The appearing animals had driven both Ms. Meow and myself to the brinks of our sanity.
Finally, I made a decision. I would move into a hotel room for a little while so I could gather my wits and begin house-hunting in earnest. I began packing a bag, stuffing clothes and shoes into it without much thought.
I was almost done packing when I heard a voice issue from the living room.
“Good gravy, what on earth has happened to this place? Looks like a burgeoning trash heap in here.”
I froze. “Hello?” I said and picked up the nearest weapon I could find—my bedside table lamp—and tiptoed to the edge of the living room. “Who’s there?”
I raised the lamp over my head and stepped into the room. A man was sitting in my easy chair, smoking a pipe and wearing an enormous grin across his face.
“Ah yes,” the man said, leaning back in the easy chair with the air of an old friend who always appeared in my living room on a Tuesday night to smoke his pipe and chat. “You must be living here, then?” he asked.
I stood, gaping. “Well—uh, of course,” I sputtered. “This is my damn house, isn’t it? What on earth are you doing here?”
“I think you are mistaken, sir,” the man said. “It is my house. I was just…gone temporarily. Conducting an experiment, you see.”
That’s when it donned on me. “The scientist? You? You disappeared three years ago. People presumed you dead.”
“Pah!” the man scoffed. “I’m fit as a fiddle. And I’m about to become a very rich man, my friend. A very rich man indeed.” He fiddled with his pipe, fingers eager.
“You didn’t think to leave a note?” I asked. “You didn’t think people would notice your absence?”
“Why should they?” the scientist asked. “I certainly wouldn’t notice theirs.” He looked me over. “Ah, I see. The house was declared abandoned and you purchased it. Is that it? Well, as you can see, it’s clearly not abandoned, so I think you’d better scoot along.”
At this moment, one of the apes lumbered into the living room, picking at its teeth with one of my salad forks. When it spotted the scientist, it ran toward him, whooping.
“Hello there Kiwi!” the scientist said, patting the ape’s head. “Did you have a nice trip through time? I must say, the whole process wipes you out. Makes you sleepier than a mid-winter bear. If it weren’t for my elation, I’d be snoring in this easy chair right now, I tell you that.”
“No,” I said, “you wouldn’t. It’s my damn easy chair and it’s my damn house. Now, please leave before I call the police.”
The scientist found it all quite amusing. “Whatever you say, friend, whatever you say. It doesn’t much matter anyway. I’m about to be a rich man. A very rich man.”
“You keep saying that. What makes you think you’re about to become rich?”
“Good gravy, man, I thought it was obvious,” the scientist shook his head. “I invented a time machine, friend. A bloody time machine! I projected myself (and scores of animals—maybe you noticed some of them?) three years into the future. And it worked! Here I am! My machine is going to sell for millions—no, billions! You’ll see. My name will be in all the newspapers, all the magazines, all the—”
“What machine?” I asked, incredulously. “Do you mean that thing in the basement?”
“Yes, indeed! That’s the one. Don’t tell me you never got curious and fired it up once or twice. It’s not exactly conspicuous.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I’ve only heard of the machine. I never actually saw it. The state cleaned up all the rubbish in this place before I moved in.”
A moment passed between us that seemed to stretch out into space, wrap around the moon, and sail back again. The scientist’s mouth hung open. His eyes were wide and terror-stricken.
Over the past few months, I had become accustomed to the grunts and shrieks of animals, but nothing prepared me for the unearthly sound that issued from the scientist’s mouth as he tilted his head back and screamed.
Kate Bitters is a freelance writer, founder of Click Clack Writing, and author of Elmer Left and Ten Thousand Lines. She is writing a story a week in 2015-2016 on the Bitter Blog. Subscribe to follow her journey.
February 26, 2016
The Alley (an excerpt from Find Frank) [Story #16]
I'm cheating a bit this week. This isn't really a short story, but a disturbing little excerpt from my novel-in-progress, Find Frank. I've had a busy week, but the good news is that I've managed to spend a couple hours editing F.F.
