Chapter 5 - Hidden
The darkness didn’t really bother him. At home darkness often meant security. No one could find him in the dark. If they couldn’t find him then they couldn’t mess with him. If they couldn’t mess with him then he could relax. And he did. The tight space beneath the counter, beside the file cabinet was just right for hiding. Joshua knew hiding places. No one would believe he could fit in here. He was good at fitting into tight places and disappearing. He disappeared a lot.
It wasn’t the dark that made him uncomfortable. It was the cold. At first the tight little space had felt warm, like the air outside. But the metal side of the file cabinet and the concrete wall he was squeezed between were cold and they pulled his body heat into themselves and gave nothing back. Goose bumps scattered over the skin of his arms and his legs. Shorts and a t-shirt had been fine outside in the summer sun. In here it was dry and air conditioned. He started to shiver.
He wasn’t sure he liked air conditioning. They didn’t have any at home. To keep cool his mother had bought a big fan shaped like a box and set it in front of the sliding glass doors to the balcony of their apartment. He loved to sit in front of it. The breeze it made was cool enough to feel better, but not too cool to make him shiver. He wanted to sleep on the floor in front of the fan, but instead of saying yes, his mother had chosen to scare him with horror stories of fans that fell on little children and pulled them into the plastic screen when their hair got caught in the fan blades. Her stories hadn’t scared him. His hair was too short to get caught and he knew it. But clothes could get caught in the blades. She had shown him that. It took him several long minuets to get the tattered t-shirt out of the fan blades. It was hard to pull the material out when the plastic grate was tight against your body. He never got close to the fan after that.
In the distance he heard a door shut followed by the clicking of the woman’s shoes. The lights in the hallway came on as she walked around the corner. She came to a stop in front of the room he was hiding in and stood there. Then she took two steps and the room lights came on, too. He watched as her shoes turned to go, turned back, and then turned and left, clicking their way further down the hall. Another door closed somewhere further along. When it grew quiet Joshua peeked out and looked around.
The room was mostly white and grey. There were four counters with stools tucked under them. There was stuff up on the counters, but he had no idea what the stuff was. There were cabinets by the room door and a big white thing on the wall. Someone had written a bunch of scribbles all over it. Next to it, hanging off the seat of another stool, was a white shirt. If he was quick and quiet, he could grab it and get back to his hiding place before anyone would know. The shirt would be warm. It would keep the cold air off his arms. If he tucked his legs up tight it might cover them, too. He squeezed out of the space and crawled as quickly as he could to the stool, snatched the shirt off the seat, and scrambled back as fast as he could go.
In the cramped hiding space he struggled to pull the shirt around his shoulders. He could hear the woman coming back, the door had opened and smacked the wall somewhere down the hall and her shoes were clicking towards his room again. He grabbed his ankle and pulled his left leg in as hard as he could. One of the shirt sleeves fell off his lap and into the lit space beyond his hiding place. She would see it if she looked. He reached out and jerked it, pulling it into his lap and holding his breath. Her shoes stopped in the doorway. They took a few steps into the room, stood quietly for a moment and then turned and left. Joshua held his breath, wanting the lights in the room to go out. Wanting the lights in the hall way to turn off. Wanting the darkness that would keep him safely hidden. A moment later the room went dark, and then the hall.
Joshua took a tentative breath. Nothing happened. He shivered a little less under the shirt in his tight little space and after ten minutes of silence and darkness he fell asleep.
~ Peace and security
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 waiting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label waiting. Show all posts
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Friday, December 11, 2009
Chapter 3 - the beginning of this strange little tale starts on 11-24-09 and is titled "What Joshua Doesn't Know Won't Hurt Him"
Here's the third installment of the Joshua/Stewart story. I am beginning to see where this might go, though only time and the writing of it will tell if my inkling is correct. Comments? Thoughts? Concerns? I promise not to send you to the hunting rock if you're brave enough to post. :)
Chapter 3 - Shadows and New Water
There was a loud echoing clang, deep and round. Stewart opened his eyes and looked at the edge of the shelf he was resting on. Another deep metallic clink rang out and then the familiar sound of water moving away. He looked towards the surface. The shadow was there. The one that helped the beyond rock hunt.
Stewart moved to the back wall and followed it to the surface. The water moved here, too, but he could easily out swim the current. Through the green ceiling of algae he watched the shadow shift. He could hear the muted growls it made, low and irritated. He allowed his eyes to slip past the surface’s edge, to break the connectedness of the green film and peer out from behind the hanging grass at the edge of the pond.
