Basketball Scene from "Pursuer and Pursued"

“Where’s her leash?”

The sun had almost completely set, and the night cooled the air. I could no longer see the cardinals that were once flying high above the roof of our house. The sky increasingly darkened. The streetlights out front had not turned on yet, and so only faint house lights brighten the mood. Going against custom I enter the dark, no longer a villain of habit. Besides, I was afraid of what: the stillness, the fading shadows, cool breezes, lightening bugs, crickets?

“C’mon, Sammy, let’s play ball for a little bit.”

Obediently, as I attached her leash, she rose to her feet with haste and rushed ahead of me. My protection had always been her delight. After walking to the basketball hoop, she stopped and barked and yelped. I looked about and saw nothing. The streetlights have finally come on, but still I see nothing but total grayness. No children playing or adults talking or cats roaming the empty streets in search of that which they will not know until found. I saw nothing of harm to us, but I was thankful for Sam’s concern all the more.

I tied Sam’s leash to the pole supporting the mailboxes, and I felt fearful and tense.

“All right, Sam, just stay there.”

Jump shot at the top of the key. Clank! Off the back of the iron. A brick!

Even after only a month of absence I was rusty. Okay, let’s go for a mid-range jumper from the side, off the blackboard. Oh, it semi-circles the rim and just out. I was getting there. Easy lay-up to boost my confidence. But, to make it interesting, I have to stop just before the basket, pivot off my left foot, fake to the left, then spin to the right with my left hand laying in the ball on the opposite side of the backboard. Yes – it’s good! Third time’s a… Perhaps clichés are clichés for a reason, a purpose, an end.

I felt motivated and energetic, carefree, bouncy and airy as the basketball. Sam licked herself. Stop that. That’s gross. She licked her paws. That’s better.

I dribbled around the makeshift court with haste, setting myself for a shot whenever the notion came to mind. Some drives to the basket. Some outside jumpers. Some hook shots. Some bank shots. Some swishes. Some 3s. Some 2s. Some free throws. Some traveling violations. Some double-dribbles. Some fouls. Some arguments with the refs. Some buzzer beaters. Some agonizing defeats. Some awe-inspiring victories. Some long-lived memories. Some forgotten moves, both to and from the basket.

Why play ball? Nothing else, nothing at all. Too enraged to talk? Do more than take a walk. Shoot out the strife. Lay in your life. It’s a time to think. A time to put everything in sink. Sometimes it can be a scapegoat, so we don’t just paddle the same old boat. The cries from the crowd. Oh, how they are increasingly loud. The cheers are given. The energy, the thrill - this is livin;? And when it’s all said and done, the contest is over; we’ve won. But I’m not jumping. I’m not leaping. Rather, I don’t know what I feel. I think we can rule out zeal. Despite the emptiness, I am satisfied. For something inside me has been rectified. And I wonder…is there anything else better than playing ball? Nothing I ever saw. Nothing else, nothing at all.

Life was fine.

The sky was quiet. And motionless. Faded black. Clear and starry. Calm. Usually as I play ball outside, especially during the spring or summer months, my head spins with ideas bouncing around, as I analyze the passing day or week or year or…I sift through the good and the bad and the everything between. I conjure up alternate phrasings I should have articulated, opposing actions I could have taken, prettier memories I would like to have constructed.

But not tonight. My mind bounced empty limp, a void of human contention. And I fell in love, just then, with my dullness. I focused on the rim, the backboard, the ball, my arm and legs. Nothing else, nothing more. And I fell in love, just then, with the intricate simplicity of it all. A wonderfully spun web of a singular vision and motion and purpose. No hidden meanings or sarcasms or confusion or ill focus. I focused on one thing: to put that ball through that cylinder. Nothing more. So simple, yet so beautiful. An elusive touch. But why? No, it is perhaps not a single black and white answer. And perhaps the answer is gray. But the answer has color certainly! Not a moot point but a fact. And perhaps this color gray governs the world with an iron fist – blocking shots, spinning the ball away, allowing only a flawless swish – but perhaps, too, this color gray allows easily for variations: in moves, speeds, positions, shots, coming and goings. A game is won, lost and drawn in the open court. But – to steal from John Donne and Ernest Hemingway – only the game knows when, where and how that last buzzer will sound.

