Short Novel

10/14 - 10/21 | A chapter for a novel

My first stab at fiction ;).
Disclaimer: story about nobody I know, based on nothing I experienced...

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T H E - R E T U R N

Chapter -1

George sat there meekly looking the gray cold tiles and matching gray carpet meeting exactly where the beige front desk rose from the floor like a mushroom on a moldy day. Palms wet and clammy holding on to the plastic 'leather' folio, he just sat there. The quick sharp looking young woman, who could easily be less than half his age, answering the phones in a musical sing song voice, "Barry, Boyd & Partners, may I help you?".

He tried to make himself cheerful, trying to tap to the rhythm of her voice. Hanging his head low, he tried to move his feet, noticing how bulgy his shoes looked. That's his best pair still. His eyes focusing and noticing all the tiny cracks, the bruised gray matte areas of peeled off leather even a thick coat of waxy polish couldn't rescue. Suddenly he felt such affinity for those old, used shoes. He felt an immediate camaraderie with them. He felt like a good old shoe that worked tirelessly, worked with such loyalty... Loyalty. The word he carried all his life like a mantra now filled him with intense disgust akin to self-hatred. The nervousness about the interview left him, instead his mind filled with unspoken rage and steam.

That was what he was. LOYAL. Even in his last job, worked like a dog for years. And what did he get for that? A slap of a check, a mere 6 weeks of severance pay and a typed note on corporate letterhead. 8 lines long. Not even signed by the man he worked for. Wishing the very best in his next endeavor. Next Endeavor? Who fucking says next endeavor while you might as well drive a knife through...Fuckin'assholes...

Mr. Wilson? Mr. Wilson?

George quickly pulled himself, to standing up, dropping his case on the floor, making it's contents fly out and spread out on the floor. His resume, letters of recommendation and samples of his work. 8 x 10 Kodachromes from the late 80's and more recent digital print-outs on bond Letter paper. No matter how carefully he kept them, some of them got dog eared from being handled in so many 'good opportunity' meetings. Before he scrambled to pick his papers, he looked up, to meet the eyes of the woman, holding the door, half open while blocking the open half with her skirt suit black hose figure. Her eyes were not friendly or unfriendly, just the typical HR manager eyes. Impatient, yet a bit vulture like, scanning, quick moving up ad down, data being processed at lightening speed.

George knew his interview was over even before it began. There was no point picking up the papers in a hurry or make a funny remark about his klutziness to 'connect' with his interviewer. Somewhere he read, the decision to hire pretty much happens within the first few moments of a meeting. He couldn't bother anymore. He knew it was a 'No'. The woman probably made that decision even before she called his name, while he sat there contemplating his shoes. His mind automatically calculated the money and time he put into this meeting. Dry-cleaning $16. Kinkos prints $37.50. Subway +NJ Transit $13.75. Haircut $4, Shoe polish, $5. He didn't even bother to total it. After that moment it didn't matter. What or how he did the interview. He didn't even feel the earlier anger. It was just gray, an even, non descript gray, the same shade of the carpet under his feet.

At 52, George Wilson looked of retirement age. His eyes were misted glass of faded blue, staring out of the NJ transit windows. He has the kind of face that one can't quite remember. He could probably rob a bank without bothering to wear mask and get away with it.

Sometimes one would wonder looking at certain people, how did they, let alone find someone, manage to get them to marry them!..George was one of those. He was married. Once. A long time back. He had a wife and 3 children. Two, his own, he likes to believe that they were, and one, his wife brought into the marriage from a prom night. In fact that's how he snared Angela. She was way beyond his league but her unwanted pregnancy and her catholic upbringing made her a negotiable deal. He shadowed her much of the time anyway even before she got knocked up, so it wasn't too much of a shock when they announced their engagement and within-a-3-month wedding date. Of course there were people in the know and a few tongues that wagged.

He remembered the first few years of his marriage. Now it seems like it all happened to someone else. He was one of the few people in Fort Smith who landed a real 'professional' job right after college, working at an Industrial Engineering firm and brought home more than most in that town. That must have sweetened the deal for Angela. But he didn't care. He was just silly happy having Angela walk next him while he pushed the super market cart, and swelled with pride, when people stopped to touch and and inquire Angela about her equally swelling belly, when's the baby coming? He made himself believe Angela was his, and the paternity of the baby is a very small price to pay. In fact he couldn't believe his luck. To able to touch her, too see her naked body in the shower. He never could see her under the covers. She insisted on turning the lights off whenever he wanted to claim his rights as her husband. His WIFE. Angela W I L S O N. It was as if he accidentally found someone else's very fat wallet and decided to keep it for himself, knowing it's wrong. That fear of losing this stolen stash kept him quiet even when he shouldn't have. All 13 years. Until that night in April.

