I've been struggling with this story, turning it this way and that and I'm still not entirely happy either with the development or the length - 1076, a smidge over the flash limit. It just doesn't want to get any smaller. Oh well, for whatever it's worth. . .
- - -
I always had a great sense of smell, even before. I think that's why I'm picky about soap, especially when I'm shaving. The one thing I've held on to, literally: my own shaving kit. I've had this razor for a decade, maybe longer. Back then I was in my own bathroom every morning. But today, even if this mirror is corroding away at the edges and the cracked sink is about to come right off the wall, I still have a sharp razor and good fresh soap. Any little bit of continuity helps, on days like today.
In that decade I've had to learn to dull my senses, though perhaps it's really about keeping them at a distance. Once, I thought they would be a blessing. Clear sight meant no more glasses. I could hear someone calling my name a block away. But it's only a blessing if you're sensing things that you enjoy. Today my nose tells me that this bathroom has at least three species of mold contending for dominance, and the last resident had some sort of bladder problem. I hear the scritch-scritch of roaches under that baseboard; last night in the pitch dark I watched them make their rounds. I suppose I ought to become more like a dog, curious about all these things but not bothered by them. How ironic would that be.
I've also learned that advertising your heightened abilities is never a good idea; it starts people wondering about you. I need to be that guy who doesn't cause trouble, who nobody gives a second thought to. Of course it never lasts, eventually someone starts to catch on, and then it's time to go. Yesterday the cycle came around again; the landlord was waiting for me after work and I had fifteen minutes to leave my apartment. At least I got my security deposit back. That's the only way I could afford this nasty little room and the bus ticket. But it's a blow, every time. And every time it gets a little bit worse.
I know to arrive at the bus station early, so I can fill out the paperwork. As usual the lady at the booth stops when she sees my ID, leans back from the glass, and motions for her supervisor. He's a big guy, not scared - at least, not showing it - and he calls me inside. They always do that, trained to keep things quiet. He's quick; efficient or nervous, either way I'm glad to be out of there. Her perfume combined with his foot fungus was threatening my ability to retain breakfast. At least in the waiting room there's some air circulation, and the cleansing tang of diesel exhaust.
They've told the driver, I can seem him scanning the rows of plastic seats. Tense, but not afraid like the ticket taker. Believe me, I can tell - those sharp senses, plus years of experience making people uncomfortable.
He looks down at a clipboard. "Umm, Mr. Lupin?" he asks. It's the name I chose when I started this new life, a foolish in-joke that nobody ever gets. "Yes, that's me. I have my card right here." He puts it under the clip, flips through a few sheets. Looks back at my face, curious, still tense.
"Okay, that's all set." He hands back the card. "Ah, you've ridden a cross-country bus before?"
Indeed. I haven't had a car for years, even counting the derelict SUV where I spent a winter. Other travel options are too expensive, or prohibited. I smile, remembering as always to keep my lips closed, and he seems to relax a little. "I'm used to the arrangements. I have some food for the trip, and just this one suitcase." He nods. Something flickers across his face, but it disappears again. "We'll be boarding in about twenty minutes, come up at the end if you don't mind."
Now, that's unusual. Every other driver has wanted me early, to get situated before the passengers. They're required by law to inform everyone, but they always do it just before pulling out of the station. A little trick so that people will be less likely to object and want another bus. Or refuse to go until I'm kicked off, which has happened too.
They're milling around the door while I hang back and try to avoid attention. No sense making it harder on this guy. As soon as he's finished with them, he motions me over. Still tense, but there's something more too. I can't quite place it with all the noise and pollution.
He gestures towards the open hatch. "Mr. Lupin, I have the middle compartment set up for you." I bend down to look - miraculously, he's given me a real pillow with a couple of blankets. I can't hide my surprise, and for the first time he relaxes a little and half-smiles.
"I wanted to give you this, too, if it's okay." There's a scrap of paper in his hand, with a name and address. "That's my little brother, he's in Portland, and he, umm, knows where the clinic is, and all." Aha, there's the missing piece.
