Interlude – Distraction of the Name

Why was he named Ferris?  Did you ever wonder that?  I did;  I bet you did.  Sorry to break into the story like this, but it occurred to me, and the thought wouldn’t leave me alone, which is a strange feeling, but it happens sometimes.  It happens more often lately, which  is why I really need to finish this, but I’ve learned that it’s best to just get the thought out, let it run its course, and then I can get back to what I was doing.  So, I’ll ask again.

Why was he named Ferris?  You know it had a purpose.  Writers think about these things.  I mean, it’s hard to be as clear cut as our high school English teacher, Mrs. H, made it seem when she taught me that, of course, Jim Casy was the Christ figure in The Grapes of Wrath, and it’s clear because his initials are “J.C.” as in Jesus Christ.  But I’m getting off track here.  I was talking about Ferris.  You know who I’m talking about, right?  Ferris Buehler, from “Ferris Buehler’s Day Off,” which is a funnier movie the third time you watch it than it was the first time, which is strange I think, but it’s true.  Anyway, rambling again, so back to the point.  The guy who wrote that movie named him Ferris.  Why?  Well, I never had to write an English paper about it, which is too bad because I think that paper would be a lot more fun to read and to write than the one about The Grapes of Wrath, because, really, as soon as a teenage boy is done reading The Grapes of Wrath all he can think about is that last scene, so how is he supposed to write about the whole book?  Anyway, like I was saying, if I had to write a paper about “Ferris Buehler’s Day Off” I’d talk about his name.  Honestly, have you ever known a guy named Ferris?  Of course not.  Well, if you have, it still doesn’t disprove my point, if I ever get to it, because even if you do, you have to admit that it’s an unusual name, so clearly the writer put some thought into the choice.  So what did he mean?  Clearly something,  And I think I know what it is, and if I ever had to write that paper, I’d tell you.

But the real point is: I am writing this.  And my name is Jacob.  Not because I decided it should be.  It just is. 

It's true I have thought maybe I would change it, if I were really writing this as a story to get published or something.  But I’m not.  I’m writing it to you, and I am pretty sure you’d be confused if you started reading this thing and I had some other name.  I mean, maybe not.  But I would be.  Confused, that is.  If I read it and the name were not my name.

OK, this is strange, why did I just write all that?  You must not be used to coffee.  I wonder why?  I know was.

Anyway, let’s get back to this.  I don’t know how much longer I have.  And I need you to read what I need to write.

=====================

{ One or two pieces of the story occur between the last interlude and this one. The Coffee Shop for sure.}

[©Steve Will, 2012] 

The Pharisee - Reprint

[On my first day of my first-ever reprint week of Snippets & Wisps, certainly I should reprint a Snippet.  Though I think it might actually be better classified as a Wisp.  This is from August 15, 2007.]

================================

The Pharisee

The Jester, thinking himself hidden
In his cashmere dark olive single-breasted Ralph Lauren,
Dipped a fresh strawberry tart into a cup of rancid sour cream.
He intoned with studied compassion
"Hate the sin.
Love the sinner."
After the wry pause, allowing fragile hope to bloom,
"But for God's sake, don't let him in."

Interlude 1

You see, that's how it started. I didn't realize it at the time. I thought it was just a silly dream. Then again, sometimes I'd think "Maybe it was heaven.",

It made sense, really. I mean, who was I kidding? I was fourteen years old and I already knew who I wanted to marry. Ann. I had known her for most of my life. She was, well, you know. The best.

But in the real world she and Matt were together.

So, I supposed that, for me, heaven would have been laying my head in her lap, having her mom like us being together, getting stolen kisses.

Then again, it couldn't be heaven. No angels. No throne of God or anything. So I decided it was all just a dream. Because, as I'm sure you'd agree, what else would we think at that point?

It wasn't until a couple of years after college, after I was married to Celia, that it happened again. This time, I didn't die. But that's when the thought entered my mind:

"Maybe I should."

Chapter One: Part Three

Jacob's eyes shot open to find himself staring up at the face of the guy who drove the fire department's ambulance. Jacob didn't know his name, but he was holding those paddles you shock people with when they're having a heart attack.

"He's back!" said the man. "OK, let's get him to County."

Jacob felt himself being lifted, then he passed out.

