9/15/15 Breeze (part 5)

“Are you hungry. Andy? Breakfast?” Brent was off the phone now. Brent stood behind the couch that faced the TV.

Oh my Gosh. Good God! yelled the TV.

Tyler looked at the TV. The camera zoomed in on a speck falling from one of the smoking building.

Oh, Dear God. People. People are, the woman speaking on the TV stuttered then said, People are jumping from the building. People are flinging themselves from the broken wreckage. This is–this is unprecedented. This is—

Tyler heard a cough. He turned and looked up into Brent’s face. The man wasn’t crying. No, this time the look on his face was much worse. it was stretched and thin and pale. He looked like Tyler had felt that time he’d gotten real sick and thrown up all over the desk at school. Dad was shaking his head.

“Let’s mute it,” said Dad. “I can’t listen to this.”

“What about the news? What about Alison. What–what—”

“We won’t know what’s happened, we can’t know,” said Dad. “We, we should play a game, maybe.”

“A game?” asked Brent, like he’d never known the word, like he’d never played a game in his life.

Now it look as though another explosion has hit the second building, said the TV.

They all looked at it.

It looks as though something has fallen off the second building. We have Dan Rutherford there, on the ground. Dan, can you tell us what you’re seeing?

On the TV smoke was billowing up. shot into the air slightly, but mostly it spread out, swallowing up other buildings in its path.

Yes, Dianne. I’m four blocks away from the World Trade Towers, and Tower Two has just collapsed, said a man’s voice.

The woman’s voice. It collapsed? The whole building?

Yes. It fell in on itself. It looked much like a demolishing of an old building. It looked like a demolition.

Yes, thank you, Dan, said the woman. It looks as though Tower Two has collapsed. These are just incredible images, incredible.

Dad crossed in front of Tyler and sat down on the couch. Brent did the same. Tyler looked at them. Brent with his wide shoulders and cropped hair, dad in his long coat with short, scratchy hair on his cheeks and chin. Both men looked drawn and pale and at a loss for what to do.

“Look at us,” said Dad.

“I know,” Brent responded.

“Tyler, come here,” said Dad. Tyler went and Dad wrapped his arms around him and help him close. “Everything will be alright,” he said into Tyler’s ear.

“We’ve come a long way,” said Brent.

“Sorry it takes something like this,” said Dad.

“Me too,” said Brent.

Tyler wasn’t sure what they were talking about. The news report continued to roll. No new information. No new footage. All anybody knew was that The United States of America were under attack.

“I don’t blame her, you know,” said Dad.


“I don’t,” he said.

“Ok. Maybe you’ll get to tell her.”

“I’m telling you,” said Dad.

“You’ll get to tell her,” said Brent.

“I don’t—”

“You’ll get to tell her,” Brent repeated. There was a finality to his voice.

Dad nodded. Tyler looked at him. His father’s eyes were far and away. In a time and place Tyler didn’t know or remember.


4/30/15 Like A Piece of Drywall

When she arrived home there was nobody there. She parked her Four Runner in the garage and lowered the door. The door that lead into the kitchen through the garage door was unlocked. As she pulled it shut behind her, she turned the little nub.

She was just amazed Claudia could have been related to such a creep! Drugs, thieving–maybe Danny had actually killed people. The thought upset her. She walked to the front door and made sure it was locked. Then the sliding glass door that lead out onto the deck yard. Also locked. In the right hand corner of the backyard was the shed. It was full of gardening tools and home repair stuff. A ladder was lying on its side just lying there. Anyone could steal it. Anyone could just grab it and walked away in the middle of the night and sell it for drug money!

Margaret put down her purse on the kitchen table, then thought better of it and picked it up. What if someone broke and took it? She brought it into Gordon’s office with her and set it on his desk. She booted up the computer and sat back in the leather desk chair. Outside a car door slammed. A dog barked. Maybe they should get a dog. Ava would love it and it could keep people like Danny away. Margaret jumped as the computer made out a loud beep! The internal fan started to whir. She heard a lawnmower start up. The house creaked. It was an uncomfortable sound and she held her breath for a moment. It creaked again. Margaret leapt to her feet, clutching her handbag. She walked to the office door and peered out into the living room.

“Hello?” she asked, wishing her voice sounded louder and more confident.

She thought back to the first time her parents had left her home alone.

“And if you cook anything don’t leave the kitchen with the stove on,” said her mother.

Outside it was dark and every window was a black mirror that showed a darker house than the one Margaret was in.

“And if anything goes wrong you can call the restaurant,” Daddy said.

“I know,” whined Margaret. They had told her all of this before. She was 13 years old and Debby Shrumpt and Ryan Fingel had already been left home alone a dozen times–and they were both months younger than her. She could handle an evening by herself. She’d reassured her parents over and over–and did they ever believe her?

“Okay,” said Daddy. “The McKay’s across the street know you’re spending the evening alone, so if anything goes wrong they said you could call on them, just right across the street.”

Again, hadn’t Daddy said all this time and again–really? Time and again. She swore, her parents treated her like a piece of drywall. As if their words just bounced right off her and she was completely incapable sitting around and watching the tv for a whole evening by herself.

4/15/15 I’m Thankful I Understand This

I sit in front of a blank page and don’t know what to write anymore. There’s this long list of ideas in my head and none of them seem worth putting on the page–even when I’ve just been woken, when my mind is less judgemental the quality of my writing. What I’d like is to write small 500 word stories every morning, but that is impossible for me right now. Stress is the creative killer. It creeps into the places between synapses where all your ideas form and then it just takes root there. It courses through your mind so nothing else can fill that space between your consciousness and the matter that makes up your brain.

See: it seems to me there is space in between these places. Between the brain itself and the consciousness it forms. Perhaps this is where the unconscious self lurks, and so too is where the stress builds. The brain are the thoughts. Our feelings will mirror our thoughts. If we focus on negative thoughts then negative feelings will follow. If we focus on positive thoughts, then positives will follow. Here are the positives in my life. Here are some gratitudes.

Last week–well, just on Saturday, ended one of the most stressful weeks of my life. It ended a relationship I had had high hopes for. It left me distraught and if not broken, at least hurt. Instead of getting home and having nobody to talk to I texted my friends in order to hangout. It was, after all, Saturday night. It was like the Thundercats assembling. Everyone rose to the occasion and I wanted to cry, not because I had just been treated horribly by someone I cared about deeply, but because all my friends rallied around me and lifted me up, even if they didn’t know what they were doing. So this is to my friends that have helped me through so much.

Next is to my own bravery. This may seem conceited, but for the last year or so I’ve been continuously dating in a semi-serious manner a handful of women (not at the same time, just in progression). For anyone who knows the dating scene then you know it sucks. But I’ve continued to put myself out there and be open with people. I’ve continued to make myself vulnerable and that takes a lot of guts–because it gives others a lot of power–but through feeling and hurt, I haven’t been broken, but just made more aware how special true feelings are. So, this is to all the feelings I’ve had in the last year, good and bad–they are both precious.

Lastly, it is my words that I love. My words and how they seem to always make things more clear to me, even if not to others. This is to, somehow, I can write the truth of a matter before it is completely apparent to me. It becomes some kind of warning to myself that I have been unable to head. Perhaps in the future I will be able to, but for now–I’m thankful I understand this.