Is that Him?

Posted on May 6, 2014 by Catastrophe Jones

At first blush, the man sitting at the table looks to be in his early thirties, young enough that he could still be confused for a non-traditional college student, or maybe someone working through his PhD. He seems nervous and distracted, fussing with his napkin, rearranging the silverware at his place setting, and then the place setting across from him.

At his left hand is a small box wrapped in glossy black paper, held closed by a brilliantly iridescent bow. He touches the box, covers it with a napkin, hides it behind the water glass, the candle, in his suitjacket pocket, and finally he simply reaches over and sets it oh-so-carefully onto the bread plate at the setting across from him. Inside it is a beautiful ring; it looks heavy and cold, bejeweled and dazzling. I know this, because he took it out of the box and put it back in, took it out, and put it back in, took it out, and put it back in, at least six times, carefully re-tying the bow at the end.

He looks at the door, and checks his watch repeatedly, and in the hour that I have been here, he has gone from desperately nervous to wrenchingly crushed. It is somewhere around the forty-five minute mark that the waiter gingerly offers to open a bottle of house red, and he agrees, holding his glass like a three year old with a sippy cup, looking up through thick lashes that can not hide the impossible hope of those bright green eyes.

I watch him neaten his suit, straighten his tie, clear his throat, smooth his hair, do everything he could think of to make himself as shining and happily expectant as possible.

How like a hopeful dog he looks, eyebrows lifting, nose in the air as though to scent the absent Master who must be coming soon, of course He will be coming soon, how could He not be coming soon–is that Him?

Is that Him, now?

Is that Him, yet?

When I am finished with my own meal, I excuse myself from my company, and I move to stand beside the empty chair opposite him. He looks instantly guarded, almost defensive, but my smile brings out an answering grin, and by the time he has finished his glass of wine, his cheeks are pink with both alcohol and laughter, and he has agreed to go for a walk with me. The box is put back into his suitjacket pocket, and as we leave the restaurant, his hand slips into mine.

Of all of my lovers, I imagine I will regret his tomorrow morning the most, but it can’t be helped — I’m in too deep to let a pair of puppy eyes get in the way of my plans.

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Dialogue

Posted on May 5, 2014 by Catastrophe Jones

“How long are you going to sit in here and mope?”

“At least as long as you stand out there an ask me stupid questions.”

“Fair enough. Listen, Janey and I are going out for fro-yo. Did you wanna come?”

“Nope.”

“You sure? They’ve got that Euro-tart flavor you like.”

“Euro tart was Amy’s favorite.”

“Okay, then they’ve got those mini marshmallows you like to put on. We could see if they have the Red Velvet Cake flavor?”

“I’m not up for it.”

“Okay.”

“Are you still there?”

“…yeah.”

“Aren’t you going to get fro-yo?”

“No.”

“I thought you and Janey were going — won’t she be disappointed?”

“I was lying. Janey hates fro-yo.”

“So why’d you lie?”

“I just don’t want you to be stuck in the bathtub all day.”

“What do you care if I leave the bathtub?”

“I’m just trying to see if I can get you motivated in any direction — I need the shower later.”

“Thanks.”

“Just being honest!”

“Unless you’re lying about fro-yo.”

“You didn’t want me to lie about the fro-yo.”

“So you’re just being honest.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“So, in your honest opinion, I’m moping?”

“Yeah. I mean, how long can you really be sad about it?”

“I was thinking I’d get a week out of it, at least!”

“A week’s a long time, bro.”

“Bro? Really?”

“Sorry.”

“Right.”

“Anyway. I’m sorry about Amy. She seemed like a nice girl. Until, y’know, the restraining order and the pipe bomb and the fetal pigs.”

“Yeah. Thanks, man.”

“No prob.”

“…what.”

“You, uh. How long you gonna be in there?”

* * *

So, the Return serial was an entire short story done without any dialogue whatsoever. Here’s a piece in which there’s nothing BUT dialogue. Tell me, do you have a preference? I find it INSANELY easier to write dialogue (even if it’s crap) than not, and sometimes I feel like it tells more of a story than any other descriptive prose.

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Alternates

Posted on May 4, 2014 by Catastrophe Jones

Sleep came easier, that night, but was full of the nightmares again. He hadn’t had them in years, hadn’t thought about the accident, or anything about it, or before it, in so long. The therapist had advised him to put it behind him, and use it as a reminder that life was short, and he should experience as much as he could, learn to better himself, and never take things for granted. So far, in his short decade and a half on the earth, he imagined he was doing all right with that.

But the nightmares made him feel like a kid of little more than five.

He woke up, mouth thick with sleep, a scream choking his throat, unable to be voiced, one hand clutching the sheets, one hand reaching out into nothing, reaching so hard, his shoulder hurt.

A shower, breakfast, and shoving onward to classes and trying to get things done had done nothing to clear his head. He couldn’t think, during class, and more than once, he was called on, and asked to stop daydreaming. Even James noticed, and kept hissing his name as a warning to try and keep him from getting in trouble. Detentions would keep him from being able to go out this weekend.

