Chapter 4 - Descent
Brandon set his foot on the first iron step and flinched. A static charge raced across the twisting scrollwork under his shoe, but all he felt was a mild buzzing beneath his foot. He took another step, pulled gently, but firmly against Angela’s weight.
“I’m good,” he said by way of encouragement. “Come on. You can do it.”
He took another step and felt the boards shake as she followed him onto the stairs. He could hear the high-pitched whine of her voice as it hummed from between her lips.
“You’re fine. Take another step.” The shelves shifted and twisted slightly in his hands. “Angela…”
“I’m sorry,” she whimpered, “but I can’t. There’s too much twist in the stairs. I can’t hold on to it like this.”
He looked over his shoulder and saw what she meant. He was three steps down, trying for the fourth, and she was on the top step trying hard not to lose her grip while avoiding the railing.
“Okay, okay. Just carefully walk your hands down the shelving, maybe six inches, and try from there.” She blinked and then started to inch her fingers forward, toward the book.
“OhgodOhgodOhgodOhgod,” she mumbled as she moved forward.
“Good,” he said when she took a step down and closer to him. “Let’s try again.”
“It’s in my face. I can’t see where I’m stepping,” she said.
“Try to put it more over your right shoulder, sort of over the railing.”
He felt her shift the boards and then started to lose his footing on the step. He tried to lean the other way, over compensated and his elbow touched the center support. White lightning flew up his arm to his shoulder and down to his hand.
“SHIT!” he snarled and recoiled.
“Oh, God, I’m sorry!” Angela cried out.
“It’s all right, just don’t let go.” He took a breath and blinked a few times. “Okay, the bad news is touching the metalrailing hurts like hell. The good news is you don’t get sucked into the book.” He peeked up at her. “You all right?”
“Yeah.”
Brandon started down the stairs again, tilting the shelves slightly to the right to help Angela maneuver behind him. There was a sharp snap and she cried out, “OW!”
“What happened?”
“I hit the railing.” There was a pinched quality to her voice, pain and fear combined. “I’d like to avoid doing that again,” she said softly.
“I know. Come on.”
They slowly made their way down the remaining stairs, turning counter-clockwise around the sizzling center support pole; each of them sucking in sharp breaths of air as the stairs reached out covertly and singed a knee, a hand, a shoulder. A minute later Brandon touched the wood floor at the base of the staircase. He walked forward, Alan stepping to the side of the shelves again, his board raised, watching. Brandon turned toward him.
“Where are the stairs to the basement?” he asked.
“In the back corner, next to the bathroom,”
“Please tell me they’re wooden and straight,” Angela said softly.
Alan nodded. “The incinerator isn’t far from them, either.”
“Where’s your manager?”
“He’s up front counting the till. The barista is probably doing the same at the coffee counter. When they’re done they’ll switch and count the other till to be sure there aren’t any mistakes. It’ll take about ten minutes before they switch. We can make it down there before that.”
“Okay, wait,” Brandon muttered, “I need to turn back around.” He set the boards on his head once more, pirouetting underneath as he repositioned his hands. He nodded at Angela as she lowered her end to a more reasonable height. “Let’s go.”
There was a loud crack behind her as the stairs threw out another arc of static. She saw the bright flash of it reflected in Brandon’s eyes and flinched.
“It’s okay,” he told her. “Just a little further.”
“I know,” she said through clenched teeth. “Let’s just get it over with.”
He nodded and started to walk backwards toward the unisex bathroom at the back of the store. She followed and grimaced, her steps uneven and clumsy.
“You okay?” Alan asked her.
She shook her head, but kept walking. “I think I twisted my ankle when I ran down the stairs for the water bottles. I didn’t really notice until now.”
“Do you want me to take the boards?”
“No. I’ll be fine, it just smarts, that’s all.”
Alan gave her an unconvinced look as she stepped gingerly on it again. “You’re sure.”
“Yes. Besides, I’d rather keep that damn thing where I have some control over it, no offense.”
“None taken.”
They walked in silence for several steps and then Alan shook his head. “Did you see the dust?” he asked softly.
“Inside the book?” she asked.
“Yeah. On the ground. What do you think…”
“People,” Brandon said quietly. Alan looked at him. “Maybe insects, maybe a mouse or two, but mostly people.”
“But how?”
“Whoever touched it before me must have knocked it out of the shelf. It was on the floor when I found it and I was going to put it back.” He looked at Angela. “I didn’t see anyone when I was pulled in. Just the pages, the words, and dust all over the ground.” She blinked a few times and swallowed. “It must have been a while before I touched it. Hours.”
“Christ,” Alan whispered. “How the hell did it ever get in here in the first place?”
“I don’t know, but we need to get it out,” Brandon replied, looking over his shoulder at the “Staff Only” sign on the door behind him. “Do you have a key to get us down there?”
Alan jammed his hand in his pocket and pulled out a ring of keys. “Yeah, here.” He turned to the door and unlocked it, pushed it wide open and flipped on the light. “Be careful, the steps are a little steep.”
There was a menacing sizzle and snap along one wall. He looked back at the stairs and cringed as static leapt between the metal brackets holding the wood railing in place. “Don’t touch anything,” he muttered.
“Why?” Angela demanded. “I thought you said they were wooden!”
“The steps are and so is the banister. But the brackets that hold the banister to the wall are metal. And they’re throwing sparks.”
“Jesus! I can’t do this!” she wailed.
“Are there railings on both walls or just one?” Brandon asked.
“Just one.”
Brandon turned to Angela. “Okay, we can do this. We’ll just lean on the wall without the banister and stay as far away from the railing as we can. It’s what, twelve steps? We can do that. Come on.” He backed toward the basement door. “Alan, go down there and get the incinerator ready. Once we get to the bottom I want to throw this damn thing in and get the hell out of here.”
“Right. Be careful,” Alan said and disappeared down the steps. There was a loud snap followed by a curse.
“All right. All in one go,” Brandon said to Angela. “No stopping unless we absolutely have to. Remember, lean on the wall without the railing and go for it.”
Angela nodded. “Okay.”
They started down the stairs and pressed their shoulders into the blank wall. The way was steep and narrow and as Brandon reached the first bracket it flung out a spark and struck him in the thigh.
“Damn it!” he growled. Angela hesitated. “Don’t stop!” he shouted. “Just go! All the way down, go, go, go!” They stumbled and half fell down the remaining steps; both of them turned broadside to the wall to stay out of reach of the static.
Brandon came down hard on the basement floor, the last step taller than all the rest. He stumbled, lost his balance and fell backward, dragging Angela down the steps. She fell into the railing, right on top of a bracket, and screamed. The static charge flew up around her and sent her hair out in all directions, lit her face in an unearthly bright light. Brandon pulled the shelving with all his strength and she fell forward and to the right, still clinging to her end of the boards.