The shadow was orange. It had legs before and behind and a head with a strange single, giant eye. There was no tail. Something near it rattled off a series of insistent, infuriating clicks and snaps. They made Stewart’s head hurt with their constancy. The shadow turned and looked at him. He froze. Stopped breathing in the water. Didn’t move. Not a muscle.
The eye was filled with a face. There were two more eyes and a mouth. The inside eyes were not looking at him, though the giant eye seemed to see past the grass and right into him. Stewart wanted to sink back into the water, slide below the green layer and hide on his shelf. But he couldn’t. His body wouldn’t move.
The orange shadow moved along the far side of the pond dragging its behind legs, pulling a stick, long and mean, with it’s before legs, grasped in its claws. Then it growled. Against his best thinking Stewart lifted his head just a bit more above the surface and his ears popped as the water ran from them. The growl became clearer, meaner, sharper.
“John, clear the outflow pipe. The suction’s building, but we’re getting very little water.”
The shadow hit its shoulder.
“Copy. Give me a sec.”
It leaned on its before legs and crept close to the water’s edge. The giant eye peered into the green slime and then it pulled the long stick in front of itself. Stewart’s legs grew tense, the claws on all his feet dug into the wall and he made himself ready to bolt. The shadow pushed the stick into the water and stood up. Stewart ducked back into the pond and stared at the stick as the end of it disappeared into the darkness beyond. It was headed straight for the hunting rock.
The stick stopped descending and instead began to move from side to side, back and forth. Stewart could hear the distant slurp and suck of the rock and his skin twitched in remembrance. The water around him began to move faster and down. The stick began to rise and he stared at the great clump of things that had been held tight to the rock and been killed in the beyond. The wire was there, caught between dead leaves and twisted bodies.
He surfaced as the stick was pulled out. The shadow banged the mass against the ground; all the lost, dead things fell away. That was how it had happened with the carp. Too close to the rock, caught and unable to escape. Couldn’t even breathe well trapped that far down for so long. The shadow had come. Had growled and shoved its nasty long stick into the water and stabbed the old carp clean through. Stewart had seen it. He had felt the pain of the piercing.
When the stick rose that time the water had swirled towards the beyond so rapidly, so furiously, that Stewart was sure he would die in the jaws of the hunting rock. He had clung to the walls at the back of his shelf and hoped that it would stop. He had watched the surface of the pond creep towards him, his entire home being drawn into the mouth of the nasty rock below.
Before the surface had reached him, before it had left him helpless and obvious above the water and beneath the hanging grass, the water had stopped moving down. The shadow had roared and then the water had stilled. Stewart hadn’t understood anything that had happened. Moments later the water began to rise and he was surrounded by a cooler, thin, faster water. Water he hadn’t felt in a very long time. The next day he had felt more knowing than the day before. He had felt more aware. And he knew, somehow, it had been the new water that had done that.
Now he watched the shadow beat the dead things off the end of its stick and glance around itself. Stewart raised his ears out of the water again and he listened.
“Hey, Rob.”
“Yeah.”
“Tell Mason he’s got to do something about the damn fence. Kids been in here again.”
The shadow moved to the carp’s rotted body.
“How do you know?”
“There’s a dead fish. A big carp from a previous clean out…it’s been beat to hell.”
“How? The gate’s locked ain’t it?”
The shadow looked away and then back at the carp.
“Yeah, it’s locked. But you don’t need to use the gate if there’s a hole in the fence.”
“John! This is Mason. What hole?”
Stewart watched the shadow move off toward the woven wires that surrounded the pond. It leaned down and yanked on the wires.
“The one at the bottom of the west panel.”
“How big is it?”
“Kid sized.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. And there’s a boy playing in the park.”
“Shit.”
“John, it’s Rob. How many kids?”
“Just one.”
“Adults?”
“Ah, no. I don’t see any.”
“Okay. I’m sending Natalie out to get him. Stand by.”
“Copy.”
The shadow stayed still beside the woven wires. It clung to it with both before legs, sat on the haunches of its behind legs, facing away from the pond. It was very hard to see. Stewart raised himself up every so slightly and blinked once to clear his eyes. Somewhere beyond the woven wires there was a yell and another. The shadow stood up on its behind legs and gripped the wires.
“John, she got him?”
“Yeah. He’s fighting her though.”
“Damn it.”
“He’s bit her! Now he’s trying to run.”
There was another series of yells, the distant banging of metal on metal. Stewart’s heart began to beat faster though he didn’t know why.
“Mason?”
“Yeah!”
“Rob’s got the kid. He and Natalie are headed back inside.”
“Thank God. Finish your work and get the hell back in here, too.”
“Yeah, alright.”
The shadow turned and headed for the far side of the pond and the annoying clicking thing. It grabbed it up and headed towards a high white wall.
“John?”