This except takes place in the fictitious setting of Tempest City--a place that might exist if Gotham, Chicago, and L.A. had a three-way. The gist of the story is that an investigative reporter (female, brooding, loner--a fairly typical noir protagonist) is trying to find the root of a mysterious street drug called the White Wizard that recently cropped up in Tempest City. She doesn't appear at all in the following scene, but you should know she exists.
MONDAY EVENING, NORTHERN TEMPEST CITY
He blinked watery eyes and tried for the third time to stand. His eyes tried to focus on the spot where he was certain his right foot was resting on the asphalt, but he could only see brown and white shapes blending with tar-black. “Come on,” he groaned. “Steady does it, foot. Steady.” He leaned his weight to the right and felt his torso tip forward; one stork leg, then the other, bent, then straightened. The right foot remained planted. The man stood.
“All right, then,” he said, giving his thigh a pat. “All right.”
He leaned against the brick alley wall, afraid to walk for fear of toppling over again. His body was rigid, pulsing like a thumb slammed in a car door.
“Imma burst,” he whispered, feeling the blood flum-flum-flum under his skin. “Where the feckin’ hell is Beez? Where is he?”
The man blinked toward the end of the alley and tried to interpret the shapes swimming past it. He assumed they were people, but couldn’t be sure. His eyesight was getting worse every day. Just yesterday, he could see well enough to pick out a rich lady from a crowd. She was one of those high-fashion types—he could tell from the tan leather wings on her back and the matching spike heels on her feet. An airy, expensive-looking scarf was wound so high around her neck that only her eyes were visible. An easy target. She couldn’t chase him with five-inch heels and cumbersome leather wings.He had worked his way through the crowd, tripping a little, but able to steady his bucking legs long enough to dash up to the woman, grab her purse, and hightail it toward North Tempest City.
Now, here he was, a day later, and his vision was shot to hell.
The man squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. Squeezed and opened. Willing the blurry shapes to cohere and form something recognizable.
“That you, Ernesto?” a voice ambled through the alleyway.
“Beez? You here, Beez?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Jesus, Ernie, you look like shit.”
Ernie bit his lip; tears began forming in the corners of his eyes. “I’m burning from the inside, Beez,” he choked. “I need some Dubs or my blood’s gonna burst straight through my skin.”
“Now, now, stop being so dramatic,” Beez rested a pale hand on Ernie’s shoulder. “You ain’t burnin’. It’s cold as a penguin’s asshole out here. Come on, Ern, why don’t you sit down for a minute and I’ll get you a fire goin’ in that barrel over there?”
“I can’t sit!” Ernie howled. “I might never get back up!”
“Okay, okay,” Beez held up his hands. “Just hang out against the wall, then. I’ll make that fire.”
“I don’t need it!” Ernie cried. “There’s lava under my skin. I don’t need a fire, Beez. I need a hit. Please, man. Just one hit.”
Beez ignored Ernie’s protests and removed his long mink coat, folding it and laying it across a set of fire escape steps. He stooped and began collecting trash along the alley—old newspapers, takeout cartons, a couple pizza boxes, an old sweater—and threw it all in a rust-rimmed barrel. He retrieved a plastic lighter from his pocket, cracked it open, and poured the fluid over the rubbish.
“Hey, Ern!” Beez called. “You got a lighter? I just sacrificed mine for your skinny ass.”
“Yeah, I got one.”
“You wanna hand it over, then?”
Ernie sobbed. “I’m tellin’ you Beez, I can’ leave this spot. My legs ain’t working right anymore. I bet a hit would set me right, man. You brought the Dubs, right?”
“Yeah, I brought it. Shit, I’ll come to you if you can’t move. Ungrateful rat. Can’t you see I’m trying to help you out?”
“I know you are, Beez. I know you are. You a friend, ain’t you?”
“Sure, a friend. Can I have that lighter now?”
Ernie handed over a lighter; Beez grabbed it and walked back to the barrel. He grabbed some extra newspaper from the ground, crumpled it, lit it, and tossed it into the barrel. The trash ignited.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about! All right, Ern, lemme help you over here.”