“Angela!” he yelled.
Alan came running from down the hall. “What happened?”
“We slid down the stairs…the electrical charges…I fell and dragged her into the railing,” Brandon stammered as he tried to kneel and still hold the shelving in place. Alan smacked the boards hard with his own, the vibration from the strike sending a different kind of electric jolt through everyone’s hands.
“Jesus! What the hell?!” Brandon shouted.
“The book!” Alan yelled back. “Look!”
“Oh God,” Angela managed to whisper as she also tried to kneel. “Brandon, don’t move. It’s almost to your fingers.”
~ Peace and vigilance
They say you should be careful what you wish for, and perhaps this can be applied to that which we hope to win. Be that as it may, I desire a writing life and so I am embarking on the journey, risking and writing in order to win it, a writer's life.
Showing posts with label struggling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label struggling. Show all posts
Friday, October 1, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
Porter's Bookstore - Chapter 3
Chapter 3 - Alan
Angela hit the wooden floor at the bottom of the stairs wrong and twisted her ankle. With a muttered apology she pushed past a woman and her daughter and hobble-ran towards the rear of the store where the tiny coffee counter was hidden in a nook between the romance novels and the literary fiction. She headed for the cold case and grabbed two water bottles. Without slowing down she pushed her way past customers to the counter, slammed the bottles down and dug in her purse for her wallet. The man who had been next in line stared at her in complete disbelief.
“God, I am so sorry,” she stammered as she struggled to disentangle the faux leather billfold from the neon pink address book taking up way too much space in her bag.
“I swear I never, ever do this. It’s an emergency.” She grabbed a ten from the wallet and threw it onto the counter. “Keep the change,” she said as she thrust the wallet back in her purse and grabbed the bottles. “I am so sorry, really. I swear I will never do this again. I swear,” and she ran for the stairs.
Never in her life had she felt as slow running up a flight of stairs as she did now. Every step seemed to fight her, twisting out of her reach just enough to slow her down.
“Wait!” she yelled as she made it to the top. “I’m here!”
She ran around the corner and found the haggard man kneeling near the book, staring at it as if it would leap at him if he looked away. He glanced up at her as she reached him, dropping her purse on the floor at her feet and struggling with the bottles’ screw-on caps.
“Here.” She handed him one and went back to twisting the cap on her own. “Open it!”
He twisted the cap; the safety ring snapping in resistance as the top finally came free. She stepped as close to the book as she dared and tipped her bottle over the back cover, emptying the entire thing onto it. The man did the same and they watched in horrified fascination as the water spilled into the cover and disappeared, leaving no trace. There was no sharp crack of electricity, no ozone filling the air in front of them, no man.
Angela shook the last drops out of her bottle as if they would some how be enough to fling him into existence again. “I was so sure this would work,” she muttered. “So sure.”
“It was a good idea.”
“Yeah, well it didn’t work!” she shouted and threw the empty bottle at the book. It bounced off and rolled away.
“Here,” the man said and opened the cardboard box. Two rat faces, one white and black and the other all white, poked up from inside, noses and whiskers twitching. He reached in and grabbed them both, handing the white one to her. It squirmed in her hands, wrapped its tail around her wrist to keep from falling. She pulled the tail off her skin and shivered as she tucked it in next to the rat’s body.
“Oh, God. Do we have to do this?”
“I can’t think of anything else to do!” he shouted at her.
“I know, I’m sorry. Okay, let’s just get it over with.” She shivered again but wasn’t sure if it was because she was holding a rat or because she was about to kill it.
“Okay. On the count of three drop it on the book.”
She nodded and held the rat next to his over the back cover of the book.
“One. Two. Three!”
They dropped the rats at the same time and the air filled with ozone, the hair on her head lifted and stood out. There was a bright flash and Angela threw herself backwards, felt the man close his hand around her leg and follow her motion. The crack that immediately followed was sharp, nearly earsplitting this close. They landed in a heap against the bookcase behind them and were pressed to the floor by a sudden weight. Someone groaned and gave a hoarse cry.
“Holy Mary full of grace…”
Angela opened her eyes and stared at the drawn face of the sales associate she had spoken to just twenty minutes early. “He’s out! He’s out! We got him out!” she shouted and pushed him off her side.
Brandon pulled himself out from under the sales associate’s legs and nodded, rubbing the side of his head.
“We got to get rid of it.”
She nodded and then touched the sales associate. “Are you okay…” she glanced at the name tag pinned to his sweater, “Alan?”
“Yeah. Jesus. Yeah, I think so.”
“I’m Angela and this is…” She looked at the man sitting next to them with her eyebrows raised.
“Brandon. Listen, we got to get rid of that thing.”
“How?” she asked.
The intercom broke in again. “Porter’s Bookstore will be closing in five minutes. Please bring your selections to the front registers and have a pleasant evening.”
Alan sat back against the bookcase and then thought better of it and leaned forward. “Burn it.”
“Okay, but where,” Brandon asked.
“The store’s got an incinerator in the basement. Porter runs it all the time to deal with the unsold extra copies.” Angela looked at him, incomprehension in every newly acquired deep crease in her face.
“What?”
“When you have extra copies that don’t sell right away, and if the publisher won’t take them back, you either keep them and hope someone eventually buys them or tear off the covers and throw them out. Either way you take a loss. Porter burns them to save the space they would take up in a landfill.”
“That’s awful,” she whispered. “No wonder the thing tried to kill us. It’s fighting back.”
“It’s a book!” Brandon shouted. “Books don’t fight back!”
“Well they don’t eat people either, but that one sure gave it a helluva shot!” she yelled back, her eyes wide and bulging.
Alan ran his hands across his face and then looked at his palms, the white, dry lines etched into them crying for moisture.
“We need to burn it,” he said. “Completely. It’s gonna keep doing this until it has enough moisture stored up. We need to burn it.” He stood up and headed for his cart, sidestepped the book and grabbed the metal handle to wheel the cart into place.
“Jesus!” Brandon yelled. “Not the cart you fool! It’s metal! The damn thing will just suck you back in if you’re touching it with the cart and the cart is touching you!”
Alan jerked his hand away and stared at the book and then the cart. “What do you mean?”
“The static electricity…I think it uses the static to draw in its victims. The current’ll flow from it, through the cart, and pow, you’re gone.”
“Yeah, thanks man,” Alan stammered.
“No problem,” Brandon said and pulled Angela to her feet. She looked at him hard.
“How old are you?”
Brandon blinked, glanced at his aged hand and muttered, “Twenty three.”
She nodded. “I’m twenty nine. How old do I look?”
Brandon squinted. “About fifty.” She looked over at Alan.
“You look about forty.”
He laughed. “I’m thirty one.”
She looked back at Brandon. “He was only in there, what, five minutes?”
