Scrawlers

Living with someone for an extended period of time, one starts to develop an awareness of an internal scale of transgressions. I know, depending on the stoniness of the silence, how long it will take you to let me off the hook. Although at times it can be a bit of a risk, if I can make you laugh, I know there's a chance that it will all be forgotten by bedtime.

With that in mind, I have prepared for you an interpretive dance entitled, "I Didn't Know Your Mother Found Ole and Lena Jokes Offensive".

Please enjoy.

"What's he doing out there?"

"Search me. Looks like he's digging."

"He's dedicated. He started clear over there last week."

"Someone should go talk to him, find out what's going on."

"I'll be the one, once he finishes putting holes in his yard he'll probably start in on mine."

*****************************

"This is quite the project you've got here, what's the occasion?"

"Winter."

"Are you crazy? It's May! You're standing there in shorts. Take a break, winter isn't for six months yet."

"Winter is always coming."

She's wearing this hooded thing, almost a wrap. With a little more daring it could be a superhero-length cape waving nobly in the breeze. Instead it's a short red cloak with a drawstring tied under her chin.

There was something odd in the way the string was tied. It was tangled in an intricate knot that would require hours to correctly navigate the twists and turns necessary to recreate the same snarl.

She made some excuse (sick grandmother) when I offered my company. I'm not her type; turns out she goes for the big, bad boy types.

37 steps; left turn; 29 steps; catch the bus.

Outside my oversized window they are there again, sitting together, holding hands on a bench. Faces turned toward each other, smiling as they wait.

37 steps; left turn; 29 steps; catch the bus.

She's alone today, this is not uncommon. Unusual is her hands fluttering at her eyes even as she defiantly tries to restrain them in her lap. Down the block he's walking away, head down, long strides, with his fists shoved into his pockets.

37 steps; left turn; 29 steps; catch the bus.

The bench waits, empty.

I could have stayed home, napped in the sun all day, cuddled next to you for warmth at night, but with this voice, fame chose me. Plus, nocturnal vocal exercises never go over well. People would say I've been in the business for 5 years. While it may not sound impressive, for me it feels like 35. That's a long, distinguished career.

You've probably seen my work. Pick any romantic comedy; the guy finds himself in a compromising position in the girl's house, and chucks the incriminating evidence out the window. That's my cue:

MROWR!!

The muffled, artificially cheerful voice came on over the loudspeaker, startling the miniature dog across the aisle. A head poked out from a pink plush prison, alert and searching. Ears cocked, it listened attentively to the newest update.

I had read somewhere that some animals have no sense of the passage of time. To them, a flight delayed two hours would be no different from one that departed on time.

Among the rolled eyes and exhaled sighs, the tiny head retreated. We both settled in to wait until freedom was granted again.

W h y r a g e a g a i n s t m e d i u m s w e c h o s e t o w r i t e i n R e b e l l i o n f o r i
t s o w n s a k e O r c h a l l e n g i n g e x p a n s i o n o f t h e f o r m s p o t e n t i a l?

As I stood, stationary for the first time in days, all the miles that had chased me here finally ran me down and struck me with a physical force. I steeled myself, struggling to remain upright as I waited for the caretakers.

Legends were told about people with faces like these. In each retelling, the gray eyes would grow more piercing, thin lips would pull tighter as they regarded me. To faces like these, speech was unnecessary, my thoughts were already known and shared among them.

Their words should not have surprised me.

"Why have you come all this way?"

I sit on the balcony watching the lightning on the horizon.

I had changed something. Even after all the training and all the dire warnings, I broke the rules. When I came out of the machine, everyone was flush with the excitement of success. I was ashamed to admit that I had let them down. Dire consequences had been promised for the slightest error, but two hours after I returned, the present remained unchanged to my eyes.

I sit on the balcony and wait for the rolls of thunder.

I have a habit of writing short stories.

But I never finish them. Rather, I write a couple of paragraphs that follow a loose outline, but never fully develop a character, or form a cohesive narrative. The stories I do finish often end with an abrupt plot switch, or the absolute opposite, in which the arc of the storyline dissipates into the disappointment of a not-quite ending. Somewhere between the violence and apathy of my writing, my life coasts along; five miles under the limit, on a straight highway, under a pleasantly overcast sky.