Why? you ask. Nothing else, nothing at all.

I attempt one last three-pointer from the top of the key…swish…grab the short rebound…and motion for a lay-up to end on a good note and…

The light fades away like a flip of the switch. And I feel the sharpened edge pierce my right side. Darkness befalls me. I crash to the ground. The basketball barely dodges my head, then rolls down the street. My learned instinct - drilled time and time again during basketball practices - is to dive for the loose ball. But I let it go. I cannot move. I clutch my side, and feel the wetness of blood - the throbbing of passion. My head spins - faint, limp - and I forget where and who I am. I can only stare at my torn side, and wonder why.

I see nothing but faded shadows surrounding me from all sides. Tears crest in my eyes. Spot showers. Gray, cumuli-nimbus clouds. I smear my face and eyes with bloody fingers, blinding me further. The odorless scent of the murky red substance strangles me. And so I cough, gasping for open air. Silence.

All the frozen while, Sam barks and yelps and cries for her unprotected, for her helpless, for hers. Sam's mouth foams with suffocating hate. Leashed, she cries to be free. She cries to free me. She cries to save me and to kill my attacker. And she cries in choking pain. She cries for my world.

Blood flows freely, in spurts, from my side. I press the gape with the palm of my right hand. And make no sound. I hear nothing; still see nothing. Blind, deaf and mute - searching for the way out.

Careful not to squeeze my abdomen, I lift up the left side of my tee shirt, and rub my eyes. Once, twice, thrice. And repeat, as needed. My face, I feel, blushes with crimson fate. I scrunch and blink my eyes rapidly (darkness), then slowly (grayness), then not at all (light). The tears cleanse my eye sockets.

Tired by day, tired by night. Ghost vanishing astray, angels lost from sight. Scarce time, diminishing light. Tired by, tired by night. Begging for care, searching for thought. Perfecting ideals, dreams sought. Forsaken passion, sunken pain. Mangled soul, forgotten name. As love envelops the soul, truth makes it whole. Truth in love awakens light. Calmed by day, calmed by night.

Before me is not real. It is not unreal. It just is. And I struggle to fight it, but do not know what it is. From the ground, looking up to my attacker, I only see a dark outline, shadowed by the faint moonlight. The streetlight has died away.

He wears all black, from head to toes: shoes, pants, turtleneck, gloves, makeshift ski mask with holes cut out for the mouth and eyes. The fully lashed eyes are a cloudy gray, rife with vindication. The sweating lips are pursed with cringed teeth. Perhaps he suffers from bruxism, I think in a daze. He - I assume the attacker is a male, as the shoulders are broad and heavy - looks down at me in reveled abandon. He does not stir.

Our eyes cross.

In an unnerved voice, he says, "Give it back to me. It's mine."

He edges closer, bending and hovering over my motionless body. He pauses, unveiling from behind his back the tip-stained kitchen knife. He smiles. A perfect white glows from his mouth, lighting his entire face. Short stubble covers his upper and lower lips.

"Give it back!" he screams. "It's mine. You stole it from me." And he pulls the hair on the back of my head with his left hand, while sharply gliding the knife closer to my neck. He clutches my hair tighter and tugs down again. I bellow in unknown fear.

"Give it to me!"

As the knife rests on my Adam's apple, Sam barks her loudest bark, scratching and digging deeper into the heart of the earth with her claws. She breaks free from the leash, tearing away the middle strands. And she lunges at the attacker's face. As if playing tug of war with a found doll's head or a fetching stick, she yanks the front part of her body back and forth, left to right, attacking the attacker without relent. Around me they wrestle for my life and for my death. Each has the same, different goal in mind.

