38: Equilibrium

What’re you writing, he asked, peering over her shoulder, and she replied, I’m trying to write a story about equilibrium. Well, do you want the scientific kind, the ear kind, or just plain old balance? Any of those would do, she said. He stood still thinking, his blank face that just passes seconds and isn’t doing anything, said, I don’t know why you waste your time. Perfect bait, but she didn’t reply. He left and there came the story, the writing furious as she worked to undermine him, drop him to the floor.

37: Three Guys on Fire

He swerved the car, scraping an oncoming vehicle trying to avoid the three guys on fire standing in the road. The living matchsticks were still, ghosts eyes staring back from some netherworld painting. Lost consciousness then a voice, how’s your head, as vision returned, a cloud fizzling, flashing lights, his hands lifting to brush black smoke.

36: Rock Star

Once when I was 15 I was in a mall music store, picked up a guitar. In the store window I saw a ghost reflection of a rock star, LP cover and festival pose, then a small boy staring through. I gave him some Eddie Van Halen two-handed tapping. His eyes were wide, like I was MTV. Later, I saw him in the pet shop looking at hamsters and tarantulas. I gave him a wagging tongue, crazy air picking, but I was now invisible, fading pointless hero.

35: Zurich

Suddenly a scorpion stung a woman in a Zurich bar. Outside the snow-covered Alps. A green-glassed bottle of Vollmond, label of moon by starry clear night, slipped from her hand, crashed. Her hand molten lava. The scorpion scuttered. People stopped and stared. Only one person thought to scream.

34: Near the Pond Fishing

Years before we stood near the pond fishing, day fading into night. In one moment the air brushed the water surface. No voices, no sounds, except crickets, frogs, leaves. The splashing of water, the whirring of pulled line. Hey, I caught one, you said. I turned and you were gone.

33: Detachable Detective

As kids we used to play this game called detachable detective. We’d make up mysteries to solve. No game board but just telling it like a story, back and forth. I was the detachable one, able to take off arms and legs, hands and feet. One time I took off my head and you said, enough, time for something else. Years later I remembered the game ended without my putting my head back on. I called you and you said, well it’s too late now, spoken like truth.

32: The Canoe

The canoe pitched us into the cold waters, our bodies from the waist down instant popsicles. We stumbled to rocky shore, dragging the wobbly vessel, holding each other, a list of things soaked and ruined. Some day we’ll take inventory, laugh about our losses.

31: Grabbing the Moon

You tried grabbing the moon when I was holding you, arm outstretched, small hand clutching for night sky. I laughed, said, you can do it, and there it was in your palm, opaque ball humming like an electric heart.

30: The Writer There

The writer there. You mean the one inspecting tidbits of dust, trying to find paintings in the sky? Yes, that’s the one, go.

29: A Particular Sunset

You described it as like a baby being born. The sky orange and red, the day’s blue washing away. Beautiful, certainly, but I didn’t understand. I remember her wrapped in pink blanket. The world a blur, sleeping an hour at a time. Outside, snow and rain, white pellets tinkling against the window. The three of us in the hospital room and it’s more like sunrise, tired eyes and delirious smiles.

28: Invoice, Multiple Items

Dear B—, Enclosed is an itemized invoice for things unpaid from long ago. One Activision Keystone Kapers cartridge for Atari 2600, borrowed by you, claimed lost, $19.99; one baseball bat shattered in anger, without apology after humiliating strikeout, $7.99; one green swordtail fish, leapt to its death after you opened aquarium lid, chased it with net, $0.79. You owe me $30.21 including tax. This amount is based on actual purchase prices and doesn’t account for your careless scarring of my childhood memories. I know you won’t pay but perhaps years of guilt will change your mind. Best, C—

27: Pumpkins

You wanted a small one, the kind that fits easily in your little hands. I gave you a black magic marker so you could draw a face. It’s Mrs. Jelly, you said, holding up the orange orb, cowlick stem, face of circle eyes, triangle nose, jagged razor grin. It certainly is. The world outside dried leaves forming crunchy carpet, wood burning in stoves, whispering cold dusk. A landscape of monsters, your imagination.

26: The Epic Novel of Our Time

Christian Bell’s latest novel exceeds 800 pages but here’s the short take. A re-envisioning of various conspiracies but not like Dan Brown. The government, the Illuminati, Kennedy assassination, Black Ops, etc., but original interpretation. While writing this book, he claims to have seen his doppelganger, had his life threatened seven times, and witnessed streams of black cars patrolling his house. The novel is complete but awaits a publisher. What you see here, though, may be it. Tomes reduced to blurbs. Enjoy with Moscato d’Asti. The reading’s quick but, please, savor the wine.