“Yeah, and the rats are probably dead, so we need to get rid of this thing before it snatches someone else.”
“Right. How?”
Brandon looked around and then walked two stacks down the aisle and jerked hard on a shelf. The board came away from the case sending the books on its surface to the floor. He jumped aside and then used the wood shelf to plow them against the opposite case. He handed the shelf to Angela and reached for another. More books hit the floor and were plowed to the side. “Alan, get a shelf, too.”
The sales associate nodded and yanked a shorter one off the end-cap next to him. The marketing poster and carefully arranged books fell, smashing into the ones beneath and dragging a few to the floor with them. He pushed them into a pile just as Brandon had done.
“Okay, now what?”
“Now we try to get the damn thing on one of the shelves, sandwich it in between it and another shelf and get it to the basement as quickly as possible.”
“Yeah, okay, I get what you’re talking about,”
Angela nodded and walked around the book and slid the end of her shelf up against its spine.
“Put you end on the page side and let’s see if I can tip it over onto your shelf,” she said.
Brandon moved forward and jammed his shelf against the floor and the cream colored pages. “Okay.”
Angela turned to Alan. “Come over here and help keep it straight.”
Alan stepped around the fallen books and stood to her right, ready to beat the book into pieces if necessary. Carefully Angela tilted her shelf, tried to tuck the edge of the end under the spine and raise it enough to slide the shelf further under. The book shifted a little and they all jumped. It fell back, flat against the floor.
“Okay,” Alan breathed. “Let’s try it again.”
This time Angela managed to flip it over so that it was leaning fully against Brandon’s shelf, the front cover exposed. The three of them stared at it.
“There’s no title.”
“Nothing on the spine, either.”
“Well, there were words inside,” Angela whispered. “I remember the words. They were huge and sharp and wicked.”
“Yeah, okay. Angela,” Brandon nodded at her, “keep the bottom end of your shelf where it is, but hand me the rest. I’m going to trap it. Alan, don’t let it fall.”
“Right.”
Angela tipped her shelf forward until Brandon was able to reach out and take it from her, slowly bringing the two pieces of wood together on either side of the book. He slowly lowered the two shelves while Alan kept the book from sliding out with the end of his shelf. They all let out the breaths they were holding when Brandon was able to finally lay the shelving down on the floor, the book safely sandwiched between them. Alan knelt down near the book and tapped the end of it with his shelf, sliding it inch by inch down the length of the longer shelves until it was resting near the middle.
“Take your end, Angela, and we’ll carry the whole thing down the stairs,” Brandon instructed.
She licked her lips, her thick tongue doing little to wet the cracked skin. She knelt down and slipped her fingers under the bottom shelf, clamped her thumbs across the top and nodded.
“Okay.”
“You got it tight?” he asked as he did the same on his end.
“Mmhmm. Yeah.”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
They stood up in relative unison, Alan watching the book and holding his shelf like a cudgel, ready to smash it if it should fall away. Slowly they stepped over and around the books that had spilled to the floor near the end cap. Alan pushed the outliers into smaller piles to make a clear path.
Angela grimaced. “Wait. Stop. I’m losing my grip.”
Brandon stood still in mid-step, his eyes wide as she clasped and re-clasped the boards, balancing the ends of the shelves against her stomach.
“Okay,” she said.
They continued, Angela walking backward, peeking over her shoulder to be sure of her steps, Brandon steering from his end, Alan beside the book, but a few steps out of reach if it should slip. As they neared the stairs the air took on a decidedly electric odor. The hairs on Angela’s head began to stand out.
“It’s happening again,” she said, the pitch of her voice suddenly higher than it had been.
“Don’t let go,” Brandon replied, his voice as firm as he could make it.
The floor beneath their feet creaked and Angela jumped, the shelf boards and the book shifting in her unsettled grip.
“Don’t let go,” Brandon growled, his eyes bulging, his teeth clenched.
“I’m trying not to,” she snapped and took another step backwards.
The ozone smell had grown stronger and Alan could see the hair on the backs of his hands standing straight up.
“God, look at this,” he muttered and turned his hand so they could see. “She’s right. It’s getting ready.”
“That’s exactly why we got to get rid of it,” Brandon snapped. The hair on his neck had lifted and was sticking out from his skin. “Keep going.”
Another step. The staircase threw out an elegant electric arc from the outside railing to the center support column. Brandon’s eyes grew wider and he glanced at Alan. The other man had seen it and nodded. Angela looked from one to the other.
“What? What?” She looked over her shoulder in time to see another white-blue flicker along the iron railing. “Oh shit.” She turned and looked at them. “I’m not going down those steps.”
“We have to get rid of this.”
“I’m not going down those steps!”
“Angela,” Alan started. She turned terrified eyes on him.
“I am NOT going down those STAIRS!” she snarled.
“Stop!” Brandon yelled. She looked back at him and he could tell that she was crying even though there were no tears sliding down her face. “Just listen to me,” he said softly. “Please.” She bit her lip.
“There isn’t any other way.”
She shook her head no.
“There’s an elevator at the back,” Alan threw in, “for people who can’t walk up the stairs or when we bring books up on the carts.”
Brandon shook his head. “No. I am not getting in a big metal box with this thing.”
“But it’s okay to get on the damn stairs and get sucked into it out here?!” Angela shouted.
“Listen to me,” Brandon started. The manager’s voice cut in once more.
“Porter’s is now closed. Thank you for stopping in and have a peaceful evening.”
He tried again. “I’d rather take my chances out here where we might be able to get away, than in a small space that we can’t get out of until the door opens.”
The stairs sent out another spark and Angela shut her eyes and started to shake. Brandon could feel it through the boards.
“I know you’re scared,” he said. “I’m scared. I don’t want to see the inside of that thing again. But I don’t want anyone to see it. Look at me, Angela.” She took a breath and opened her eyes. “The shelves are wood.” She looked down at the shelving in her hands, the dark stained grain swirling and slipping along the face of it. “Electricity doesn’t pass through wood. At least that’s what I remember from a first-aid class.”
“Yeah,” Alan muttered. “You use a broomstick to move the broken electric cord off the victim, right?”
“Yeah. The book is caught between two boards. It can’t touch us.”
“What about the stairs?”
He looked at them for a second. “I’m not sure, but I think we’ll be okay. I think it’s just static. I don’t think it can kill you, us, if the book isn’t actually touching the stairs.”
She didn’t look convinced.
“I’ll go first,” he said. “Let’s turn around and I’ll go down the stairs first.” He started to walk in a circle and she followed.
“What do you want me to do?” Alan asked. “I can’t go down next to you guys. There’s no room.”
Brandon looked over his shoulder at the stairs. “Maybe you could go down first, see if the static goes all the way down. Keep anyone from coming up or getting in the way if we have to drop it over the side of the railing.”