Beez donned his mink coat, then grabbed Ernie’s arm and guided him toward the barrel. “Doesn’t that feel nice, buddy? Nice and warm.”
Ernie didn’t say anything, just leaned against Beez and gazed at the meld of oranges and reds emanating from the barrel. He shoulders and legs jerked occasionally, but Beez kept one arm wrapped around Ernie’s torso to prevent him from toppling over.
They stood silently for a while, letting the heat dance across their faces—Ernie’s dark and scabbed, Beez’ pale and smooth.
“Better, Ernie? Is the lava goin’ away?”
“Nah, man,” Ernie whispered, “it bubbles and pops with every breath. Every damn breath. A dose of Wizard’d solve it, I’m sure.”
“Fine,” Beez shrugged. “Last time I try to do you a favor. Let’s talk business, then.” He pulled a clear pill bottle out of his pocket and held it up. “You ordered twelve, right? Where’d you get that kind of money, Ern?”
“Found it,” Ernie shrugged.
“My ass.”
“I did! Found it in a purse in the alley.”
“Okay, whatever you say, man. I don’t give two shits about your income source, so long as the money spends.”
“The purse is o’er there.” Ernie, still in Beez’ grip, leaned toward the alley wall. “Walk me there, will ya?”
The pair walked to the edge of the alley; Ernie stuck his hands out and, when they struck the brick wall, he leaned heavily against it.
“Ernie? You all right, man? Where’s the purse?”
Ernie grasped the sides of his head, forehead pressed against the brick. “I’m tryin’ to ‘member. It’s here, somewhere. I swear, it’s gettin’ harder to think. Whatchyou all puttin’ in the Wizard these days? Cuttin’ it with bleach? Rat poison?”
“What do you take me for?” Beez snarled. “Some two-bit dealer? I only peddle the good stuff, you know that.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry. I’m real sorry, Beez. It’s just that, it doesn’t take me like it used to. It feels real dirty now. No more pretty colors and all that.”
“We ain’t cuttin’ it with bleach, Ern. Now, do you want to make a deal or no?”
“I do!” Ernie squealed. “I wanna make a deal.”
“Then shut up and try to remember where you put the damn purse.”Ernie sniffled.
“Okay, you know what? I’ll look for it myself.”
Beez shuffled around some cardboard boxes and crates, combing the edge of the alley. He tossed aside a well-worn tarp and a couple sweaters and found it lying there—a snakeskin purse, the clasp broken from clumsy hands.
“Found this, you say?”
Ernie didn’t answer. He held his head and sobbed.
Beez rooted around the purse and retrieved a handful of cash. “Jesus, these hipsters carry a lot of green, yeah? They distrust credit as much as dealers and pimps.”
Beez shoved the cash into his pocket. “You’re a little short, Ern, but I’ll give you the twelve. Okay, man?”
Ernie nodded, scraping his head against the brick.
“Okay, then.” Beez slid the clear pill bottle into Ernie’s pocket. “Here, buddy. Lemme help you sit down.” He grabbed Ernie around the waist, turned him 180 degrees, and lowered him to the ground.
“Thanesman,” Ernie slurred. “Ay oweya.”
“Don’t mention it.” Beez backed away and scrutinized Ernie slumped against the brick wall, head lolling as he dug in his pocket for the pill bottle. “Ern,” Beez said. “Let me give you a tip. Straight from a friend to a friend, yeah?”
“Whazthat?”
“Take the whole damn thing. Tip ‘em all back. It’ll be easier that way.”
“What’ll b’easier?”
“I think you know, man.” Beez stooped and patted Ernie’s shoulder. “Safe journey, pal.”
Beez turned and walked out of the alley, mink coat ruffling around him. He had to keep moving. He had work to do.
Kate Bitters is a freelance writer, founder of Click Clack Writing, and author of Elmer Left and Ten Thousand Lines. She is writing a story a week in 2015-2016 on the Bitter Blog. Subscribe to follow her journey.