“Pete!” James hissed. “What the fuck’s the matter with you? That’s the second kick you’ve blown,” his friend snapped, during PE.

“Bad night’s sleep,” Peter said, looking sheepish, and casting a telling look at his friend as they ran back up the length of the court, sneakers squeaking on the heavily polished floor as the other team’s goalie set up a long kick.

James immediately looked like he regretted asking, and blushed. “Sorry, dude. Keep your head down, or Coach’ll keep us late to run agility. I just wanna get through this period. We’re having tacos for lunch, and I’m fucking starved. Here it comes.”

Peter’s head snapped up, and he looked at James with burning eyes, half-bewildered, half-disbelieving. “What did you say?”

“PETE LOOK OUT!” James yelped, but it was far too late.

The soccer ball clocked the young boy in the head, and dropped him to the gymnasium floor.

Coach immediately ran over, sent everyone else off to the showers, and knelt down to slap the boy’s cheek, trying to rouse him. “Kingsley! Kingsley — Peter! Son, wake up. Can you hear me?”

“Hurts. Can we stop now? I’ll wrap the taco,” the boy mumbled.

“Just what we need. A G. D. Concussion,” Coach growled, moving to help him to his feet and then barked to James, “Lovett! Get Kingsley to the nurse. I’ll call ahead. Can you walk, Kingsley?”

“Is it time? Is it time yet?” he wondered, looking around with unfocused eyes.

“Move it, Lovett,” Coach snapped.

“Yessir,” James said. “C’mon, Pete. C’mon — this way. Can you even see? Shit, did, your nose is bleeding. I told you to keep your head down.”

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Watch the fires go out

Posted on May 3, 2014 by Catastrophe Jones

I know when she wakes, she’ll walk out of that place, Sleeping Beauty crawling out of the thorns surrounding her castle. She’ll come up, breaking the surface, a deep sea diver taking a long-needed breath.

She won’t be able to help herself, and she’ll make her way across the canyons of carnage, the rubble, past the twisted steel and shattered glass, the rocks and husks of cars, and she’ll look for me.

I know, because we’ve been there before.

We’ve done this a hundred times.

A hundred hundred times.

A thousand thousand times.

She’ll find me on this pile of rubble, my eyes red-rimmed, my gloves off, my coat torn. She’ll ask me what happened and I won’t have any real answers, so I’ll just light a cigarette.

The fight turned, sometime while she was asleep, and when the Statue of Liberty fell, it went from a silent war to a full-on horror-show, all red all the time, fire and blood and in the night, in the shadows, whatever moved was likely trying to kill you.

The fight turned while she slept, and we all became what they promised themselves we would. We all became the monsters they feared, and they hunted us, so we hunted them.

My hands aren’t bloody, but that’s simply coincidence.

I’ll light her a cigarette too, and offer out my hand.

When she takes it, like she always does, the city itself will shudder, and we will stand there, holding hands, smoking, watching the fires go out, one by one.

Again.

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We're All Human, Even When We're Not

Posted on May 2, 2014 by Catastrophe Jones

Written as the answer to Chuck Wendig’s challenge ‘Behold Your Theme’. 400 words.

* * *

Running over the rooftops, leaping over alleyways, tuck and roll, breathing panting, sky falling, streets burning, foundations trembling and all she can think is ‘faster, faster, faster’ — she exists as a splash of violent color against the dark sky, not that anyone looks up anymore — gasping and reaching and struggling to keep going.

That’s what she’s always doing.

Struggling.

Still going.

How, I never quite know.

Her limbs are too long; her hair is too wild; her voice is too rough; her eyes are too big; her determination is too dangerous.

I don’t look away. I can’t look away.

Watching her is a beautiful thing. They’re all beautiful, the lot of them, scattered across the city, running like Hell itself is giving chase.

Running because Hell itself is giving chase.

She darts left, then right, ducking behind bulkheads, sailing across the empty space between 480 6th Avenue and 486 6th Avenue, three floors from the street. She’s been running all day, and if luck holds out, she’ll be running all night. She’s running out of time, running out of space. I can tell she doesn’t have much left in her from the way she hits the rooftop of the red brick building and comes up staggering.

She looks left and right, a wild animal, tasting blood and fire in the air, and keeps running.

As she approaches the end of the rooftop, I inhale, as though my held breath would see her make the jump.

When she launches herself across the next gap, arms pinwheeling, I exhale, and fire.

The night lights up, the briefest of flashes.

When I climb the fire escape and reach her side, the expression on her face isn’t what I’m expecting. She doesn’t wear betrayal. Instead, she seems frustrated to still be wearing a tipless glove on her right hand. Her left lies useless, that shoulder obliterated by my shot, smoking in the night air, what is left of it fanned out and plastered to the roof, the red of her gone black in the dark of the night.

She doesn’t care; she wants the glove off.

She holds it out to me, and I peel the brightly colored material from her shaking fingers.

“At least it was you,” she says, and slides the palm of her naked hand over the stubble on my cheek. Her hand is already cold.

I nod, but say nothing.

She’s already gone.

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