“Yeah.”
“Lock the door. You got that?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“Out.”
Stewart watched the shadow disappear inside the white wall through a sneaky hole that was hard to see. First it was not there, then it was there, then it was gone again. Only a subtle hint in the wall told you where it was hidden. He narrowed his eyes and shuddered. Around his lower legs he could feel the swirling cool water that always followed the shadow’s departure. In the morning he would understand more. He had come to accept that. In the morning the new water would gift him with more knowing. He sunk back into the pond and let the new water bathe him.
~ Peace and portents
Chapter 3 - Shadows and New Water
There was a loud echoing clang, deep and round. Stewart opened his eyes and looked at the edge of the shelf he was resting on. Another deep metallic clink rang out and then the familiar sound of water moving away. He looked towards the surface. The shadow was there. The one that helped the beyond rock hunt.
Stewart moved to the back wall and followed it to the surface. The water moved here, too, but he could easily out swim the current. Through the green ceiling of algae he watched the shadow shift. He could hear the muted growls it made, low and irritated. He allowed his eyes to slip past the surface’s edge, to break the connectedness of the green film and peer out from behind the hanging grass at the edge of the pond.
The shadow was orange. It had legs before and behind and a head with a strange single, giant eye. There was no tail. Something near it rattled off a series of insistent, infuriating clicks and snaps. They made Stewart’s head hurt with their constancy. The shadow turned and looked at him. He froze. Stopped breathing in the water. Didn’t move. Not a muscle.
The eye was filled with a face. There were two more eyes and a mouth. The inside eyes were not looking at him, though the giant eye seemed to see past the grass and right into him. Stewart wanted to sink back into the water, slide below the green layer and hide on his shelf. But he couldn’t. His body wouldn’t move.
The orange shadow moved along the far side of the pond dragging its behind legs, pulling a stick, long and mean, with it’s before legs, grasped in its claws. Then it growled. Against his best thinking Stewart lifted his head just a bit more above the surface and his ears popped as the water ran from them. The growl became clearer, meaner, sharper.
“John, clear the outflow pipe. The suction’s building, but we’re getting very little water.”
The shadow hit its shoulder.
“Copy. Give me a sec.”
It leaned on its before legs and crept close to the water’s edge. The giant eye peered into the green slime and then it pulled the long stick in front of itself. Stewart’s legs grew tense, the claws on all his feet dug into the wall and he made himself ready to bolt. The shadow pushed the stick into the water and stood up. Stewart ducked back into the pond and stared at the stick as the end of it disappeared into the darkness beyond. It was headed straight for the hunting rock.
The stick stopped descending and instead began to move from side to side, back and forth. Stewart could hear the distant slurp and suck of the rock and his skin twitched in remembrance. The water around him began to move faster and down. The stick began to rise and he stared at the great clump of things that had been held tight to the rock and been killed in the beyond. The wire was there, caught between dead leaves and twisted bodies.
He surfaced as the stick was pulled out. The shadow banged the mass against the ground; all the lost, dead things fell away. That was how it had happened with the carp. Too close to the rock, caught and unable to escape. Couldn’t even breathe well trapped that far down for so long. The shadow had come. Had growled and shoved its nasty long stick into the water and stabbed the old carp clean through. Stewart had seen it. He had felt the pain of the piercing.
When the stick rose that time the water had swirled towards the beyond so rapidly, so furiously, that Stewart was sure he would die in the jaws of the hunting rock. He had clung to the walls at the back of his shelf and hoped that it would stop. He had watched the surface of the pond creep towards him, his entire home being drawn into the mouth of the nasty rock below.
Before the surface had reached him, before it had left him helpless and obvious above the water and beneath the hanging grass, the water had stopped moving down. The shadow had roared and then the water had stilled. Stewart hadn’t understood anything that had happened. Moments later the water began to rise and he was surrounded by a cooler, thin, faster water. Water he hadn’t felt in a very long time. The next day he had felt more knowing than the day before. He had felt more aware. And he knew, somehow, it had been the new water that had done that.
Now he watched the shadow beat the dead things off the end of its stick and glance around itself. Stewart raised his ears out of the water again and he listened.
“Hey, Rob.”
“Yeah.”
“Tell Mason he’s got to do something about the damn fence. Kids been in here again.”
The shadow moved to the carp’s rotted body.
“How do you know?”
“There’s a dead fish. A big carp from a previous clean out…it’s been beat to hell.”
“How? The gate’s locked ain’t it?”
The shadow looked away and then back at the carp.
“Yeah, it’s locked. But you don’t need to use the gate if there’s a hole in the fence.”
“John! This is Mason. What hole?”