Sometime later, he awoke in a warm bed. He didn't even have time to raise his head before his mother and father rushed to his side.

"Thank God," his mom said.

"You OK, Jake?" asked his dad. "You sure were lucky."

Jacob didn't know what was going on, but he had a memory that was overwhelming every other thought. He simply had to know if she was here.

"Ann?" was all his voice could manage.

"They left a few hours ago. I'll give them a call," said his dad, leaving the room as he grabbed his phone from his pocket.

"They?" Jacob asked.

"She and Matt found you. Do you remember that?" his mother replied.

Ann. And Matt, too. Jacob's heart sank. The warmth of lying on Ann's lap. It had felt so real. Tears welled up in his eyes. Rather than show them to his Mom, Jacob closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

But this time he did not see the swirling stream of lights. Not yet, anyway. But he would.

Oh yes, he most certainly would.

Chapter One: Part Two

Jacob felt light headed for a moment and almost spilled the cup of cocoa in his hand. He looked around, and his vision was blurry at first. A foggy blue mist floated around the room. What room? Where was he?

Then he noticed the sound of happy voices.

Girl's voices.

Well a girl's voice. Ann's voice. And she was talking with ... her mother?

Jacob shook his head slowly, trying to clear the cobwebs that hung close around his eyes.

"Jacob, are you OK?" said Ann's mother. Yes, he was sitting at their kitchen table. Through the haze, there was Ann sitting at the table, too. She reached over and steadied Jacob's hand with hers. The warmth of her touch sent a thrill up his arm, and the fog cleared a little.

"Yeah, umm, I mean, I think so," Jacob replied. He was distracted by Ann's hand, still on his.

"He looks a little pale, doesn't he, Mom?"

"He does. You do, Jacob. Here, put that cup down. Let's have you lie down on the couch in the living room."

Both of them helped Jacob to his feet and led him to the next room. They had him lie down, with his head on one of those fluffy throw pillows with the picture of flowers on it.

"It might be just a reaction to the cold -- you walked a long way to get here in this nasty cold, Jacob. But it also might be a flu. I'm going to call your parents and have them come pick you up."

"But Mom, I'm sure he's going to be OK," protested Ann, as she sat on the floor by him and looked at his face, and then into his eyes, silently urging him to support her.

"I'll be fine, Mrs. Carlson," Jacob offered. He didn't know why Ann was so insistent, but the way she was looking at him, and the warmth her hand had left in his, both convinced him he must not let her down.

"Jacob, you know you can call me Sandy. Well, I'll call, and we'll see," said Sandy, leaving the room.

Ann reached over and pushed some of Jacob's hair into place, and as she withdrew her hand, it lingered a bit on his cheek, as she glanced to see that her mother was no longer in sight.

Then she gave him a quick kiss.

Jacob gasped. His heart seemed to skip a beat. His face flushed.

"Ann? Matt..."

Ann looked at him with a question in her eyes.

"'Matt?' What about Matt? Maybe you are sick. Maybe I shouldn't be kissing you. Oh well, if you have a flu, I suppose I'll be catching it anyway."

Sandra's voice reached them from another room.

"Jacob, I can't reach your folks. You just lie there a while and see if you start feeling better."

"We were just going to watch a movie anyway, Mom," called Ann. I'll just let him lie here and I'll sit by him and we'll watch our movie, OK?"

"Well, I guess," came her mother's reply, "as long as Jacob promises to tell me if he starts feeling worse."

"Oh, he will," said Ann. Then she motioned for Jacob to sit up for a moment, and she slid into a seated position under the pillow and had him lie back down. She reached for the remote control, turned on the TV, and started looking for the movie.

Jacob lay his head back down. He was more confused than he could ever remember being. But confused or not, he couldn't make himself stop enjoying his situation. He didn't even really notice what movie Ann selected. He simply stayed there, head on a pillow, on her lap, thrilling every time she decided to reach down and straighten a strand of his hair. Time slipped away, and he just didn't care.

He supposed he should have told Mrs. Carlson ... Sandy ... when his vision clouded up again, but he would not risk breaking the spell. Then the clouds in his eyes became a colorful vortex pulling him in a dizzying path towards a small, dark hole.

And his body jerked, as it was racked with a shocking pain.
.....