The gnarling sounds are deafening across the heavy sky. And I feel, just then, that all three of us are dead. Our futures will not bring us an ending. We are presently and forever silent from the earth. As if a final plea, I brace for a momentous cry to alert the ending. But in my recurring dreams, nothing escapes; nothing breaks free of the air's resistance.

Instead, the attacker speaks my words for me, cries my cries for me, and pierces the crisp air with a sustained scream of agony.

Sam whinnies. She falls to the earth, beside me. Her nose is slashed in two. Her blood smears the fur over her chest. The attacker's blood smears the whiskers over the bits of flesh in her mouth. She dies instantly.

Hurt, the attacker runs off toward the fence in confusion. Pausing to assess the situation, he manages to crawl over the fence. And all I can hear are his footsteps through the uneven terrain. It quickly fades to nothing.

I nudge closer to Sam's lifeless body, and pet underneath her neck. The blood is thick; it has already begun to dry. And I live in her arms.

I remember Pete frantically slapping my face, trying to lift my fallen spirit. And I awake in Saint John's hospital the next morning. I was born there almost eighteen years ago.

Brother Spider (excerpt from the novel, The Pursuer and the Pursused)

And so we are stuck. Together. Like flies glued to a spider’s web.

But the web deceives the fly. He thinks that if he struggles enough he can eventually loosen the sticky and seemingly unbreakable hold of him.

But no! It is now merely a waiting game. He is now simply and inevitably destined and divined to be lost in the deception and shuffle of this web. He has been abandoned and left for dead. The spider is coming for him. Coming! And all that he can do is wait. Wait! Wait. Wait! For what? For the end. For sleep. For Godot.

The spider knows. He knows. And so he can take his breathless and idle time now. The fly goes nowhere. He is not precocious. Neither is the spider. The fly simply bides his time. Waits. Struggles. Gives up. Cries. But no one hears him. He does not hear himself. No one cares. No one knows. He is alone. He is helpless.

The spider lurches forward to tease the fly. The fly is frightened. Not for his life. But for his death. Neither of which he truly understands. Nor truly conceives of consciously. Both life and death are a mystery. So much so that they are unfathomable and eventually forgotten by the hapless fly. Ill-fated. And beyond his fly-brain and fly-consciousness. He will soon be no more. No more what though? Does he wonder? The fly does not know. He ponders this. But he does not ponder. Anything. It is beyond his control, his grasp of consciousness, of reality, of necessity.

The fly was in search for food. But he strayed away to the web of deceit. How beautiful and enticing and intricate this spun web appears to a fly’s multiple and singular vision! A plateau of magnificent proportion, a labyrinth of ubiquitous honeycomb this silken art must be! For the elusive mysteries of the great universe are woven deep within the congruencies of the spider’s home. And fly is deceived, nakedly tempted into this garden of the tempestuous, cunning serpentine spider who but waits with greatest patience and ease, vigor for a curious soul, a simple hunger, a widened eye. He waits. And he waits. It is certain. A prearranged conclusion. Inevitably, stumbling upon a pebble of truth? Fly-brain has deceived his fly-body, ended his physical existence. Never can he begin anew.

But spider crawls back ominously away from the captured. Fly is relieved and breathes again. But there is no air. He struggles again for freedom with renewed spirits and pervading hope. He has been given the gift of time. And with his gift fly-brain will do what it can to set itself free, free from the confinement of its captor, so that it can resume, once again, its previous and never-ending task: the search for food. But still, he must remember, he is trapped, glued to the strings of death and infinitely helpless like a snapping turtle flipped upside down in the center of a speeding highway.

Fly does not move any longer. He attempts a thought. He can not think. His fly-brain is too small. He tries to shout for help. His plea will not break the air. Will not escape in audible form. Will not fall from his dry mouth. Will not transcend the intricate folds of time and space.

With his fly-brain he looks to the future. He sees nothing. With his fly-brain he looks to the past. Still he sees nothing. His last efforts bring him back to the present. But he sees nothing. His eyes were shut. He opens them. And he sees nothing but blackness and whiteness and grayness. All hope is confined within accidental happenstance and miraculous intervention. A combination of the two. He does not know which is which. He knows nothing of this at all. It is madness.