I reply, still somewhat shocked, "Thank you, for the bedding, and for putting me in touch. I'll look him up as soon as I get there." He nods, but I can tell there's something else. He looks right at me, now. "I was hoping. . . you seem to really have this under control, I mean, not just the symptoms, but how you handle yourself. Bobby, he's only had it for a year, and it's been a hard time. Could you, maybe, talk to him?"
First year. That brings up a lot of ugly memories, but after a second's hesitation I have myself together. "Thanks for the compliment, and I'll do whatever I can to help. It's been a long time for me, maybe he can learn from some of my mistakes."
He shakes my hand - miracle number two - and I climb into the LTC. Officially the letters stand for Lycanthrope Transport Compartment; everyone calls it the Little Tin Cage. As the outside door closes, the driver glances at me again. I can see that he's feeling worse about this than I am, and that's another first for today. Settling back on the pillow, I look up at the aluminum roof and wonder. Maybe this time, starting over won't be quite so bad.
- - -
Friday, November 12, 2010
Friday, November 5, 2010
November's first Friday Flash
Wrote this a long time ago - eighteen months, according to the timestamp on the original file - but never knew what to do with it. Friday Flash seems like a good use. . .
Bill.
- - -
The bright green smell of the lawn swirls around me with each pass back and forth. Back and forth. Back and. . . now I have to work around this tree. And back, and now the other side, then all the way across.
This lawn doesn't need to be mowed. The grass would be just fine; I know this. No matter how it looks, how much it seems to grow each week, I know that it does not need to be mowed. But MOM says that I have to mow it, and I do not dare refuse her. I've tried that - a few times, actually - and paid the price. So on this hot afternoon, sun beating down, insects buzzing faintly, it's lawn mowing for me.
The engine bogs down in a longer patch and I push on the handle to raise the deck, let the blade free itself. Back up, try that again, slower. The exhaust smell, sharp, that unique tang of petrochemicals. I've never smelled anything like it, and I'd never mistake it for anything else. You would think that after all this time someone could design a better lawnmower. Heck, I could, but they won't let me. I have to use this cranky, difficult, heavy, stinking thing. Oh, and that sputter, I know just what that is. Out of gas.
The can is smooth, cool and very heavy, I must be careful to keep gas from splashing on the hot engine. The mower's tank is too small. Even if I start full I have to refill at least once, and today I forgot to top it off before starting. Whoa, okay, that's it. Put that cap on very carefully, good, nothing spilled. I hate how it smells when I get gas on my hands, that odor sticks in my head long after it is gone.
And this wretched thing doesn't even have a starter, only a rope. I have to avoid pulling too hard or it will break, but if I don't get enough of a yank the motor won't catch. I'm actually getting a lot better at it, there we go, rumbling along nicely.
Nearly done, just a few more turns. I can almost make myself enjoy this part. I start to think about something other than the grass and the mower and the sweat that seems to be running down my back. Wonder why it is that I'm doing this. Obviously: she told me to, but why is it so important to her? Am I supposed to learn something, I mean, other than how to mow a lawn? Is it teaching me patience, or thoroughness? Or just giving me time to think about things?
Still mulling over this, I'm startled by the communications chime. I blink to accept, and as always, it's her. She's using what I call her outdoors voice, "Dear, all done with the lawn?" "Yes, ma'am, just putting the mower back." "Oh, good. It's time for dinner."
Dinner sounds good - but today I'm a little reluctant to leave the lawn. With a last look, I blink the sequence that deactivates the simulation. As my carrier undocks from the workstation, MOM transmits another message. Now it is her regular voice: _Unit 14 task list complete. Feeding access approved_ With that, my carrier wheels around and starts down the long, white hall to the feeding bay. I think it's pizza, tonight.
- - -
Bill.
- - -
The bright green smell of the lawn swirls around me with each pass back and forth. Back and forth. Back and. . . now I have to work around this tree. And back, and now the other side, then all the way across.
This lawn doesn't need to be mowed. The grass would be just fine; I know this. No matter how it looks, how much it seems to grow each week, I know that it does not need to be mowed. But MOM says that I have to mow it, and I do not dare refuse her. I've tried that - a few times, actually - and paid the price. So on this hot afternoon, sun beating down, insects buzzing faintly, it's lawn mowing for me.