[©Steve Will, 2011]

Chapter One: Drowned

The body of the fourteen-year old boy floated just under the clear ice, eyes open, mouth closed, right hand clenched as if he had been trying to pound his way through glass.

Jacob went to the river that Saturday because Ann's mom never trusted Matt and Ann to be alone. They wanted to get away from her all-seeing eyes, so Matt asked Jacob to come along when Matt went over to ask Ann out for a nice long walk. Ann's mom had to say yes, with Jacob right there. And she did. Jacob was her pastor's kid, after all. She thought it was strange that three teenagers would want to spend time outside with the temperatures so far below freezing, but what harm could it be?

It wasn't even half a mile to where the Old 49 bridge crossed the North Fork river. Under the bridge Matt had already set up a windbreak, put down some old blankets he had borrowed from his basement, and built a pile of dry wood. Jacob had even helped gather the wood. Matt was Jacob's best friend. Ann was, by far, the most interesting girl in school. If Jacob could help them get some time together, he was happy to do it. As long as he couldn't have time with Ann on his own, that is. And, of course, he couldn't. Jacob couldn't do that to his best friend. Besides, Ann seemed to really like Matt's broad shoulders or something. Jacob wasn't like that.

At first, the three of them worked to get the fire going. They huddled together for a bit, laughing and joking, but soon the warmth of the fire warmed the makeshift shelter enough that Jacob stopped huddling. The other two didn't stop, and Jacob took that as his cue to go for a walk of his own, a real walk.

The January cold had done its usual good job of freezing much of the North Fork, and though in his lifetime Jacob had never seen it completely freeze over, this year the open water was only a few feet wide, bordered on each side by a good forty feet of ice. Initially, Jacob stayed pretty close to shore, but he liked being on the ice. It gave him a strange rush to be walking on water, even if it was frozen. And then, as he moved out a little farther, he realized he could actually see the movement of the water beneath the ice, beneath his feet.

Growing up, Jacob had been on the ice many times. He knew it was dangerous to go out too far. He knew it the way kids know things -- he had heard it, but only from adults, and he had never actually seen what could happen if you weren't careful enough.

Still, he decided to pay attention to the warnings. He was just turning around to head back to the shore, when he slipped. He fell hard to his knees. He felt the crack as he heard it. A shift in the ice beneath him started his heart racing. He lunged forward, trying to launch his body over the crack, but he only managed to get his arms and head past it before the ice slipped away from under his legs and belly. Jacob wanted to scream out for help, but the intensity of the cold knocked the breath out of his lungs. Frantically, he slapped at the ice in front of him, hoping for a place his hands could grasp. There was none. He stayed up a few more seconds. He forced a short, pain-filled moan from his mouth, and then was swept away.

Jacob made one last attempt to save himself, turning over as he was pulled under the sheet of ice, trying to catch hold of the edge of the ice. The maneuver left him facing the sky, his eyes peering up at the bright blue January sky, through the clear sheet of ice above him. He held on to the edge of the ice with his left hand, and tried, in vain, to break through with his right.

His body stung with pain. He could feel that his feet were caught up against something, but he barely noticed it as his final breath escaped and the cold consumed his thoughts.

As the darkness closed in around him, he saw something astonishing. Colors. Streams of colors. Swirling and mixing around a portal of light. Spreading out from the light, not leading toward it. His eyes fixed on a blue stream. A blue that exactly matched the blue of the sky.

And then he breathed in. And then it was over.

And then it began.




.....











[©Steve Will, 2011]

First the Foreword

Yes, it's true. This is a story.

I mean, it's a story in the sense that it has a beginning, a middle, and an end -- of sorts. It has people, things happen to those people, all the usual stuff you find in a story.

It's a story.

But it's also my life.

I'm going to try to tell the story as if I were outside of me. They call this "third person." It's kind of ironic, but I'll get to that. I'll try hard to write it as if I don't know everything I know, now that it's almost over. Why? Because reading the truth of something is not quite the same as discovering it, and I really want you to discover it. In fact, I think it's vital that you discover it.

So, here we go. We'll start at the beginning. And when was the beginning?

It was when I died.

The first time.




[©Steve Will, 2011]

Snippet - Submerged, I Panic

Submerged, I panic, thrash, grasp at nothing.