He continues to wait. The spider waits too. And senses the fear of his prisoner. He does not rejoice though. He does not feel sorrow for him. As with anything, experience has taught him to be indifferent and uncaring. Let the fly land where it might. He will land in spite of thought or care or worry or premonition, and chances.

Why tangle matters with unessential tenets or stir senseless passion? And give in to devotion for any outcome? A win is a win is a win. And one shall reap the rewards. A loss is a loss is a loss. And one shall incur and accept the punishments, if and whatever it might be. Life. Death. Life and death. They are one and the same. Interchangeable. Synonyms. Proverbial terms for proverbial states of being. Only few are aware of this.

Let come what might. Come, spider! Come now. Be not afraid! And come. I am waiting. But I am not indifferent. Are you surprised? I am not afraid either. Or does that not surprise you too? With my fly-brain I see nothing, even though my eyes rapidly search over this endless labyrinth of yours, which is like a circle with no beginning or ending. It continues. I am not a beginning nor an ending. I continue. You will come toward many flies, no different than I. And you will be no different to them. You will love them. You will hate them. You will feel sorry for them. You will taunt and tease them. And will laugh at their fruitless and inane struggles, as their legs flex and contract and dangle and wiggle around in abandon. I do not know this to be true, for I only possess a fly-brain; but it is true, and I know it to be so. Life and death are one. And constant. As beautiful as silk. I should not dread your coming, spider. If I feel frightened with your coming, then too I should be afraid of your going. For they are one and the same. We are one and the same, dear spider. But you do not know this. You do not care. And neither do I. I can not. And I can not begin anew. I will never loosen myself. I have accepted this. I would rejoice if I could – why not? My last hours, minutes, seconds are nigh. Are not they always? I am living, moving forward to death! I am dying, moving back to life! Life is death is life. And I am one of its most exulted participants. All players are exulted! Otherwise it makes no sense. Quite right! I am yours, spider. You know that. Neither of us care. You are mine, spider. Neither of us care about that either. We depend upon one another. You are my lost pathway. And I am your brother. Soon we shall be united. No hello. No goodbye. Never a thought. Never a care. We will meet in love and joy and nothingness. We will never meet. It is mathematically impossible for two entities to ever truly touch one another. One and the same. The numbers will simply be raised to powers smaller and larger, closer and further to infinity. You will never come, dear brother. I do not yet know that, and neither do you. But we will meet; that I know. You and I, brother, are trapped. A wonderful seduction it was! Together. You must come to me. I must wait for you. Our stations are the same. Only one of us, though, is mobile. And yet we await the same coming and going, life and death, love and hate. Do you fear coming, dear brother? Is that why you have backed away from me? The labyrinth never ends, does it? I never end, do I brother? When will you come, spider? When! As I am you and you are I, as I do not know and you do not know, as we are brothers of the same web and of the same diverging fate, we would be remiss not to come and go. Come, dear brother! Come. And I will go. That is how it is. It must be done. I beg you, please come. I await you. Yes, that’s it. Yes, yes, come closer. I will not back away. I can not. I welcome you. Yes, a little farther, a bit closer. I can almost feel your warm breath. I certainly can see you! I would go to you, but I can not. I can not move. But you will come to me. So it is no matter. Come! Come! Yes, of course. I welcome you. And I feel relief. But you – you look forlorn. Oh, tell me why! Isn’t this what you wanted? You built the labyrinth for this purpose, yes? I do not simply reject the inevitable, for in a way it is beautiful! It certainly seems natural. We could do nothing about it, even if we wanted to. So come, keep coming. We together are life and death. We compose and spin the gray notes of this song-filled and silky web. We are the doors’ caretakers. Come and go as we must. Please come. I would go if I could. You know that. I don’t know with my small fly-brain. I am just immobile, waiting as patiently as you and for you. And you will come. And I will go. You know. I know. Neither of us knows anything. I am a fly. I have a fly’s brain chemistry, along with all its comings and goings. You are a spider, along with all a spider’s comings and goings. A spider is a fly is a spider. A fly is a spider is a fly. We are one. We are the same. In death and in life. And in between. One hundred percent.