The engine bogs down in a longer patch and I push on the handle to raise the deck, let the blade free itself. Back up, try that again, slower. The exhaust smell, sharp, that unique tang of petrochemicals. I've never smelled anything like it, and I'd never mistake it for anything else. You would think that after all this time someone could design a better lawnmower. Heck, I could, but they won't let me. I have to use this cranky, difficult, heavy, stinking thing. Oh, and that sputter, I know just what that is. Out of gas.
The can is smooth, cool and very heavy, I must be careful to keep gas from splashing on the hot engine. The mower's tank is too small. Even if I start full I have to refill at least once, and today I forgot to top it off before starting. Whoa, okay, that's it. Put that cap on very carefully, good, nothing spilled. I hate how it smells when I get gas on my hands, that odor sticks in my head long after it is gone.
And this wretched thing doesn't even have a starter, only a rope. I have to avoid pulling too hard or it will break, but if I don't get enough of a yank the motor won't catch. I'm actually getting a lot better at it, there we go, rumbling along nicely.
Nearly done, just a few more turns. I can almost make myself enjoy this part. I start to think about something other than the grass and the mower and the sweat that seems to be running down my back. Wonder why it is that I'm doing this. Obviously: she told me to, but why is it so important to her? Am I supposed to learn something, I mean, other than how to mow a lawn? Is it teaching me patience, or thoroughness? Or just giving me time to think about things?
Still mulling over this, I'm startled by the communications chime. I blink to accept, and as always, it's her. She's using what I call her outdoors voice, "Dear, all done with the lawn?" "Yes, ma'am, just putting the mower back." "Oh, good. It's time for dinner."
Dinner sounds good - but today I'm a little reluctant to leave the lawn. With a last look, I blink the sequence that deactivates the simulation. As my carrier undocks from the workstation, MOM transmits another message. Now it is her regular voice: _Unit 14 task list complete. Feeding access approved_ With that, my carrier wheels around and starts down the long, white hall to the feeding bay. I think it's pizza, tonight.
- - -
Friday, October 29, 2010
First Friday Flash
Having slowly gathered a sufficient stock of courage, piece by piece (word by word?) and witnessed the congeniality and mutual encouragement that the #fridayflash folks bring, I've decided to inaugurate this long-empty page by posting a flash story that seemed suitable for Halloween. Of course, I had no sooner decided that than I saw this #fridayflash submission: Guardian
Go read that one first, I think you'll like it - I did, and it nearly stopped me from posting the story below for reasons that will become obvious if you read them both. But eventually I decided that they were sufficiently different in tone, and I had the comfort that I'd written mine long before seeing "Guardian". A month ago, in fact - as I mentioned, it takes me a while to gather up that courage. It does make me wonder about the coincidence - what is it about cats that would inspire two different writers in such a similar way? Perhaps that's the scariest part of both stories. . .
At any rate, here's my first attempt at a Friday Flash:
Smooth water. . .
Warm sun. . .
Still grass. . .
Her teacher's smooth tones wafted through her slowly settling mind, repeating the now-familiar mantras with her. A gentle admonition to his young student, a subtle reminder that helped her reach the necessary state of calm. This had been her sole hurdle; all the other lessons had been easy, almost laughable. Slowing her thoughts, holding the distractions at a safe distance, finding the focus that would let her see - that had been her challenge. And so great a task that she had nearly failed, would have but for his help.
Now, half a life later, the challenge remained each time she assumed her post. Her body lay in a posture of rest, designed to fool anyone who happened to chance across her, to hide the fact that each limb was perfectly placed, each muscle tensioned or relaxed according to the teachings of the great masters. She smiled inwardly, proud of the years of practice she'd spent to achieve such perfection.
Ah, the voice of her teacher again, gently reminding her that she must clear her mind, not allow it to wander into thickets of emotion and memory. He'd had such an ability to see her thoughts. How she missed him, now. But that was another path she mustn't take. A slow breath, and soon. . .
"Hey, where's the cat?"
No! Not another distraction! A flash of anger, splashing like a stone dropped into her still thoughts.
"I dunno. She came in, I didn't see her after that."
"Is she down there with you?"
"No, I think she's in the basement again."
"I looked down there, didn't see her. . ."
Her teacher had anticipated this, had taken the advanced students through drills in which their meditation was interrupted time and again. She knew the ways to reassert her training, and with an effort began again. White clouds. . .