Alan didn’t look thrilled about this, but he nodded and walked to the top of the staircase. It snapped at him and sent a wriggling snake of electricity down the railing. He took a breath and stepped onto the first iron tread. Angela caught a cry in her mouth as she watched an arc of light dance right in front of him. He touched the railing with a finger and snatched it away, shoving it in his mouth.
“Try not to touch the metal if you can,” he said and took another step and then another. The static flew up and down the railing, arced behind him and in front, but he seemed to be doing fine. “I think it’s okay. Just try not to touch it.” He continued down the steps.
“Okay,” Brandon said and Angela looked back at him. “I want to turn around and hold this thing over my head as we go down. I need you to hang on and help me not drop the shelves.” She nodded.
He lifted his end at the same time that he bent his knees, trying to keep the whole thing as level as possible. He set the bottom shelf on the top of his head and began to turn around under it, switching hands as he went until he was facing the stairs.
“Follow me,” he said.
“Okay.”
Angela tried to step in time with him, her end slightly lower even though she had lifted it to chest height. They neared the stairs and Brandon hesitated. A thick, wide arc leapt from the center support to the railing, just missing his face.
“All right, here I go. Just try to keep up with me as best you can.”
“Mmhmm,” Angela replied, nodding, her lips pulled into her mouth and over her teeth to keep the fear inside.
~ Peace and a safe journey
Angela hit the wooden floor at the bottom of the stairs wrong and twisted her ankle. With a muttered apology she pushed past a woman and her daughter and hobble-ran towards the rear of the store where the tiny coffee counter was hidden in a nook between the romance novels and the literary fiction. She headed for the cold case and grabbed two water bottles. Without slowing down she pushed her way past customers to the counter, slammed the bottles down and dug in her purse for her wallet. The man who had been next in line stared at her in complete disbelief.
“God, I am so sorry,” she stammered as she struggled to disentangle the faux leather billfold from the neon pink address book taking up way too much space in her bag.
“I swear I never, ever do this. It’s an emergency.” She grabbed a ten from the wallet and threw it onto the counter. “Keep the change,” she said as she thrust the wallet back in her purse and grabbed the bottles. “I am so sorry, really. I swear I will never do this again. I swear,” and she ran for the stairs.
Never in her life had she felt as slow running up a flight of stairs as she did now. Every step seemed to fight her, twisting out of her reach just enough to slow her down.
“Wait!” she yelled as she made it to the top. “I’m here!”
She ran around the corner and found the haggard man kneeling near the book, staring at it as if it would leap at him if he looked away. He glanced up at her as she reached him, dropping her purse on the floor at her feet and struggling with the bottles’ screw-on caps.
“Here.” She handed him one and went back to twisting the cap on her own. “Open it!”
He twisted the cap; the safety ring snapping in resistance as the top finally came free. She stepped as close to the book as she dared and tipped her bottle over the back cover, emptying the entire thing onto it. The man did the same and they watched in horrified fascination as the water spilled into the cover and disappeared, leaving no trace. There was no sharp crack of electricity, no ozone filling the air in front of them, no man.
Angela shook the last drops out of her bottle as if they would some how be enough to fling him into existence again. “I was so sure this would work,” she muttered. “So sure.”
“It was a good idea.”
“Yeah, well it didn’t work!” she shouted and threw the empty bottle at the book. It bounced off and rolled away.
“Here,” the man said and opened the cardboard box. Two rat faces, one white and black and the other all white, poked up from inside, noses and whiskers twitching. He reached in and grabbed them both, handing the white one to her. It squirmed in her hands, wrapped its tail around her wrist to keep from falling. She pulled the tail off her skin and shivered as she tucked it in next to the rat’s body.
“Oh, God. Do we have to do this?”
“I can’t think of anything else to do!” he shouted at her.
“I know, I’m sorry. Okay, let’s just get it over with.” She shivered again but wasn’t sure if it was because she was holding a rat or because she was about to kill it.
“Okay. On the count of three drop it on the book.”
She nodded and held the rat next to his over the back cover of the book.
“One. Two. Three!”
They dropped the rats at the same time and the air filled with ozone, the hair on her head lifted and stood out. There was a bright flash and Angela threw herself backwards, felt the man close his hand around her leg and follow her motion. The crack that immediately followed was sharp, nearly earsplitting this close. They landed in a heap against the bookcase behind them and were pressed to the floor by a sudden weight. Someone groaned and gave a hoarse cry.
“Holy Mary full of grace…”
Angela opened her eyes and stared at the drawn face of the sales associate she had spoken to just twenty minutes early. “He’s out! He’s out! We got him out!” she shouted and pushed him off her side.
Brandon pulled himself out from under the sales associate’s legs and nodded, rubbing the side of his head.
“We got to get rid of it.”
She nodded and then touched the sales associate. “Are you okay…” she glanced at the name tag pinned to his sweater, “Alan?”
“Yeah. Jesus. Yeah, I think so.”
“I’m Angela and this is…” She looked at the man sitting next to them with her eyebrows raised.
“Brandon. Listen, we got to get rid of that thing.”
“How?” she asked.
The intercom broke in again. “Porter’s Bookstore will be closing in five minutes. Please bring your selections to the front registers and have a pleasant evening.”
Alan sat back against the bookcase and then thought better of it and leaned forward. “Burn it.”
“Okay, but where,” Brandon asked.
“The store’s got an incinerator in the basement. Porter runs it all the time to deal with the unsold extra copies.” Angela looked at him, incomprehension in every newly acquired deep crease in her face.
“What?”
“When you have extra copies that don’t sell right away, and if the publisher won’t take them back, you either keep them and hope someone eventually buys them or tear off the covers and throw them out. Either way you take a loss. Porter burns them to save the space they would take up in a landfill.”
“That’s awful,” she whispered. “No wonder the thing tried to kill us. It’s fighting back.”
“It’s a book!” Brandon shouted. “Books don’t fight back!”
“Well they don’t eat people either, but that one sure gave it a helluva shot!” she yelled back, her eyes wide and bulging.
Alan ran his hands across his face and then looked at his palms, the white, dry lines etched into them crying for moisture.
“We need to burn it,” he said. “Completely. It’s gonna keep doing this until it has enough moisture stored up. We need to burn it.” He stood up and headed for his cart, sidestepped the book and grabbed the metal handle to wheel the cart into place.
“Jesus!” Brandon yelled. “Not the cart you fool! It’s metal! The damn thing will just suck you back in if you’re touching it with the cart and the cart is touching you!”
Alan jerked his hand away and stared at the book and then the cart. “What do you mean?”
“The static electricity…I think it uses the static to draw in its victims. The current’ll flow from it, through the cart, and pow, you’re gone.”
“Yeah, thanks man,” Alan stammered.
“No problem,” Brandon said and pulled Angela to her feet. She looked at him hard.