Myriad fleeting shapes surround me, just out of reach.

I would scream, if I could. I would curse, though I know the consequence.

Something grasps my arm, pulls me up.

Sweet rush of air. I fill my lungs. Then empty them with a cry:

"Help me! She's drowning me!"

No one responds. Except her.

"Oh Stewie, stop being so dramatic. I'm just teaching you to swim."

Message for Tamara - Snippet

Tamara, it is my last wish that this letter reach you. I left the data and observations in other files. Even Beucher should realize this one is for you.

MovesLightwardAtDawn began the process of removing its hundreds of limbs from the cracks and crevasses in which they were lodged on a Tuesday, I think. The Tuesday before our anniversary, in fact. I'm sorry I missed being with you. I hope you know that.

Considering it took me more than two days to make my request clear, I had begun to think I would never succeed. Then again, it seems that the success didn't end up amounting to much, personally. I know the progress I made will help the team continue the contact, but right now, writing to you, I don't feel it wasn't worth it.

I know you wanted to be on the next team. I beg you, please don't. Someday people might be safe, but not yet. I love you so much. Stay safe. Get back to Earth. Live a long life.

In all the ficsims, the heroes who have limited air always reach their new air supply just in time. I had more than a week's worth when ProtectsSmallStranger took its new name, and began moving upward in the kilometers-deep crevasse, but it's not enough. My eyes are bleary, and I know part of the reason is oxygen deprivation. The rest? Tears.

I've been dreaming of you every time I sleep for the past several days. My only consolation is that I will fall asleep before the end. I will see you in my dream. One last time.

As They Truly Are

Droplets glide down the chrome tubing of the stool's legs, sliding into the crimson pool, which spreads, grows, expands, reaching the broken, thorny stem of the rose which was the bait, but now lies snapped in two, like the neck of the recipient, who has become the donor of sweet life, to one who had been mistaken for a romantic tragic figure fighting against his nature, but who could no more deny his needs than an oak tree could deny water.

A shame, he always thinks, that some of the precious elixir always escapes to stain the site of the meal. He chooses to believe it is a tithe, a tribute, a libation to the undying source who created his kind.

Why are the humans so ready to believe that they have encountered the one special case, the single unholy drinker who will resist their blood?

There is no such being.

But he feeds on the vague human fascination with the possibility.

Snippet - Dead Tom

Removed because I'm paranoid. I really like this idea, and I want to work it in private.

Snippet

Feathery voices waft past, gossamer fills my mind, I see through hazy molten air.

A lifetime ago, the boy had slipped in. In the frozen reaches of memory, the shock of the wintry lake water burned at my skin.

A face hovers above me, indistinct, puffing, saying something. Too far away. I can't make it out.

Where is the boy? I wonder. I feel the wet scarf. My hand still clutches it, the wool frozen to my fingers.

Where is the boy? As I slide down the warmth ahead of me, I realize I might never know.

Or perhaps, I will know very soon. Perhaps I will find out. Find out everything.

Drizzle for the Sally

"Karnblarn it, Sigil," Danny spat, "you've mulloxed up that twistie."

"Yeah, Sig, and with me starving, too." Kyra always piled on, the karning sally that she is.

"Don't blast me a new face," I replied. I'm always quick with the comeback, as you know. So I added "Stopper the sluice-hole." Under my breath-like.

Kyra didn't get it. Danny did. Swung at me with the swatstick he always had on him. I knew he would, so my field was there, and sparks just flew.

Kyra always laughs when sparks fly. She is such a sally. I wished we'd never batched her, but Danny wouldn't have a duo anymore, and I didn't feel like casting about. Too much wasted swathing and reeling.

I notched the machy with my thumb -- it didn't have a retpay hole -- and got Danny his twistie. Just to avoid the skreeling, I notched again for a limey drizzle and gave it to Kyra.

She smiled and started slurping.

What a karning sally.

Why did I ever have kids?

Sojourn Ends

Fresh stardust coated her petals as she awoke. Slowly, she lifted one eyelid barely a hair's breadth. The prismatic hues of her just-dawn surroundings took her breath away momentarily. She rustled her leaves in appreciation. As if in response, a slight breeze made the hyacinth among which she was standing dance alongside her, their royal petals swaying lightly to acknowledge the joy they felt at sharing a bed with their princess. She bowed her head in response and coaxed her petals to a deeper blue out of respect.