25: Steak Tartare 6

V, in a world devoid of fire and electricity, forms a circle of uncooked meat, tops it with a fresh cracked egg. The questions are, from where did the meat and egg come, and is this dystopia past or future?

24: Ordering

He walked into the bar, tattered backpack over his shoulders, translation dictionary in his hands. With much struggle, he ordered a beer. The bartender, frustrated, sighed. He sipped his beer, printed a to-do list that stretched to his last day. Museums, stores, restaurants. Then he pondered the language: how much does that cost, good afternoon, may I buy you a drink?

Happy New Year!

I hope your 2010 is fantastic. Regular posts resume tomorrow.

23: Dale Murphy

Look, he says, my glove has Dale Murphy’s signature printed on it. That glove was magic playing school lot baseball. Snagging searing grounders, somehow stretching to catch flyballs that should’ve been just out of reach. His hand inside didn’t even sweat on blazing summer days. By the time the other kids looked inside the glove, the stitches had frayed and the webbing was worn enough to let balls slip out. One more inning, he’d shout, as night fell, as moths circled humming school building lights, their fake suns.

22: Like Penguins

They huddled on a frozen island, gathered close together like penguins. How they arrived, and why, and what would happen. The first instinct was huddle for heat. Next would be food, then how to go home. Eventually someone would climb above everyone, take command. Why is for later, now is for solutions. They wait for his promises. Boats made of air, seas leaping of cooking flames, seared fish captive on spits.

21: Something Borrowed

Here’s a book to borrow. I know that for you “borrow” is actually keep, since you won’t return it. This isn’t part of your chemistry. Please be kind to it. The pages are thin like a telephone book and the cover is glossy and black, displaying oily fingerprints. The plot is convoluted but the characters are like neighbors who would lend you spices, help change your oil. Please do not write in it. The margins are for your fingers to draw rectangles, your mind to have clear space.

Merry Christmas!

Have a Merry Christmas!  Regular posts resume tomorrow.

20: Picture Frame People

Those people in the photos that come with picture frames are government agents. Also, they can see through the frames carrying their pictures, spying into the private lives of the picture frame buying populace. Their eyes staring back at you are their eyes staring back at you, aided by microscopic camera, satellites orbiting Earth, and monitors on the other end of somewhere. That is, until you insert your own pictures.

19: A Favor

He called on the bureau guy for the owed favor. First the guy offered dinner at a high-end steakhouse, porterhouses like marble slabs, keen vintage port, Cuban Cohibas sold on the sly. He declined, said, give me details on a woman. An ex-fiancée, seven years prior. In three days, slipped under his door a manila folder. The pertinent details. Married, mother of two, didn’t stop him. Early evening he stood on her front step. Inside he heard laughter, the click-clack of shoes on floor. He waited for her voice, the brass door knob reflecting hazy street light.

18: Three Christians

At a jazz bar sipping cider, he overhears the guy behind him say his name is Christian, just like his. He turns around, says, that’s funny, that’s my name. The other Christian points to the guy next to him, says, he’s not Christian but his best friend was. The guy pulls up the sleeve of his shirt, reveals a heart-shaped tattoo bearing the name, his friend now dead. There’s a moment, three connected strangers, perhaps it’s spiritual, then the crowd returns, a swell of voice. The player on stage strums the bass, keeping time, holding the tune.

17: A Quick Take on Spider-Man

He’s a nerd whose parents are dead. A nuclear spider bites him. Now he’s split into two people, the nerd and the spider-like freak. Uncle Ben’s his surrogate father, his death a symptom of fallout. He looks to MJ, radioactive in her red flame hair. Their skies span endless, a chance to fly.

16: Underground

H descended the manhole ladder first, followed by K. Both with lights mounted to helmets. How far down does this go, H asked. Not sure, said K. Countless rungs. The air musty, old. Their voices became funneled echoes. They reached a point where the daylight above became a pinpoint. H stopped. Here, he thought, eyes closed, his mind on home. K tapped on his helmet. Keep moving. The world above invisible, ruins.

15: Kid Ego

Did you come down to earth when we cut strands of your long golden hair? She wanted to treat it like jewels, hide it away for a keepsake. We saw you in the corner, tears like a baby’s cry, your portrait melting. We wanted to strap you in a chair, make you watch us shave each other’s head, shine our boots and stomp the air. She’s the one you should thank, her head full of stardust.

14: The Letters

We sent letters to your last known address hoping you were still alive. But we found out you’d been dead for 12 years. All those letters—family updates of job promotions, marriages, deaths—sent nowhere. Last week, we learned our letters had become a museum exhibit. At first, we were aghast; then, we saw it and weren’t. Viewers were moved to tears, as were we, seeing our handwriting, our words to you thought long lost. We can’t help but keep writing, this art form of you not dead, we still clinging to obscurest hope.