“How old are you?”
Brandon blinked, glanced at his aged hand and muttered, “Twenty three.”
She nodded. “I’m twenty nine. How old do I look?”
Brandon squinted. “About fifty.” She looked over at Alan.
“You look about forty.”
He laughed. “I’m thirty one.”
She looked back at Brandon. “He was only in there, what, five minutes?”
“Yeah, and the rats are probably dead, so we need to get rid of this thing before it snatches someone else.”
“Right. How?”
Brandon looked around and then walked two stacks down the aisle and jerked hard on a shelf. The board came away from the case sending the books on its surface to the floor. He jumped aside and then used the wood shelf to plow them against the opposite case. He handed the shelf to Angela and reached for another. More books hit the floor and were plowed to the side. “Alan, get a shelf, too.”
The sales associate nodded and yanked a shorter one off the end-cap next to him. The marketing poster and carefully arranged books fell, smashing into the ones beneath and dragging a few to the floor with them. He pushed them into a pile just as Brandon had done.
“Okay, now what?”
“Now we try to get the damn thing on one of the shelves, sandwich it in between it and another shelf and get it to the basement as quickly as possible.”
“Yeah, okay, I get what you’re talking about,”
Angela nodded and walked around the book and slid the end of her shelf up against its spine.
“Put you end on the page side and let’s see if I can tip it over onto your shelf,” she said.
Brandon moved forward and jammed his shelf against the floor and the cream colored pages. “Okay.”
Angela turned to Alan. “Come over here and help keep it straight.”
Alan stepped around the fallen books and stood to her right, ready to beat the book into pieces if necessary. Carefully Angela tilted her shelf, tried to tuck the edge of the end under the spine and raise it enough to slide the shelf further under. The book shifted a little and they all jumped. It fell back, flat against the floor.
“Okay,” Alan breathed. “Let’s try it again.”
This time Angela managed to flip it over so that it was leaning fully against Brandon’s shelf, the front cover exposed. The three of them stared at it.
“There’s no title.”
“Nothing on the spine, either.”
“Well, there were words inside,” Angela whispered. “I remember the words. They were huge and sharp and wicked.”
“Yeah, okay. Angela,” Brandon nodded at her, “keep the bottom end of your shelf where it is, but hand me the rest. I’m going to trap it. Alan, don’t let it fall.”
“Right.”
Angela tipped her shelf forward until Brandon was able to reach out and take it from her, slowly bringing the two pieces of wood together on either side of the book. He slowly lowered the two shelves while Alan kept the book from sliding out with the end of his shelf. They all let out the breaths they were holding when Brandon was able to finally lay the shelving down on the floor, the book safely sandwiched between them. Alan knelt down near the book and tapped the end of it with his shelf, sliding it inch by inch down the length of the longer shelves until it was resting near the middle.
“Take your end, Angela, and we’ll carry the whole thing down the stairs,” Brandon instructed.
She licked her lips, her thick tongue doing little to wet the cracked skin. She knelt down and slipped her fingers under the bottom shelf, clamped her thumbs across the top and nodded.
“Okay.”
“You got it tight?” he asked as he did the same on his end.
“Mmhmm. Yeah.”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
They stood up in relative unison, Alan watching the book and holding his shelf like a cudgel, ready to smash it if it should fall away. Slowly they stepped over and around the books that had spilled to the floor near the end cap. Alan pushed the outliers into smaller piles to make a clear path.
Angela grimaced. “Wait. Stop. I’m losing my grip.”
Brandon stood still in mid-step, his eyes wide as she clasped and re-clasped the boards, balancing the ends of the shelves against her stomach.
“Okay,” she said.
They continued, Angela walking backward, peeking over her shoulder to be sure of her steps, Brandon steering from his end, Alan beside the book, but a few steps out of reach if it should slip. As they neared the stairs the air took on a decidedly electric odor. The hairs on Angela’s head began to stand out.
“It’s happening again,” she said, the pitch of her voice suddenly higher than it had been.
“Don’t let go,” Brandon replied, his voice as firm as he could make it.
The floor beneath their feet creaked and Angela jumped, the shelf boards and the book shifting in her unsettled grip.
“Don’t let go,” Brandon growled, his eyes bulging, his teeth clenched.
“I’m trying not to,” she snapped and took another step backwards.
The ozone smell had grown stronger and Alan could see the hair on the backs of his hands standing straight up.
“God, look at this,” he muttered and turned his hand so they could see. “She’s right. It’s getting ready.”
“That’s exactly why we got to get rid of it,” Brandon snapped. The hair on his neck had lifted and was sticking out from his skin. “Keep going.”
Another step. The staircase threw out an elegant electric arc from the outside railing to the center support column. Brandon’s eyes grew wider and he glanced at Alan. The other man had seen it and nodded. Angela looked from one to the other.
“What? What?” She looked over her shoulder in time to see another white-blue flicker along the iron railing. “Oh shit.” She turned and looked at them. “I’m not going down those steps.”
“We have to get rid of this.”
“I’m not going down those steps!”
“Angela,” Alan started. She turned terrified eyes on him.
“I am NOT going down those STAIRS!” she snarled.
“Stop!” Brandon yelled. She looked back at him and he could tell that she was crying even though there were no tears sliding down her face. “Just listen to me,” he said softly. “Please.” She bit her lip.
“There isn’t any other way.”
She shook her head no.
“There’s an elevator at the back,” Alan threw in, “for people who can’t walk up the stairs or when we bring books up on the carts.”
Brandon shook his head. “No. I am not getting in a big metal box with this thing.”
“But it’s okay to get on the damn stairs and get sucked into it out here?!” Angela shouted.
“Listen to me,” Brandon started. The manager’s voice cut in once more.
“Porter’s is now closed. Thank you for stopping in and have a peaceful evening.”
He tried again. “I’d rather take my chances out here where we might be able to get away, than in a small space that we can’t get out of until the door opens.”
The stairs sent out another spark and Angela shut her eyes and started to shake. Brandon could feel it through the boards.
“I know you’re scared,” he said. “I’m scared. I don’t want to see the inside of that thing again. But I don’t want anyone to see it. Look at me, Angela.” She took a breath and opened her eyes. “The shelves are wood.” She looked down at the shelving in her hands, the dark stained grain swirling and slipping along the face of it. “Electricity doesn’t pass through wood. At least that’s what I remember from a first-aid class.”
“Yeah,” Alan muttered. “You use a broomstick to move the broken electric cord off the victim, right?”
“Yeah. The book is caught between two boards. It can’t touch us.”
“What about the stairs?”
He looked at them for a second. “I’m not sure, but I think we’ll be okay. I think it’s just static. I don’t think it can kill you, us, if the book isn’t actually touching the stairs.”
She didn’t look convinced.
