Between Blog Posts: Part 3

Over the past month I have been able to find a few second and even a few minutes here and there that have allowed me to let my mind meander about and pull together different images and glimpses into the lives of fictional characters. Even while trying to catch up on the blog, there were still a few much needed moments when I needed to take a momentarily creative leave from reality. It is still unclear as to what will be done with all of these little pieces and whether they tie together somehow or if they are completely separate stories. So, following my notes from New Jersey Transit uncovered in the beginning of August, part 1 recorded in the middle of the month, and part 2 published a couple of weeks ago, I bring you another installment in this sporadic series.

6AM

The neighborhood kids called him Mr. Brown but he had many different monikers throughout his life. Whenever they would call his name in the morning he would turn his head and give him them a slight smile. No one said anything else to him. They let him be and simply watched in silence as he went about his morning routine.

He peered out the window each morning at 6am looking up at the sky. When the sun shone on the horizon he would put on his slippers, a coat when the weather turned bitter, and opened the front door with a slow and deliberate precision that baffled those watching.

His purposeful steps didn’t take him far. They carried him to the corner of his walkway and into a gravel bed surrounding his flag pole. Her he would take the flag tucked under his arm, unfold it, and raise the stars and stripes in a way that is familiar to few but respected by all who witness the ceremony.

Every morning he would pause at half-mast with a kind sadness in his eyes that revealed much more about his routine. In a moment of stillness he seemed to mutter almost apologetically before hoisting the flag to the top of the pole. Securing the rope with a figure eight and solitary knot, he would then turn and return to the front door stiffly closing it behind him as if trying to keep out the memories.

When the sky prepares to succumb to the night everyone watches as he emerges from behind his seclusion almost with a sense of relief that the evening will soon descend and another day will end in silence. He returns the flag to the earth folding into a precise triangle, tucked it under his arm, and carried it with reverence back into his home.

As the amber deepens into red and before the purple hue of dusk, a small glimmer of yellow can be seen waiving lightly from the trunk of his oak tree seemingly giving farewell. The same bitter parting he was offered when his son was deployed.

And now the tattered ribbon tethers the memories of a neighborhood as they all remember the jovial laugh that would fill the small street every time Mr. Brown came home from work. A laugh that only lives in distance echoes. But now there is only night. Now there is only silence. For one more day.

Between Blog Posts: Part 2

Earlier in the month I shared some story notes that I uncovered during a bout of digital archaeology and last week I posted another piece that I jotted down between a couple of blog posts and projects. Well, it happened again. While doing some work and personal research this past week, a small light began flickering in my mind like a projector and played a small scene for me. All that was shone is what is recorded below. This, like the other ideas recorded on this blog, might be interesting to pursue when I have a little more time to commit to this type of writing. But, for now, here is what was played for me…

5AM

Jim was never a morning person and never pretended to be one unless he was applying for a job. This was the conflict that stirred in his mind as the alarm echoed off the empty apartment walls.

He kicked the soiled sheets to the other side of the bed and placed his hand in the cold empty hollow in the mattress next to him. It almost didn’t feel like it was worth it to try and get up but he could stand the thought of lying there alone.

As he staggered to his feet the faux floor whined between his toes. In the bathroom he plunged his worn face in the stagnant sink filled with the same water that had been lingering for days.

The spotted mirror told him all he needed to know reflecting his shadow riddled eyes buried behind his beard.

He rustled through his clothes looking for something that could pass as presentable, something that may have appeared on a store shelf in the last twenty years.

Cleaned and dressed to the standard that had haunted him for the past three years, he opened his bedroom door and walked down the short moonlit hallway to the stack of disposable bowls awaiting him in the kitchen. Like the hundreds of days before, he opened the only stocked cabinet, pulled out a box, and watched the sweet processed puffs as they piled into the paper vessel.

Some people take great care with their diet, Jim was not one of those people.

By the time the sun had begun to inch over the horizon, he was already walking deliberately down the stairs, step by step, counting each one as if the total would be different than all the other days.

The orange and red of the sky surprised him and a smile nearly curled the corners of his mouth when it was quickly slapped from his face by the noise of the city. His simple routine had taken him nearly two hours and now the remaining minutes of the early morning were few and precious.

While little had changed that morning maybe the day would be different. Maybe this would be the day when the burdens of the past would be lifted. Maybe the events of the day would allow him to forget. Maybe this job would be different than the last one, and the one before that, and the one before that, and the one before that…

Between Blog Posts: Part 1

Recently, while going from one topic to the next whether that be at work or while writing about different topics for the blog I find my mind wandering a little bit into the other side of my brain. It’s almost as if it fell off that fine line that I am constantly walking between the two hemispheres and all of the sudden the ideas for stories begin flowing through my fingers. They are only glimpses but, like the rough ideas that I shared before which I uncovered in my computer, I wanted to share them here. After all, you never know what I might do with them…

4AM

Ben had been up all night with the only light shining on the dark country road being the one piercing through his kitchen window. The highway asphalt in the distance had been quite for hours and the autumnal wind carried with it the scent of the approaching season. His work was done, for now, but his labor was just beginning.