Still, the day could not be spent enjoying the company of these tranquil subjects. Her journey was far from over. She allowed her roots and stems to shrink and harden into talons, and her brilliant petals to shift into feathers. Then, with a soft cry from her new beak, she bade farewell to her bedmates and flew on.



.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.


Want to see hyacinths? Try here, or here, or here, or here.
And for the appearance of the princess when in bird form, inspired by hyacinths, try this, or even this. The former is a Hyacinth Macaw, but the latter is more what I pictured. Of course, there is also the Fairy Bluebird, which looks a bit martial. Perhaps the princess will assume this shape when she arrives at her destination.

Tide of Darkness - snippet 3

Ben walked in, almost an hour later than normal. He wasn't looking forward to the next few days, tearing down equipment, archiving data, trying to imagine what he would do once the lab was closed. At first, the meaning of Henri's words didn't sink in.

"She went."

"Who went? Where?" Ben asked.

Joan and Henri just rolled their eyes again. They did that to Ben a lot, he thought. Joan answered.

"Angela. She swept."

Ben's froze. His hand was still holding his coat, an inch from the hook, his arm outstretched clumsily as his head swiveled to face his co-workers.

"She what?"

Fourteen months ago, the first probe had swept, and then returned. The hundreds of round-trips since had yielded tremendous amounts of data. All of the readings confirmed Angela's hypotheses. And yet, the funding was cut off. Angela had only swept a few live payloads, and only one of those was a vertebrate. According to the time-line in her funding request, human trials were still a year or more away.

"And she's late," Henri added, softly. Ben dropped his coat. "She took a current scheduled to cycle seventy-four minutes, but that was more than five hours ago."

"The coil?" Ben managed to stammer his question.

"It was here when Henri arrived this morning. I checked it when I got here. The readings say it returned on schedule. We sent it back. It came back again, empty."

Empty.

"She left a message," said Henri. "Said she was sure it would be safe. 'The committee worries too much,' she said. So she was going to prove it.""

She was gone. Angela was gone. First, the lab was being shut down. Now, Angela was gone. And with the lab closed, they'd never get her back. He'd never see her again. His mind emptied. Perhaps he stood there for several minutes; perhaps for hours. He didn't know. What would he do now? Finally he was brought back to consciousness when Joan touched his arm.

"Clearly," she said, "we have to go get her."

Tide of Darkness - snippet 2

Her face was competent. It was Angela's demeanor that was attractive; lovely, even. A photo could not capture her essence, but a conversation left you wanting more. In some bygone age, she would have seemed a witch, for you could approach her with a firm grievance, and by the time she finished speaking, her spell would convince you that she was in the right, and that you were glad of it.

And, unlike the beautiful woman, her charms affected both sexes equally. At times, having spent a while away from her, some might wonder why they regarded her so highly. Still, Angela was also brilliant. It is hard to find fault with someone who is rarely wrong, especially when disagreeing with her in person would seem uncouth and callous.

There were a scarce few who had tried; those whose job required them to confront her, for example. Other people who were present for those occasions simply jumped to her support. The recording of Angela's third doctoral thesis seminar was amusing, actually. Once her presentation was complete, she didn't actually have to defend her positions at all. The reviewing academics, none of whom were truly on the same intellectual level as she, took turns posing the typical difficult questions and answering them. The question would be asked by one professor, her soft smile would say "I guess I shouldn't expect you to grasp it," and another professor would attempt an answer. She would then politely correct them both, and everyone in attendance would nod ascent.

And so it was not merely unusual, but practically unthinkable that her funding extension request had been denied by the board, in her very presence. That the board's primary advisor was Angela's lover, Paulo, and that he had sat there in support of their denial was inexplicable.

Inexplicable, at least, to Ben.

Snippet - Collaboration

"I can't explain it," said Nick, "but it wasn't memory, and it wasn't imagination."

Sharon helped him up from the floor as he continued. "What happened?" she asked.