“I’ll go first,” he said. “Let’s turn around and I’ll go down the stairs first.” He started to walk in a circle and she followed.
“What do you want me to do?” Alan asked. “I can’t go down next to you guys. There’s no room.”
Brandon looked over his shoulder at the stairs. “Maybe you could go down first, see if the static goes all the way down. Keep anyone from coming up or getting in the way if we have to drop it over the side of the railing.”
Alan didn’t look thrilled about this, but he nodded and walked to the top of the staircase. It snapped at him and sent a wriggling snake of electricity down the railing. He took a breath and stepped onto the first iron tread. Angela caught a cry in her mouth as she watched an arc of light dance right in front of him. He touched the railing with a finger and snatched it away, shoving it in his mouth.
“Try not to touch the metal if you can,” he said and took another step and then another. The static flew up and down the railing, arced behind him and in front, but he seemed to be doing fine. “I think it’s okay. Just try not to touch it.” He continued down the steps.
“Okay,” Brandon said and Angela looked back at him. “I want to turn around and hold this thing over my head as we go down. I need you to hang on and help me not drop the shelves.” She nodded.
He lifted his end at the same time that he bent his knees, trying to keep the whole thing as level as possible. He set the bottom shelf on the top of his head and began to turn around under it, switching hands as he went until he was facing the stairs.
“Follow me,” he said.
“Okay.”
Angela tried to step in time with him, her end slightly lower even though she had lifted it to chest height. They neared the stairs and Brandon hesitated. A thick, wide arc leapt from the center support to the railing, just missing his face.
“All right, here I go. Just try to keep up with me as best you can.”
“Mmhmm,” Angela replied, nodding, her lips pulled into her mouth and over her teeth to keep the fear inside.
~ Peace and a safe journey
Labels:
9-21-10,
Alan,
Angela,
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Monday, December 21, 2009
Chapter 4 of the Joshua/Stewart tale from 11-24-09
Chapter 4 - Escape Inside
The skinny woman who had grabbed him first held her right hand in her left while she ran behind the man who carried him now. Joshua had tried to bite the man, too, but the man’s coat was too thick. He knew it pinched, though, because the man had growled at him to knock it off or he would throw him in the pond. And even though the woman glared at Joshua as she pulled the door shut behind them, she had snapped at the man and told him to watch his mouth.
Since biting and kicking and screaming hadn’t worked, Joshua tried a new plan. He hung as limply as he could in the man’s grasp. His older sister had told him about a game she had played at a sleepover called “Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board”. She said the stiffer a person was the easier it was to lift them off the ground, even using only fingertips. She said it had worked the opposite way when they tried “Heavy as an Elephant, Limp as a Noodle”. Joshua imagined himself heavy like an elephant and made himself loose like a piece of cooked spaghetti. It seemed to be working because now the man was growling about how hard he was to carry. Suddenly he was dropped on the cold floor of the narrow hallway.
“What are you doing?” the woman snapped at the man.
“He’s too hard to carry this way,” the man snarled back. “I need to get a better grip.”
That was all Joshua needed. He got to his feet and ran down the hall.
“Hey!”
“You idiot! You couldn’t have made it another twenty yards? He’s what? Four? Five? You’re an adult! How can you not hold on to him that much longer?”
“Shut up, Natalie! You should talk! You had him first! I shouldn’t have had to come out there!”
“HE BIT ME!”
Joshua could hear the smack of the man’s shoes against the floor and the high click of the woman’s in between their shouting as they ran after him. He passed two doors that were closed and then a third. The hall seemed to end in another hall, but it was dark and he wasn’t sure he could get there before they caught up to him.
“Mason! Open the door! The kid’s loose!” the man yelled.
Joshua swallowed and then sprinted for the end of the hallway. A door on his left began to open and he tried to dodge it. A second man appeared in his peripheral vision.
“Come here, you,” the second man snarled, his hand brushing Joshua’s skin, his fingers just missing catching Joshua by the arm.
Joshua jerked his arm in to his chest, lost his balance for just a moment, nearly fell and then righted himself and scurried around the corner. The new hallway lit up as the lights were triggered by his movement. There were more doors in this hall. This time most of them were open. He darted through the second doorway, triggered another set of lights, and found himself in a room filled with counters and high stools. He could hear the first man screaming in the other hall.
“Close the door! He’s getting away! I can’t get through unless you close the damn door!”
Joshua looked around the room and saw a tight, shadowy place in the far corner and scrambled on all fours toward it. He heard the door in the hall slam and running feet. Just as the man reached the room, Joshua pulled his legs in against his body and held his breath.
The man stopped in front of the doorway. Joshua could just see the tips of the man’s shoes from where he was hiding. The man was breathing hard. He coughed twice like he needed a drink. There was a quick click, click, click outside in the hall and Joshua saw the woman’s shoes join the man’s.
“Mason said to leave him alone,” the woman said quietly. “He said the sensors will keep track of him. And he can’t get out. He doesn’t have a pass card.”
“You know, this is Mason’s fault. If he would have walked the fence line like he was supposed to this wouldn’t have happened…”
“Rob,” the woman had dropped her voice so low that Joshua could barely hear her. “Sensors, remember? This isn’t private.”
“Yeah, alright. Let’s go.”
The shoes turned and went back the way they had come. A few moments later the room light went out, another minute passed and the hall light went out, and the room Joshua was hiding in became pitch black.
~ Peace and sanctuary
The skinny woman who had grabbed him first held her right hand in her left while she ran behind the man who carried him now. Joshua had tried to bite the man, too, but the man’s coat was too thick. He knew it pinched, though, because the man had growled at him to knock it off or he would throw him in the pond. And even though the woman glared at Joshua as she pulled the door shut behind them, she had snapped at the man and told him to watch his mouth.
Since biting and kicking and screaming hadn’t worked, Joshua tried a new plan. He hung as limply as he could in the man’s grasp. His older sister had told him about a game she had played at a sleepover called “Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board”. She said the stiffer a person was the easier it was to lift them off the ground, even using only fingertips. She said it had worked the opposite way when they tried “Heavy as an Elephant, Limp as a Noodle”. Joshua imagined himself heavy like an elephant and made himself loose like a piece of cooked spaghetti. It seemed to be working because now the man was growling about how hard he was to carry. Suddenly he was dropped on the cold floor of the narrow hallway.
“What are you doing?” the woman snapped at the man.
“He’s too hard to carry this way,” the man snarled back. “I need to get a better grip.”
That was all Joshua needed. He got to his feet and ran down the hall.
“Hey!”
“You idiot! You couldn’t have made it another twenty yards? He’s what? Four? Five? You’re an adult! How can you not hold on to him that much longer?”
“Shut up, Natalie! You should talk! You had him first! I shouldn’t have had to come out there!”
“HE BIT ME!”