Stewart watched the shadow move off toward the woven wires that surrounded the pond. It leaned down and yanked on the wires.
“The one at the bottom of the west panel.”
“How big is it?”
“Kid sized.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. And there’s a boy playing in the park.”
“Shit.”
“John, it’s Rob. How many kids?”
“Just one.”
“Adults?”
“Ah, no. I don’t see any.”
“Okay. I’m sending Natalie out to get him. Stand by.”
“Copy.”
The shadow stayed still beside the woven wires. It clung to it with both before legs, sat on the haunches of its behind legs, facing away from the pond. It was very hard to see. Stewart raised himself up every so slightly and blinked once to clear his eyes. Somewhere beyond the woven wires there was a yell and another. The shadow stood up on its behind legs and gripped the wires.
“John, she got him?”
“Yeah. He’s fighting her though.”
“Damn it.”
“He’s bit her! Now he’s trying to run.”
There was another series of yells, the distant banging of metal on metal. Stewart’s heart began to beat faster though he didn’t know why.
“Mason?”
“Yeah!”
“Rob’s got the kid. He and Natalie are headed back inside.”
“Thank God. Finish your work and get the hell back in here, too.”
“Yeah, alright.”
The shadow turned and headed for the far side of the pond and the annoying clicking thing. It grabbed it up and headed towards a high white wall.
“John?”
“Yeah.”
“Lock the door. You got that?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“Out.”
Stewart watched the shadow disappear inside the white wall through a sneaky hole that was hard to see. First it was not there, then it was there, then it was gone again. Only a subtle hint in the wall told you where it was hidden. He narrowed his eyes and shuddered. Around his lower legs he could feel the swirling cool water that always followed the shadow’s departure. In the morning he would understand more. He had come to accept that. In the morning the new water would gift him with more knowing. He sunk back into the pond and let the new water bathe him.
~ Peace and portents
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
Friday, August 28, 2009
The Compelling Blank Page
I sit here at my desk, the keyboard staring me in the face – yes, I look at the keys. I have no clue how to actually type – and the screen casting a white glow over the letters and I wait. Inspiration is a real b*tch. It often hits me when I can’t reach the computer, like while I’m washing the dishes, driving the car, using the..uh…facilities. My mind fills with a multitude of things, related and unrelated, that I can hardly contain, begin almost immediately to lose, and I ache for the keys to save my thoughts from the void that exists just this side of the screen.
Then there are moments like this one. Moments where it almost hurts not to write, not to compose, not to tell some tale, any tale, and I can’t. The words, even though they must be there somewhere, refuse to come. And I sit, fingers on the keys, the right ones only because I know to put certain fingers on the letters with the raised spots, and wait. It’s like having restless legs in your head and your fingers. I want to write. I need to write. If I don’t write something I am pretty sure I’ll do some thing desperate in order to make the words come.
I will let the dishes pile up, the laundry go unwashed, unfolded, and scattered on the couch. I will forget to buy groceries. I will sit in an awkward position at a non-ergonomic desk and torture my back waiting. I will snarl at my kids and growl at my husband and foam at the mouth with this need and I will not apologize.
It’s like needing to breathe. I’m quite certain that brain cells would die if I were forced to stop writing, made to refrain from trying. To refuse this drive would be akin to suicide. Is that too strong a comparison? I don’t think so. My creative drive is such an essential part of who I am that if I were stripped of it, stripped of my ability to express it, then I don’t know how I could put one foot in front of the other on a day-to-day basis. It would be like trying to breathe without lungs. Impossible.
~ Peace and passion
Then there are moments like this one. Moments where it almost hurts not to write, not to compose, not to tell some tale, any tale, and I can’t. The words, even though they must be there somewhere, refuse to come. And I sit, fingers on the keys, the right ones only because I know to put certain fingers on the letters with the raised spots, and wait. It’s like having restless legs in your head and your fingers. I want to write. I need to write. If I don’t write something I am pretty sure I’ll do some thing desperate in order to make the words come.
I will let the dishes pile up, the laundry go unwashed, unfolded, and scattered on the couch. I will forget to buy groceries. I will sit in an awkward position at a non-ergonomic desk and torture my back waiting. I will snarl at my kids and growl at my husband and foam at the mouth with this need and I will not apologize.
It’s like needing to breathe. I’m quite certain that brain cells would die if I were forced to stop writing, made to refrain from trying. To refuse this drive would be akin to suicide. Is that too strong a comparison? I don’t think so. My creative drive is such an essential part of who I am that if I were stripped of it, stripped of my ability to express it, then I don’t know how I could put one foot in front of the other on a day-to-day basis. It would be like trying to breathe without lungs. Impossible.
~ Peace and passion
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