When he left Arkansas in a hurry, George didn't bother with the baby pictures or any prized possessions. He slipped into the night as if he was going out to take a leak. Except he cleaned up his savings, all of 3,833 dollars and 54 cents the day before. Well, in the 60's it's a tidy sum, tucked away between his overalls and his tidy-whities, a tight roll in a cotton hand kerchief, it nestled next to his limp penis, as he huddled in the back seat of a Grey Hound. He didn't think or plan too much. The panic of and the fear of evidence leading up to him terrified him. That was it. That was the last time he saw his family.

In two decades that went past, he didn't try to know what happened to them. He tried not to think about them. Try to shut it with a sharp snap of a book every time his mind opens a page in it. But it's a like a car accident one has witnessed, that terrible image with all it's slow motion monstrous detail gets burned on your retina, not leaving you even when are asleep. Strangely more than Angela, it was the kids. They were just babies. He still remembers the way their soft heads smelled of Johnson's baby oil and sweet corn in spring. The hair softer than silk, wispy, peach-fuzzy, and on a bright day more golden than Belle Point at Sunset.

For weeks after his run, he expectantly scanned the papers for the news. Waited on the dreaded knock on his door. But strangely nothing ever showed up or nobody came looking for him in his basement apartment in the Bronx. By the time the panic wore off and he found a way of supporting himself, got all legal and up and up, his self as it existed before has been obliterated. He could have been dead for all he knew. That fact made him laugh wryly. It was ironic, he fled to save his own life and in the end he is dead anyway.

He tried hard to remember the good times, if he had any since his run. It was 9 years ago, when he first got a break in his work and then Giana happened. Giana... George repeated her name saying it aloud but softly, rolling it around in his mouth, like a sweet licorice candy, caressing the syllables with his tongue 'Gee-Aah-Naah'. He liked the fact that she has the same initials as he did. He didn't bother to change his name, despite being on the run. One, that's the only thing of himself left. Two, it was too common a name for it stand out. Three, he figured if they did come looking for him, that will be the end, he didn't have a fight left in him.

"Excuse me, Can I sit here?" a young voice pulled him out of his reverie. He looked up to a young man, probably in his late 20's, half leaning, balancing the weight of a briefcase and an overnighter. "could I take this seat?" young man asked again. It's may I, George said to himself, suddenly noticing the bus was full and only the seat next to him was left unoccupied. There were a 4 others who chose to stand in the isle rather than take that seat next to him. "Oh, of course!". George pulled himself close towards the window, making more than enough room for the young man to sit. The young man sat down heavily for a slender built, relieved to put his bags down and give his back some rest. He leaned back adjusting his seat, turned around and smiled. Clearly a preamble. This rather shocked George. He was not used to commuters 'conversing'. No, not around here, in New York area. In that narrow confined space between the seats, the young man managed to stretch his hand out and said "I am Dan". He smelled of aftershave. Mint and citrus. But not the usual, cheap kind. His smile open. George shook his hand still mildly shocked, "George Wilson".


- To be continued.

Point of View

10/14 - 10/21 | POV:

Take a passage from a good piece of published fiction. Transpose a paragraph or two to a different point of view.
500 words or less.

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Genesis | Chapter 3

E V E

My husband and I, we were both naked, yet we felt no shame, it's kinda cool actually.

Now the serpent was the most cunning of all the animals that the LORD God had made. I didn't know about that then. The serpent came around inquiring, "Did God really tell you not to eat from any of the trees in the garden?"

I told the serpent: "Well, we may eat all the fruit of the trees in the garden; except the fruit of the tree in the middle. God said, 'You shall not eat it or even touch it, if you do, you'll die.'"

But the serpent said to me: "You certainly will not die! You know why he didn't want you to eat it? because God knows well that the moment you eat of it, your eyes will be opened and you will be like gods who know what's good and what's bad."

Now, that got me thinking. I can see that the tree was good for food, the fruit looks delicious, and desirable for gaining wisdom. So, why not? I took some of its fruit and ate it; and I also gave some to my husband, and he ate it too.

Guess what, boom! Both of our eyes were opened, and we realized that we were, can you believe, Naked!! so, we quickly sewed fig leaves together and made loincloths for ourselves.

When we heard the sound of the LORD God moving about in the garden at the breezy time of the day, my husband and I hid ourselves from the LORD God among the trees of the garden.

The LORD God then called to my husband and asked him, "Where are you?"

My husband answered, "I heard you in the garden; but I was afraid, because I was naked, so I hid myself."

Then he asked, "Who told you that you were naked? You have eaten, then, from the tree of which I had forbidden you to eat!"

My husband replied, "The woman whom you put here with me--she gave me fruit from the tree, so I ate it."

(You, Adam, So typical! Yeah, disown me when it doesn't suit you!)