Joshua could hear the smack of the man’s shoes against the floor and the high click of the woman’s in between their shouting as they ran after him. He passed two doors that were closed and then a third. The hall seemed to end in another hall, but it was dark and he wasn’t sure he could get there before they caught up to him.
“Mason! Open the door! The kid’s loose!” the man yelled.
Joshua swallowed and then sprinted for the end of the hallway. A door on his left began to open and he tried to dodge it. A second man appeared in his peripheral vision.
“Come here, you,” the second man snarled, his hand brushing Joshua’s skin, his fingers just missing catching Joshua by the arm.
Joshua jerked his arm in to his chest, lost his balance for just a moment, nearly fell and then righted himself and scurried around the corner. The new hallway lit up as the lights were triggered by his movement. There were more doors in this hall. This time most of them were open. He darted through the second doorway, triggered another set of lights, and found himself in a room filled with counters and high stools. He could hear the first man screaming in the other hall.
“Close the door! He’s getting away! I can’t get through unless you close the damn door!”
Joshua looked around the room and saw a tight, shadowy place in the far corner and scrambled on all fours toward it. He heard the door in the hall slam and running feet. Just as the man reached the room, Joshua pulled his legs in against his body and held his breath.
The man stopped in front of the doorway. Joshua could just see the tips of the man’s shoes from where he was hiding. The man was breathing hard. He coughed twice like he needed a drink. There was a quick click, click, click outside in the hall and Joshua saw the woman’s shoes join the man’s.
“Mason said to leave him alone,” the woman said quietly. “He said the sensors will keep track of him. And he can’t get out. He doesn’t have a pass card.”
“You know, this is Mason’s fault. If he would have walked the fence line like he was supposed to this wouldn’t have happened…”
“Rob,” the woman had dropped her voice so low that Joshua could barely hear her. “Sensors, remember? This isn’t private.”
“Yeah, alright. Let’s go.”
The shoes turned and went back the way they had come. A few moments later the room light went out, another minute passed and the hall light went out, and the room Joshua was hiding in became pitch black.
~ Peace and sanctuary
Labels:
11-24-09,
Joshua,
morbid,
resistance,
Stewart,
struggling,
unknown
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Stagnant
It amazes me how tied I feel to the sun. We have had a dreary October and my production as a writer diminished dramatically. When the sun reappeared I thought I was saved, but that was an illusion. My ability to move forward and create lies within me. The sun helps, but the drive comes from inside. A poem surfaced as I tired to see my way forward. Here it is. Take it as you will. Move forward as you can and so will I.
Movement~ Peace and movement
The blades of the turbine spin.
The air
moves them.
Or
do they move
the air?
How fast
does the wind slide
along their length?
I cannot feel it.
Yet I know
it must be blowing.
The grass bends beside me;
branches sway.
But I
am still.
My hair
lies
motionless
on my shoulders.
The turbine blades swing high overhead.
They move in the world.
Why can’t I?
Labels:
begin,
illusion,
poetry,
resistance,
struggling,
waiting
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Resistance
I am a delinquent. I admit it. I should be writing in my novel, and instead I am drafting a new post for this blog. This isn't getting me any closer to finishing. It certainly isn't bringing me closer to a book deal, yet here I sit, writing something else.
I’ve been avoiding my novel for weeks. I visit it reluctantly. I stay a brief time and then I leave via a back door, looking cautiously up and down the street, pulling my hood down so my face can’t be seen. What am I ashamed of? Why can’t I sit comfortably at the keyboard and play in the world I’ve created without feeling uneasy and irritated? Why am I avoiding the characters that I love and know so well? What the hell happened? Am I blocked? Have I written myself into a corner? Am I bored? Is the story lame? Will anyone else enjoy it? Have I wasted my time?
As it stands, my novel fills 1 and ¾ of two 5 inch three-ring binders. I have lost track of how many pages that works out to be, and not every page I’ve written has been printed. It's safe to say that I have played a role in the death of at least one tree during my lifetime as a writer; one entire branch was devoted to printing my novel. Am I proud of this? I’m not sure.
Even this post is hard to write. I type and then I stop, sit leaning on the arm of my desk chair and twist my lower lip. The words are not coming easy, the fear or shame or denial or apathy or inertia, whatever it is that is gnawing at me, is fighting hard against the movement of my fingers across the keys, the flashes of creative electricity along neurons, the snap of an idea across the synapse.
This feels like war. Like I’m the general staring at a battlefield map and pondering troop movements, calculating casualties, anticipating counter attacks, attempting to orchestrate a reversal of fortune. I’m not pleased with the current outlook. At the moment it feels like there will be more troops lost, more energy wasted, less gained for the effort. I feel like I’m dug in at the base of the hill and the enemy is situated behind strong fortifications at the top, with a clear field of view and a mile of barbed wire between “them” and me; whoever “they” are.
Lives are going to be lost. In this war that translates to pages, scenes, narrative, and characters. I’m not feeling very good about being the general and choosing the battalion that will lead the charge up the hill and pay the price for the capture of a strategic target. I don’t want to be the one to choose who might perish and who might survive. What if I choose wrong? What if I make a colossal mistake and we all die? It would be so much better if someone else made the choice. If nothing else, I wouldn’t bear the responsibility if it all goes to hell. But can I accept another person’s decision, another person’s belief or idea about what stays and what goes? No. At the core of it all I know I have to do this - me and me alone.
Sacrifices must be made. Pages must be cut. And I must do it.
~ Peace, perseverance, and resilience
I’ve been avoiding my novel for weeks. I visit it reluctantly. I stay a brief time and then I leave via a back door, looking cautiously up and down the street, pulling my hood down so my face can’t be seen. What am I ashamed of? Why can’t I sit comfortably at the keyboard and play in the world I’ve created without feeling uneasy and irritated? Why am I avoiding the characters that I love and know so well? What the hell happened? Am I blocked? Have I written myself into a corner? Am I bored? Is the story lame? Will anyone else enjoy it? Have I wasted my time?
As it stands, my novel fills 1 and ¾ of two 5 inch three-ring binders. I have lost track of how many pages that works out to be, and not every page I’ve written has been printed. It's safe to say that I have played a role in the death of at least one tree during my lifetime as a writer; one entire branch was devoted to printing my novel. Am I proud of this? I’m not sure.
Even this post is hard to write. I type and then I stop, sit leaning on the arm of my desk chair and twist my lower lip. The words are not coming easy, the fear or shame or denial or apathy or inertia, whatever it is that is gnawing at me, is fighting hard against the movement of my fingers across the keys, the flashes of creative electricity along neurons, the snap of an idea across the synapse.