This except takes place in the fictitious setting of Tempest City--a place that might exist if Gotham, Chicago, and L.A. had a three-way. The gist of the story is that an investigative reporter (female, brooding, loner--a fairly typical noir protagonist) is trying to find the root of a mysterious street drug called the White Wizard that recently cropped up in Tempest City. She doesn't appear at all in the following scene, but you should know she exists.
MONDAY EVENING, NORTHERN TEMPEST CITY
He blinked watery eyes and tried for the third time to stand. His eyes tried to focus on the spot where he was certain his right foot was resting on the asphalt, but he could only see brown and white shapes blending with tar-black. “Come on,” he groaned. “Steady does it, foot. Steady.” He leaned his weight to the right and felt his torso tip forward; one stork leg, then the other, bent, then straightened. The right foot remained planted. The man stood.
“All right, then,” he said, giving his thigh a pat. “All right.”
He leaned against the brick alley wall, afraid to walk for fear of toppling over again. His body was rigid, pulsing like a thumb slammed in a car door.
“Imma burst,” he whispered, feeling the blood flum-flum-flum under his skin. “Where the feckin’ hell is Beez? Where is he?”
The man blinked toward the end of the alley and tried to interpret the shapes swimming past it. He assumed they were people, but couldn’t be sure. His eyesight was getting worse every day. Just yesterday, he could see well enough to pick out a rich lady from a crowd. She was one of those high-fashion types—he could tell from the tan leather wings on her back and the matching spike heels on her feet. An airy, expensive-looking scarf was wound so high around her neck that only her eyes were visible. An easy target. She couldn’t chase him with five-inch heels and cumbersome leather wings.He had worked his way through the crowd, tripping a little, but able to steady his bucking legs long enough to dash up to the woman, grab her purse, and hightail it toward North Tempest City.
Now, here he was, a day later, and his vision was shot to hell.
The man squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. Squeezed and opened. Willing the blurry shapes to cohere and form something recognizable.
“That you, Ernesto?” a voice ambled through the alleyway.
“Beez? You here, Beez?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Jesus, Ernie, you look like shit.”
Ernie bit his lip; tears began forming in the corners of his eyes. “I’m burning from the inside, Beez,” he choked. “I need some Dubs or my blood’s gonna burst straight through my skin.”
“Now, now, stop being so dramatic,” Beez rested a pale hand on Ernie’s shoulder. “You ain’t burnin’. It’s cold as a penguin’s asshole out here. Come on, Ern, why don’t you sit down for a minute and I’ll get you a fire goin’ in that barrel over there?”
“I can’t sit!” Ernie howled. “I might never get back up!”
“Okay, okay,” Beez held up his hands. “Just hang out against the wall, then. I’ll make that fire.”
“I don’t need it!” Ernie cried. “There’s lava under my skin. I don’t need a fire, Beez. I need a hit. Please, man. Just one hit.”
Beez ignored Ernie’s protests and removed his long mink coat, folding it and laying it across a set of fire escape steps. He stooped and began collecting trash along the alley—old newspapers, takeout cartons, a couple pizza boxes, an old sweater—and threw it all in a rust-rimmed barrel. He retrieved a plastic lighter from his pocket, cracked it open, and poured the fluid over the rubbish.
“Hey, Ern!” Beez called. “You got a lighter? I just sacrificed mine for your skinny ass.”
“Yeah, I got one.”
“You wanna hand it over, then?”
Ernie sobbed. “I’m tellin’ you Beez, I can’ leave this spot. My legs ain’t working right anymore. I bet a hit would set me right, man. You brought the Dubs, right?”
“Yeah, I brought it. Shit, I’ll come to you if you can’t move. Ungrateful rat. Can’t you see I’m trying to help you out?”
“I know you are, Beez. I know you are. You a friend, ain’t you?”
“Sure, a friend. Can I have that lighter now?”
Ernie handed over a lighter; Beez grabbed it and walked back to the barrel. He grabbed some extra newspaper from the ground, crumpled it, lit it, and tossed it into the barrel. The trash ignited.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about! All right, Ern, lemme help you over here.”