I can now see the thousands of tiny, raised hairs coating your eight crooked legs. Because you have come, I must now go. But I am frightened still. And I know that I am. And so I dangle my free wings and jingle my sticky feet. And I leap, leap up, leap down, to and fro. And not in vain! You are still coming. My wings flap with an abundance of motion, while rapidly, rapidly pleading my fly-brain for flight and begging my feet to awaken. They are stuck though still, and sinking, sinking farther into the depths of this fated labyrinth. You have come. And we are one and the same. I do not welcome you. I can not even see you. And I question your existence. You question mine. Struggling, kicking, squeaking, shifting, creaking! – my left foot loosens and breaks free from the deceitful guise of the silken web. And my wings flap, flap and sputter, and flap again. All the while, you have command. You are watching me. You are not indifferent. But I do not know if you care whether or not I escape. I know nothing. Neither do you. Only my leg remains stuck. And I am fearful still. Though you are not moving. You are without motion. I am fearful all the more.

Tug! Tug! I yank and yank with contempt for my leg. And so, without hesitation or even an understanding of what I might be doing or what I will have done, with all possible thrust and force in my little fly body and with my two thin fly wings I once and for all jerk forward with great abruptness and immediately flap uncontrollably; and with no direction in mind, my wings fly from the scene like a habitual villain. Dizzy and unknowing of where I am, I fly away, fly with great motion.

Fly away, past your loving mother’s knee. Fly away, past the stinging bee. Fly away, past the snake’s hiss. Fly away, fly away into your own bliss. And never forget to wish them well! And never forget to wish them well!

I do not look back. I have gone. My left leg limps and dangles freely with sleepiness. And my right side is bare with hurt. I am no longer whole. If there is one thing that I know, though I can never be sure, I know that my right leg remains there on the silken web, twitching blindly before my brother spider. From salty fear, I refuse to look back at the limb left behind. I have gone. And I have stayed. Dear brother spider, though I do not know, will certainly come for my departed leg, with nerve receptors still twitching, waiting to go.

May you always come more than you go.

Smoke Screen (a short short story, part two)

Ah, a blank page. Where to begin? Where to continue? Where to end? Nothing…

David carried each candle – one in his left and the other in his right hand – and walked toward the coffee table. He swept some papers and bills and car keys to the northwest corner. Then he centered the natural lights, six inches apart. Very meticulous David is. Very exact, very thoughtful – in both the colloquial and literal meanings.

The light shadowed the hallway leading to the other rooms in David’s small house. Only a few feet separated one entrance/exit from the other – bathroom, kitchen, spare room and master bedroom. Which do you prefer, David had thought: shutting the door to the unseen, or opening the hallway to the seen? In other words, do you prefer three seconds to react to the turning knob, or would you rather the fear stare you directly in the eyes? Neither knowledge nor ignorance stops a spark from rising, a fire from shining, a flame from dying. Blind, deaf – either way, let come what might, David thought.

David sat at one end of the couch – leaving plenty of room in between. He preferred not to be too close.

“What do we do now, David?”

“There isn’t much we can do,” David said.

“All the electricity is off, so we can’t watch TV. Can’t listen to the radio. Better not open the refrigerator, or else the food will spoil. And all the streetlights are off outside. I guess that’s it. Nothing. When one thing’s down, the whole grid is down. Maybe their right – life is an interwoven web – every connection depending on the other. Protons, neutrons – we call bounce back and forth, up and down, side by side. Nothing.”

“How long will the blackout, this, last? It’s not bedtime yet.”

David closed his eyes, cricked his neck in both directions, shrugged his shoulders, and said: “Probably at least until bedtime. And probably no longer than before we wake tomorrow.”

“All nite?”