The LORD God then asked me, "Why did you do such a thing?" I told him, "The serpent tricked me into it, so I ate it."

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ORIGINAL: Genesis | Chapter 3

Plot

10/07 - 10/14 | 10 min Plot with drama:

Write a 10 min 'story' using the first line someone gives you. Or pick a first line from any book and begin another story. Make sure your piece involves drama.

500 words OR LESS.

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R O B B E D

The starting line given to me:

Out of the corner of her eye she could sense someone was lurking in the doorway. She knew there was a good chance she was going to get robbed tonight.

No, no, Not tonight. Please. Not after the kind of day, I mean, not the kind of night I had, she thought. Her feet automatically slowed down to a halt, wondering what her chances of safety were if she turned around and bolted. But then suddenly she felt reckless and angry. Anger that's been boiling for months. Ruth has never been a reckless person. But the anger, well, now it's name is Ruth.

Her stance defiant, her pace brisk, she marched straight into the path of the lurking shadow by the doorway, reaching it way before her mind could catch up. Bristling out, holding the messenger bag stuffed with library books with both hands like an improvised club, she was a woman possessed. The weight of the makeshift weapon came from her intention more than from the mass of books. She heard herself hiss, "you nigga, you don'wanna mess with me, no, not tonight, you aksd for it...". She abruptly stopped short in her step, as if she was struck by a bullet on the spot, almost falling forward from the force of her own propulsion. "DAD!!" she screamed, "what the HELL are YOU doing here??". "It's your mom, Ruthie..." she heard him mumble, barely audible, and his crumbling voice said the rest.

Character

10/01 - 10/07 | Character Exercise:

Talk to someone, anyone, write a piece taking a 'detail' from that conversation. Focus on one moment, or write a mini biography of his or her life that allows reader to see and feel who the person is on the inside and out. The point of this exercise is for you to use details of the real world to INVENT a character in your imaginary world. Even what may seem like mundane details can reveal something compelling or truthful about a character.

500 Words or less.

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B I R D C A L L S

The day was about to break.
The boy woke up startled. Not because there was any sudden sound but for the lack of it at that hour. It's the kind of silence he has never known his entire 12 years of life. No, not that there is no noise of any kind. There was. The white noise of a typical High rise on the upper Eastside. The slight hiss of the central heat, the sloshing of the tires speeding through FDR mercilessly violating the last nights snow, the distant muffled horns of the sirens blanketed by the thick black sleet, and then the soft snoring of his dad sleeping across the hall-with the door open surrounded by a mob of brown moving boxes.

It took him a while to orient himself–as to where he was. He stared at the window, looking out on to the back of the building, at the tree, dead naked, framing the window like giant gnarled cobweb. He slowly turned around his gaze, counting the objects in the room, to do some magic math that would make him understand why he was there. He started with the hair on his forearm, honey blond from baking in the African Sun, then the mosaic specs on the small patch of the floor left between the boxes, and then of course the columns of boxes. All brown, with the same identical stickers. He could only make out the largest letters on the stickers in that pale light. The 'From' address read 'Nairobi'. He didn't want to read the 'To' part. He quickly scanned the rest, the lamp, –the table –a radium faced Fossil sports watch, 3 Coke cans, one with a straw sticking out, a pizza box with sticky cheese crumbs. By now he did a 360 degree survey of the room, and his glance returned to the starting point– The giant cobweb of the tree in the window.

More than the tree, the sky seemed dead to him. They gray square expanse without any green leaves punctuating it, and then he realized what actually made him sad and frightened. No birds! There wasn't even a single birdcall at that hour. In fact the total absence of it. The cacophony of the cuckoos, starlings, ox-peckers, kingfishers, guinea fowls, and the ruckus of roosters officially announcing the break of dawn. He couldn't understand, how could it be morning and yet be so deafeningly quiet. He felt as if he must have been in a terrible accident and lost a limb...gone deaf to be precise. He wanted to scream. Perhaps he did. But no sound was heard. Neither inside the room nor outside. The boy clutched the edges of the pillow with both hands, shoving his face into it, desperately wanting to blank-out everything, not just the light. He knew in that wet darkness swimming behind his eyelids, he lost much more than the birdcalls of Nairobi.

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This story drawn from a 15 minute chat with a chap, didn't ask his age but pegged him either late 40s or early 50s. Recent implant from Africa. Originally from UK. After his divorce, he moved to New York last January. Loves it here. He lives here alone, has a son in a boarding school south of NY. When I asked, where does he feel at home and what does he miss most about Africa, he said, he misses the lush colors and the daily presence of wildlife, but totally feels at home upper Eastside.

hmmm....so many rich details and so many different stories that could be written... Well, I picked the detail, 'presence of wildlife' and picked his kid who I don't know at all, as my character for the story.