"I was just standing there, thinking about Jonas, wondering how long he suffered before he finally, well, you know. Yes, it's morbid, but I can't help thinking about it. And then, bam! Cold! Like I jumped into an icy lake. And I could swear I was two feet in the air, seeing what Jonas must have seen as he gasped for breath. I could even see the snow swirling outside the window, like it was winter again. It seemed like it lasted forever, and I was going to black out, but I didn't. And then, smash! That mirror flew off the wall, hit me in the head, and I screamed and hit the floor."

"You know how that sounds, right?" Sharon said.

"Sure," Nick replied, shaking his head, willing the memory of the experience to leave, but it would not.

Tide of Darkness - snippet

Ben felt he would split in two. His joy at Angela's accomplishment was intense, overwhelming; the joy that only pride in a loved one can create. Yet the heartache was equally powerful. She had tried to remain calm, but his cheer uncorked her emotions, and she hugged him. Ecstasy! Then "I have to go tell Paulo! Back later!"

Just that fast, she was gone. Well, almost. She called out as she flew through the lab's outer doors a moment later "Finish capturing the data, OK? I want to send a transcript first thing in the morning."

Stunned, he turned back to the workstation. He didn't know what to do next. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Joan and Henri break open the celebratory wine and exchange knowing glances; pitying glances, he thought. My God. They had done it. Well, Angela had done it. And he had been there. And now, he was still here. And all he could think about was Angela running to Paulo.

Paulo would never understand. The device had attenuated perfectly. The wave appeared exactly as Angela had postulated. A sensation very like pent-up static electricity had filled the room, Angela had called for a slight adjustment in potential, Ben had complied, and then had practically felt the rush as air filled the vacuum where the probe had been.

That the probe would return in just over 31 hours was not in doubt. At least, not for Ben. Angela's calculations were perfect, and he had checked them, once he understood the theory. He'd never be able to do what she did, but at least he could follow her line of reasoning. At least he could help. But Paulo? That banker? Never.

Ben's resolve returned. His fingers flew across the keypad. He'd capture the data. And organize it. And have a first draft of the transcript ready before she returned.

Surely, she'd appreciate that.

Random Bits

Quote for the day:

Talent hits a target no one else can hit; Genius hits a target no one else can see.
- Arthur Schopenhauer

Hmmm. So, would I rather be a great talent, or a great genius? If no one can see your target, you probably look delusional. So, does it matter how you look? What if you never reach your target?

Link for the day:

Sarah sent me this one, to a musical light display. It is fantastic. You have to listen to it, too.

Python Update of the Day:

Entering today, I've seen episodes 1-6. Episode 6 has "The Dull Life of a City Stockbroker" which has probably the first televised nudity I ever saw. Oh, and "Crunchy Frog." I bet there is a website that lists all the sketches, by episode. Let's find out. One, Two, Three. One is imdb.com and doesn't list all the sketches. Two is Wikipedia (of course) and it lists the sketches and even has a link as if it's going to take you to a bio of Johann Gambolputty, but it doesn't. Three is a fan site, and even lets you download scripts! And it has the greatest name in German Baroque music, in its entirety, in the script!

Snippet of the Day:

Feeling a bit turquoise (which was somewhat like lackadaisical, with a dash on ennui and a pinch of "who the hell cares") he stepped out into traffic without waiting for the light to change. The oncoming bus swerved, hitting a little Toyota, but missing him entirely. Taking this as a sign, he completed the crossing, tripping slightly on the curb. He entered the Olde English and swore to himself never to set foot in McTaggert's Pub again.

Setting and Stream

The setting: The backyard of a small house in the midwest on a dreary day in October, surrounded by a fence, painted brown a few years earlier. The grass hasn't been cut in over two weeks. The yard contains a swing set (metal, rusting at the bolts) with a plastic baby swing, a flat metal swing, and a slightly bent metal slide. Near the house, a picnic table, with a garden shears and a work glove sitting on it. An old crabapple tree grows between the table and the swing set.

The characters: a garden snake, a tree squirrel, a toy robot with its head turned backwards, and a squirt gun.

And now: what sort of story to build? Fable? Children's book? Fantasy? Allegory? Sci-fi? The fable only needs the snake and the squirrel, I think.

Before I mentioned the characters, the story could have been a standard realistic novel. What if, instead of characters, those items were merely present in the setting?

Stretch, mind, stretch.

And then, write.