“Maybe,” David smiled comfortingly. “But no worry. Bedtime isn’t long from now. Then we’ll sleep through it all. And it will be no different to us. We won’t know if the electricity is off, or when it turns back on – not until tomorrow morning. Not till tomorrow should we have to think about it, wonder about it, question it. And that’s because we’ll be sleeping and resting and forgetting. Even if only for those nite hours, the electricity is of no bother to us. And so we will pay it no mind. Give it no concern. Afford it no power. And we will sleep quickly. We will dream slowly. We will wake – differently. At least until we remember our solitude.”

“But aren’t all of us hiding, David? And aren’t all of us afraid that no one’s out there looking for us, seeking us? Resting on the couch beside us, keeping us company in the dark and lonely hours before our routine?”

“One half cup of flour. One half teaspoon of salt. One and a half teaspoons of baking powder. Stir lightly. One egg. Three teaspoons of canola oil. One half cup of milk. Stir lightly again.”

“What is that, David? What are those directions for?”

“Pancakes,” David said. “A recipe to follow on a Sunday morning.”

“What is tomorrow?”

“Tuesday.”

“The rest of the week ahead of us.”

“The weekend behind us.”

“Did you have a bad day today, David?”

“Yes, I did. I had to stay late to catch up. Might have to do the same tomorrow. The rest of the week – it looks grim.”

“I’m sorry, David. What can I do to help? Please, let me help.”

“No, thank you. I will manage. It’s not that bad.”

“Are you certain?”

“No.”

“Then why not let me help?”

“Because I am certain – that you cannot help.”

“Please, David. I don’t like to see you this way. This is not good for you.”

“I’m okay.”

“No, you are not.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m not okay – and you are me. I am you. Interwoven. Connected. Dependent. Two. One. Nothing. Solitude. Diversion. Electricity.”

The pounding rain stopped.

The refrigerator, which to this point had made a constant low buzzing, suddenly powered itself again – swirling into activity and emotion.

“David, you can stretch your legs across the couch now. There’s plenty of room from end to end. The electricity had turned back on.—.”

Jacob turned his head. The couch was empty. He looked straight again. Two candles stood touching directly in the center of the table. One had just blown out. The smoke climbed higher and higher.

Smoke Screen (a short short story, part one)

The lights flickered angrily – off, on, off, on…and then vanished for good. At least until the electric company could restore the power. A fallen tree onto a line was most likely the culprit. At least the rain and lightening storm outside would indicate so.

Whatever the trigger, the evening’s dark fear stole its way inside David’s living room. This, in turn, caused David to blindly fumble for a forgotten candle or flashlight or just a single match to brighten the color in his pale cheeks. Of the known or unknown, he shivered.

And yesterday bloomed the first day of spring!

David kneed his coffee table, then bumped the bookcase. But he did not pause. He outstretched his hands – palms forward – and felt for the utility closet’s door. Air, air, wall, nail…ah, handle. He turned the knob to the right, then the left, and pulled slowly as he backed away – careful to avoid further bruises. As he recalled – though his memory, he fully acknowledged, rated at best sub-par – a flashlight lay on the top shelf. He had placed it so with the easy thought to locate in the darkness. A literal forward thinker he was. (A metaphorical one he was unclear the meaning of).

David pet the surface of the top shelf. Nothing. No flashlight. Nothing.

Oh, hold on a second. That’s right. He had used it two weeks ago to look into the bathroom sink’s pipes. He needed to remove some gunk in there to allow for a faster drain. In the process, he broke and repaired the problem three times. In the end, though, he of course claimed victory as the water drained as quickly as it flowed. The stopper, consequently, stopped working, but he never really used it anyway.

Anyway, he remembered that he forgot where he returned the flashlight. So, by now blind by uneasiness, David waved both arms, through the shelves one by one. He knocked over a drill, stuck himself with tacks, and all around created further disorder.

But this method of retrieval worked. After groping every inch of the closet, David clenched the plastic object, and thumbed the side on-button. And there it was – light!

He quickly turned around, and pointed the beam toward the raggedy blue couch. A Mexican throw blanket draped the center. Two pillows rested on the sides. The remote control sat on the left one, facing the television. The flashlight’s beam struck this spot. No one. Nothing.