Some time passed. She never knew how much, and it had little meaning inside her fugue. Different senses, created by the trance, let her see an infinitesimal change in the quality of the shadows before her. No more than a flicker, and yet she knew. Waited for it to manifest itself, assume a form that she could. . . attack! A silent leap and the feeling of cold, slick wetness. Her unsheathed blades struck, sliced, kept it from retreating while she raked along its writhing form. A scream that only she could hear, and it was gone.
Her heart raced, as always, and she allowed herself the small congratulation that her teacher had permitted, and that no one else would give her. No one else would know of this battle, of another penetration turned back at the border. This was the lot of the guards, one she had long ago accepted.
She quickened her steps, leaping the last way and pushing the door open. A blink at the light, and she opened her mouth to smell the comforting familiarity, shake off the remnant of the indescribable chill she'd felt from her enemy.
"Oh, hey, here she is. She was in the basement after all. Here, girl, what a good kitty, yes you, little sweetie!"
"Wonder why she likes it so much down there? Spends hours just lying on the cold floor. Eh, I guess that's just how they are."
Go read that one first, I think you'll like it - I did, and it nearly stopped me from posting the story below for reasons that will become obvious if you read them both. But eventually I decided that they were sufficiently different in tone, and I had the comfort that I'd written mine long before seeing "Guardian". A month ago, in fact - as I mentioned, it takes me a while to gather up that courage. It does make me wonder about the coincidence - what is it about cats that would inspire two different writers in such a similar way? Perhaps that's the scariest part of both stories. . .
At any rate, here's my first attempt at a Friday Flash:
Smooth water. . .
Warm sun. . .
Still grass. . .
Her teacher's smooth tones wafted through her slowly settling mind, repeating the now-familiar mantras with her. A gentle admonition to his young student, a subtle reminder that helped her reach the necessary state of calm. This had been her sole hurdle; all the other lessons had been easy, almost laughable. Slowing her thoughts, holding the distractions at a safe distance, finding the focus that would let her see - that had been her challenge. And so great a task that she had nearly failed, would have but for his help.
Now, half a life later, the challenge remained each time she assumed her post. Her body lay in a posture of rest, designed to fool anyone who happened to chance across her, to hide the fact that each limb was perfectly placed, each muscle tensioned or relaxed according to the teachings of the great masters. She smiled inwardly, proud of the years of practice she'd spent to achieve such perfection.
Ah, the voice of her teacher again, gently reminding her that she must clear her mind, not allow it to wander into thickets of emotion and memory. He'd had such an ability to see her thoughts. How she missed him, now. But that was another path she mustn't take. A slow breath, and soon. . .
"Hey, where's the cat?"
No! Not another distraction! A flash of anger, splashing like a stone dropped into her still thoughts.
"I dunno. She came in, I didn't see her after that."
"Is she down there with you?"
"No, I think she's in the basement again."
"I looked down there, didn't see her. . ."
Her teacher had anticipated this, had taken the advanced students through drills in which their meditation was interrupted time and again. She knew the ways to reassert her training, and with an effort began again. White clouds. . .
Some time passed. She never knew how much, and it had little meaning inside her fugue. Different senses, created by the trance, let her see an infinitesimal change in the quality of the shadows before her. No more than a flicker, and yet she knew. Waited for it to manifest itself, assume a form that she could. . . attack! A silent leap and the feeling of cold, slick wetness. Her unsheathed blades struck, sliced, kept it from retreating while she raked along its writhing form. A scream that only she could hear, and it was gone.
Her heart raced, as always, and she allowed herself the small congratulation that her teacher had permitted, and that no one else would give her. No one else would know of this battle, of another penetration turned back at the border. This was the lot of the guards, one she had long ago accepted.
She quickened her steps, leaping the last way and pushing the door open. A blink at the light, and she opened her mouth to smell the comforting familiarity, shake off the remnant of the indescribable chill she'd felt from her enemy.
"Oh, hey, here she is. She was in the basement after all. Here, girl, what a good kitty, yes you, little sweetie!"
"Wonder why she likes it so much down there? Spends hours just lying on the cold floor. Eh, I guess that's just how they are."
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