This feels like war. Like I’m the general staring at a battlefield map and pondering troop movements, calculating casualties, anticipating counter attacks, attempting to orchestrate a reversal of fortune. I’m not pleased with the current outlook. At the moment it feels like there will be more troops lost, more energy wasted, less gained for the effort. I feel like I’m dug in at the base of the hill and the enemy is situated behind strong fortifications at the top, with a clear field of view and a mile of barbed wire between “them” and me; whoever “they” are.
Lives are going to be lost. In this war that translates to pages, scenes, narrative, and characters. I’m not feeling very good about being the general and choosing the battalion that will lead the charge up the hill and pay the price for the capture of a strategic target. I don’t want to be the one to choose who might perish and who might survive. What if I choose wrong? What if I make a colossal mistake and we all die? It would be so much better if someone else made the choice. If nothing else, I wouldn’t bear the responsibility if it all goes to hell. But can I accept another person’s decision, another person’s belief or idea about what stays and what goes? No. At the core of it all I know I have to do this - me and me alone.
Sacrifices must be made. Pages must be cut. And I must do it.
~ Peace, perseverance, and resilience
Labels:
choice,
resistance,
resolve,
sacrifices,
struggling,
writing
Monday, September 28, 2009
Absence
Fourteen days is a long time to be absent. Two weeks of non-communication and silence. Do I apologize? Do I list my reasons, my excuses? Do I stop altogether or slink back and offer up my belly in submission? Or do I simply pick up where I left off and continue?
I have encountered what every writer on the planet encounters – the encroachment of life into the refuge of my imagination. It is amazing how this happens. It is, in some ways like a cancer – insidious, undetected for at least a period of time, relentless, non-repentant, and sometimes, fatal.
I teach beginning writers. I know better than to let this happen. I advise them not to allow the world to waltz all over their dream, press it into the grain of the floor until it no longer resembles what they have started. And yet, here I am. Absent due to the world.
So I will now follow my own advice and push out the walls of my space until it fits me well once again. I will drag in the good chair and the snappy keyboard and the sharp monitor so that I can clearly see what my imagination is feeding me and I will write.
I will honor the need and the urge and the desire. I will put the words on the page, extend them until they blend seamlessly into the images they are cultivating, until they become nothing more than the fine silken thread connecting one moment to the next within the story. I will begin…again…like I have countless times before, because being absent is simply not an option I can choose.
I have encountered what every writer on the planet encounters – the encroachment of life into the refuge of my imagination. It is amazing how this happens. It is, in some ways like a cancer – insidious, undetected for at least a period of time, relentless, non-repentant, and sometimes, fatal.
I teach beginning writers. I know better than to let this happen. I advise them not to allow the world to waltz all over their dream, press it into the grain of the floor until it no longer resembles what they have started. And yet, here I am. Absent due to the world.
So I will now follow my own advice and push out the walls of my space until it fits me well once again. I will drag in the good chair and the snappy keyboard and the sharp monitor so that I can clearly see what my imagination is feeding me and I will write.
I will honor the need and the urge and the desire. I will put the words on the page, extend them until they blend seamlessly into the images they are cultivating, until they become nothing more than the fine silken thread connecting one moment to the next within the story. I will begin…again…like I have countless times before, because being absent is simply not an option I can choose.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
What's in a Name
My brother got married a week ago Saturday and his fiance has taken his surname. A friend of mine took his wife's surname and dropped his own, and another friend dropped her middle name and slid her surname into the vacant spot while adding her husband's surname to the end. My husband and I added each other's surnames to the ones we were born with, but we use these new additions in very different ways. My in-laws only have an initial for a middle name and another friend simply has space in that position. All of this makes me think.
In Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare wrote: "... a rose by any other name would still smell as sweet", but I wonder - how many of us would smell the rose, if robbed of our ability to see its beauty clearly, if it carried the name of, say, bog posy? Would we risk our sense of smell, allow the possible lingering scent to invade our sinuses for hours after the experience, if the item in question carried such a less than pleasing moniker?
Perhaps I am wrong, though. One of the most visited flowers in the world, when they are blooming and filling the surrounding air with their fragrance, is the Corpse Flower. It cannot be possible that anyone seeing this name, hearing this name, could mistake the probable outcome of an olfactory encounter, and yet, thousands of people will flock to the plant to experience it for themselves.
Do we search for the things because of their names or do we search for the names because of the things? And once we have the name and the thing, do they fit together?
It took my husband and me 24 hours to be sure of our first child's name. It took 2 1/2 days to settle on our second child's. How long did it take Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin (whom I both adore) to decide on Apple as their first child's name? I am certain that our children are named correctly. My second lives up to the name given on a daily basis, much to our joy, irritation, delight, and amazement. I cannot imagine another name that would suit. Perhaps Apple does this as well, is the apple of their eye, is showing that she does not fall far from the tree, so to speak.
I sat forever trying to name this blog. Not only could I not find the right name, when I thought I had it was already taken by someone else. This frustrated me greatly. Not only could I not find the right words to say what I wanted, but when I stumbled upon a few that might do the trick they were no longer mine to have. It is an evil thing to be a writer without access to words, yet filled with words that need release. And so, trying to think clearly about what I want to say while I hear my husband reading to my children before putting them to bed, I type in what I want - a writing life - and begin to play with the words that I love.
~ Peace and words
In Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare wrote: "... a rose by any other name would still smell as sweet", but I wonder - how many of us would smell the rose, if robbed of our ability to see its beauty clearly, if it carried the name of, say, bog posy? Would we risk our sense of smell, allow the possible lingering scent to invade our sinuses for hours after the experience, if the item in question carried such a less than pleasing moniker?
Perhaps I am wrong, though. One of the most visited flowers in the world, when they are blooming and filling the surrounding air with their fragrance, is the Corpse Flower. It cannot be possible that anyone seeing this name, hearing this name, could mistake the probable outcome of an olfactory encounter, and yet, thousands of people will flock to the plant to experience it for themselves.
Do we search for the things because of their names or do we search for the names because of the things? And once we have the name and the thing, do they fit together?
It took my husband and me 24 hours to be sure of our first child's name. It took 2 1/2 days to settle on our second child's. How long did it take Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin (whom I both adore) to decide on Apple as their first child's name? I am certain that our children are named correctly. My second lives up to the name given on a daily basis, much to our joy, irritation, delight, and amazement. I cannot imagine another name that would suit. Perhaps Apple does this as well, is the apple of their eye, is showing that she does not fall far from the tree, so to speak.
I sat forever trying to name this blog. Not only could I not find the right name, when I thought I had it was already taken by someone else. This frustrated me greatly. Not only could I not find the right words to say what I wanted, but when I stumbled upon a few that might do the trick they were no longer mine to have. It is an evil thing to be a writer without access to words, yet filled with words that need release. And so, trying to think clearly about what I want to say while I hear my husband reading to my children before putting them to bed, I type in what I want - a writing life - and begin to play with the words that I love.
~ Peace and words
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