Beez donned his mink coat, then grabbed Ernie’s arm and guided him toward the barrel. “Doesn’t that feel nice, buddy? Nice and warm.”
Ernie didn’t say anything, just leaned against Beez and gazed at the meld of oranges and reds emanating from the barrel. He shoulders and legs jerked occasionally, but Beez kept one arm wrapped around Ernie’s torso to prevent him from toppling over.
They stood silently for a while, letting the heat dance across their faces—Ernie’s dark and scabbed, Beez’ pale and smooth.
“Better, Ernie? Is the lava goin’ away?”
“Nah, man,” Ernie whispered, “it bubbles and pops with every breath. Every damn breath. A dose of Wizard’d solve it, I’m sure.”
“Fine,” Beez shrugged. “Last time I try to do you a favor. Let’s talk business, then.” He pulled a clear pill bottle out of his pocket and held it up. “You ordered twelve, right? Where’d you get that kind of money, Ern?”
“Found it,” Ernie shrugged.
“My ass.”
“I did! Found it in a purse in the alley.”
“Okay, whatever you say, man. I don’t give two shits about your income source, so long as the money spends.”
“The purse is o’er there.” Ernie, still in Beez’ grip, leaned toward the alley wall. “Walk me there, will ya?”
The pair walked to the edge of the alley; Ernie stuck his hands out and, when they struck the brick wall, he leaned heavily against it.
“Ernie? You all right, man? Where’s the purse?”
Ernie grasped the sides of his head, forehead pressed against the brick. “I’m tryin’ to ‘member. It’s here, somewhere. I swear, it’s gettin’ harder to think. Whatchyou all puttin’ in the Wizard these days? Cuttin’ it with bleach? Rat poison?”
“What do you take me for?” Beez snarled. “Some two-bit dealer? I only peddle the good stuff, you know that.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry. I’m real sorry, Beez. It’s just that, it doesn’t take me like it used to. It feels real dirty now. No more pretty colors and all that.”
“We ain’t cuttin’ it with bleach, Ern. Now, do you want to make a deal or no?”
“I do!” Ernie squealed. “I wanna make a deal.”
“Then shut up and try to remember where you put the damn purse.”Ernie sniffled.
“Okay, you know what? I’ll look for it myself.”
Beez shuffled around some cardboard boxes and crates, combing the edge of the alley. He tossed aside a well-worn tarp and a couple sweaters and found it lying there—a snakeskin purse, the clasp broken from clumsy hands.
“Found this, you say?”
Ernie didn’t answer. He held his head and sobbed.
Beez rooted around the purse and retrieved a handful of cash. “Jesus, these hipsters carry a lot of green, yeah? They distrust credit as much as dealers and pimps.”
Beez shoved the cash into his pocket. “You’re a little short, Ern, but I’ll give you the twelve. Okay, man?”
Ernie nodded, scraping his head against the brick.
“Okay, then.” Beez slid the clear pill bottle into Ernie’s pocket. “Here, buddy. Lemme help you sit down.” He grabbed Ernie around the waist, turned him 180 degrees, and lowered him to the ground.
“Thanesman,” Ernie slurred. “Ay oweya.”
“Don’t mention it.” Beez backed away and scrutinized Ernie slumped against the brick wall, head lolling as he dug in his pocket for the pill bottle. “Ern,” Beez said. “Let me give you a tip. Straight from a friend to a friend, yeah?”
“Whazthat?”
“Take the whole damn thing. Tip ‘em all back. It’ll be easier that way.”
“What’ll b’easier?”
“I think you know, man.” Beez stooped and patted Ernie’s shoulder. “Safe journey, pal.”
Beez turned and walked out of the alley, mink coat ruffling around him. He had to keep moving. He had work to do.
Kate Bitters is a freelance writer, founder of Click Clack Writing, and author of Elmer Left and Ten Thousand Lines. She is writing a story a week in 2015-2016 on the Bitter Blog. Subscribe to follow her journey.