13: Prisoner's Cinema

He sits on cold damp concrete, in darkness, sees lights. Swirls of red, orange, blue, yellow, white, green. His crime, stealing. Here comes a shadow with a bludgeoning tool.

12: Magnetic Pull

He went to the doctor because he wasn’t feeling right. He’d always complained of joints aching like nails have been driven through them but it had grown worse. Like the nails were trying to exit. He asked the doctor, is it magnetic pull? Are we getting to close to an asteroid belt, the moon, the sun? The doctor, his mouth twisted in frown, said, yes, we are, lowering his eyeglasses to look right through him.

11: Scribble

This is a scribble for your posterity. In the future you can open up this up and say, what, and she’ll look at you, like she does, and think, what are you holding on to, as you do.

10: Steak Tartare 7

Gordon Gekko, freed from prison, orders the steak tartare. He looks down at the meal and smiles. Greed is eternal. He’s got a plan. He takes a bite. Here is his life again.

9: The Something

The something arrived one day, a fractured monument in miniature resting in the town square. You said, it looks like a golden avocado. I disagreed, thought it was more like squash, a copper color. Everyone saw the something differently. An authority said, it might be from space. Which caused parties, weirdness. Let’s not go, you said, and I agreed, so we watched the night from our window, celebrating things we knew, goblets of champagne and meteor showers.

8: Dinner Table

At dinner you said I could never keep it short. You wanna bet, I said. Your eyes over a glass of wine: your postcards are letters, your letters novels. The clock on the wall hadn’t worked since Halloween.

7: Donuts

He’s at the donut shop eating a piping hot donut dripping with cinnamon sugar and honey glaze. Pre-dawn, sipping coffee. He stares at the guy working at the counter, thinking, I know this guy, he looks so familiar. For weeks now. It’ll come to him, as the door’s bells clang, a cold wind slipping inside like a forlorn stranger.

6: A Story About Glass

You didn’t know this but I walked by your house everyday and I would stop and listen to the music coming from within. Your windows open. The sound of a strumming guitar. Wasn’t sure if it was live or from the stereo. Then I heard your singing one day. Words about healing broken hearts of poor children living in rusted tenements. That day I was going to write a story about glass but instead stopped and listened, leaves rustling on a day it didn’t rain.

5: Earth-Two

Just a short note letting you know we’re alive and well here on Earth-Two (though that term is not used). We still have our own Flash, Wonder Woman, Superman, though you’d probably see them as outlet-store imperfections. They pound the concept of parallel lines into us from pre-school. Perpendicular means jail time. Multiverse is dirty talk. We’re all slightly off. This is a short note. Too bad you will never get this note.

4: Hubble

He died, felt an upward swoosh, a bullet’s journey. Soon he realized he was in the Hubble Telescope. Swirls of galaxies, stars born in dusty light. The auroras of planets, burning balls spinning in cold. Jill always wondered, was the universe expanding or contracting? Now he had the answer.

3: Rooftop

I brought you out on the rooftop not to jump but to stare. Here’s the city, in all it’s everything. Neat cornrows of brick houses. The jagged Lego of office buildings. Right there is where I lived when I was five. The walls were paper, I was afraid of the neighborhood kids, and my dad broke the tv during the World Series. Over there’s a cloud of smoke that billows. There’s no fire and it dies. Come back tomorrow and we can fly kites, pretend the end places of roads.

2: Leviathan

A marine biologist journeyed to the Cook Islands. At sea, he and his crew detected something large moving on sonar. 1,100 meters depth, moving at 11 knots. Suddenly, down to 1,700 meters, speed at 16 knots, moving south-southwest, disappearing, out of range. They look at each other: what the hell was that? Several hours waiting for a return, but nothing. At dinner that night they needed more wine. Free flow the syrah. That night he feel asleep not thinking gas pockets, new submarine technology, school of fish but rather unknown, prehistoric, biblical.

1: Zugzwang

When he reached zugzwang, he resisted the urge to upend the chess board. The bishop, the king—any move and it’s checkmate. Fracturing a morning of raspberry scones, Sumatra blend coffee. He looked across the board at his opponent, grey beard but younger, biting his upper lip waiting. There’s a new Grandmaster of Wharf Street, he thought. To his left, a trash truck moved, revealing egg yolk sun peaking over oily water.

Welcome

Posts are scheduled to begin on November 15, 2009. There will be one post per day every other day, 50 posts total.  Each post will be a work of fiction under 100 words.