The hinges screamed as he pulled the front door toward him. A sound that had become all too familiar in recent weeks. But in that moment, in the darkness of morning, he was the only one who could hear the house shrieking.

His legs were heavy from the rigor of the night and while a fog filled his eyes his mind continued to meander through memories. It took an unexpected effort to traverse the walkway but he endured the haunting thoughts and failing limbs finally slumping over on the rusted trunk of his car. 

He swung open his creaking door and collapsed into the tattered driver’s seat. Turning the key he hoped that the engine would start just one more time. He had a lot of things to do that day but his only desire was to stay home. As the exhaust plumed in the rear view mirror he swallowed the last remanence of cold coffee, rubbed his eyes with his red hands, and slowly skidded down the leaf strewn driveway.

The winding road coddled his eyes while the pings of loose pavement kept his lids from closing. It wasn’t long before he could see the lights from the gas station emerge from the crest of the hill, people walking back to their cars with steaming cups, and the traffic light blinking yellow and red like a beacon on a desolate shore.

As he turned the corner he could hear a rumble cascading across the road. By the time he turned his head the truck had already breached the passenger door. His body was thrown across the intersection until finally resting face down in front of the weathered array of lingering campaign signs.

When the police arrived, they found nothing to identify him, a car which had disintegrated into an unrecognizable heap of scrap, and a heart that had long since stopped pumping. The only thing that they knew about him is what witnesses heard him gargle from between the blades of grass…    

“It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me.”

Uncovered During Some Digital Digging

Buried in one of the many old files that have been passed down from computer to computer over the last seven years I stumbled across a small word document containing the notes for a few story ideas that I jotted down back in 2009 while riding the train to work. There are a few interesting ideas and a number of options regarding the directions that these brief glimpses can go. What I find most interesting is I can remember each building, station, and person that I passed when these ideas came to mind. However, there are also many issues and a heck of a lot of polishing that needs to be done in each instance but thought I would share because it is interesting at times to consider the raw idea…

Her neck flexed and vanes protruded as the rope swung forward and back. A dripping lead pipe kept time in the echoes of the opposite corner. In the cool cavernous corner of the basement she pursed her lips for one more breath of musty air. Her body relaxed, she struggled to caress her lungs with one more pollen laden breeze.

She found the staccato of the braided hemp stuttering as it rubbed across the wooded floor support to be soothing. The light shaking reminded her of collecting tickets for the roller coaster at the amusement park on the boardwalk. At the end of the night, with the cool ocean air swollen with the stale smells of caramel corn and hot dogs, she would take the last ride.

She knew every turn, every drop. She sat in the same seat, front right, every night.

Pressing the start button, the hydraulics would hiss, and she would run to her seat. As the car began to climb the spiraled ascent she would pull the lap bar down, cross her legs, smile, and watch as Ocean City went to sleep.

As she neared the top the clicking crescendo echoed across the now empty park. Slowly, the car would tip forward and she would close her eyes and listen for the crashing waves.

The wind filled her lungs and caressed her face as she recalled every turn and dip, side to side, front to back, until the ride was over.

***

What is written by the hand is determined by the mind. The devious script of the foreseeing mind tells all. These hands shall harm no more than paper.

He studied the hand written letters line by line, word by word, letter by letter.

“See here. He Stopped. Like he was thinking. Like he didn’t know what came next.”

“Where? I don’t see it.”

“Right here.” He pressed his calloused finger to the middle of the first sentence. “Right there, as the d trails in the word hand there is a hesitation. The ink bleeds.”

“You’re right. As if he didn’t know what to say. That might explain why it is so cryptic.”

He brushed the note with the tips of his fingers mumbling something that, by his expression, seemed to be a circle of questions.

“What is it?”

“A man who takes so much pride in his writing, in his work, but no signature.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t know yet.”

***

The elderly man stared out the lower deck window of the arriving New Jersey Transit train.

“I know that walk.”

The half asleep crowd paid no attention to the hunched over man with the long white beard.

“I know that walk!”

Not a single look glanced his way as he pressed his hands against the window trying to grasp the shoes walking past.

“I know that man!”

The train hissed to a quick stop, the doors slid open, and the determined herd hurriedly pressed toward the nearest escalator.

The old man waited for the crowd to pass, slowly pressed himself to his feet, and took slow, measured steps toward the grinding paddles of the moving stairs.

As his eyes passed the horizon of the Penn Station lobby floor he saw those same salt stained brown shoes that passed by his window.

He slowly lifted his head and as his eyes met those of the owner of the brown leather shoes his brow lifted.

Both men stood in silence. They were of similar age and height. The two old me slowed their breathing. Mist pouring from the other man’s clean shaven face while the warm breath rolled from under the old man’s white beard.

The other man strained to stand strait, wincing as he pulled his chest up. In a disbelieving raspy whisper the other man said, “I thought you were dead.”

The old man responded with deliberate words, “I’m surprised you didn’t kill me.”

There may be something to the ideas above… of course, there may not be anything at all. I guess I am going to have to give them some more thought and try to find any notes or outlines that may be scribbled somewhere else. After that, it will all come down to finding the motivation to pursue the stories, develop the characters, and let everything unfold before me without over thinking the process of progression. That has always been the hardest part for me.