“Finally! You know I’m afraid of the dark.”

“Sorry, I know,” David said. “It’s okay now. I’ll light some candles.”

“Please hurry. Even if I’m with someone else, I feel alone in the dark. And that makes me jittery.”

“Don’t be troubled,” David said. “Look, see, I found two candles – one for each of us. It will light the entire room very bright. Just one second, okay?”

“Please hurry.”

David set the candle atop the red Oak bookshelf nearby, next to an earmarked Kahlil Gibran paperback. Then he sifted, again, through the closet – this time for matches to start the flame. Tomorrow, I’ll make it a point to organize everything, he thought. But I won’t remember, because I can’t write a note to myself right now. Well, maybe I’ll remember. Probably not.

Trapped beneath some sand paper and measurement tape, the matches would soon control the gloom. A daily struggle it is.

David slid open the box, and picked the right match. Three had been left, huddled in the corner. He set the match’s tip to the box’s side, and scraped it roughly. And, oh! First time success. The yellow-orange flame hissed softly, glowing warmth and chance. David cupped a dome of air around the match, holding still until the fire reached its home.

Gently David lowered the match inside the candle’s long glass jar. Slowly, slowly, be careful…is it? No, still there. Thank God. The fickle flame seduced the wick for several moments before succumbing to its transfer.

And rebirth. Like a segmented worm cut in two. In the case of the fire, however, one half never makes it.

David waved the match until the flame died. Only a smoky smell remained. Like a screen. At least until he would douse the match in water, then toss it away. Then nothing. Nothing. Except the candle’s glare, burning lucky and…

“I’m sorry to have been so anxious. But thank you, David. I’m calm now.”

“I feel better now, too,” David said, then coughed. “I guess both of us become frightened sometimes. It’s only natural – a chemical reaction, a build-up of synapses in the brain. Perhaps even a healthy release of endorphins now and again.”

“That’s a clever theory, David. A good point.”

“Thank you,” David said. “But I must confess: I heard them talking about it on the radio the other day – to go along with the theatre release of that new horror movie. They discussed people’s obsession – both polar extremes, attraction and repulsion – with panic.”

“Who said this?”

“Doctors,” David said. “Psychiatrists, psychologists, veterinarians – I don’t remember.”
“I was only curious. Please don’t get angry.”

“I’m sorry,” David said. “I’m just tired, and not thinking straight. I didn’t mean to snap. I’m sorry.”

“Forget it, David. No problem. But, please, continue your story about the, um, doctor’s theory on panic and fear.”

David laughed gently, and smiled within himself.

He continued. “Well, the doctors…” He paused, smirked, and started again.
“They explained that people not only enjoy the sensation that arises from fright – increased heart rate, adrenaline and even libido – but we need it, sociologically speaking. Without fear, we would also lack inhibition, ambition, something to challenge us internally to overcome the very cause – whatever it might be. The cause isn’t important, though, they said; only the effect, the reaction, is of significance. Our minds forget the details around every lonely hallway; however the numbness that stands beside fear is what our bodies remember. Our minds and bodies continuously play tricks on the other, the doctors also said. So I guess it’s no wonder most people can’s stand to be alone with their own thoughts.”

David stopped again, and looked to the floor for memory. Oh, yes.

“‘You talk when you cease to be at peace with your thoughts; and when you can longer dwell in the solitude of your heart you live in your lips, and sound is a diversion and a pastime.’ A civil war with no winners.”

Read Part Two of Smoke Screen.

Midnite Blues

Genesis - The Book Bag

The time has inched past midnite, and my eyes have begun to sink inside. In spite of sleepiness, I want to get this...this...well, this started, complete and ready, before I lose the thoughts to somewhere outside.

The Book Bag shall be a forum for creative writing, favorite books, new reads and, most notably, the occasional rant and rave - though I shall confine the latter to only a sentence or two...okay, a page tops. However, though, everything written on The Book Bag blog (3x fast) shall have a literary bent - with a bias for the classics in fiction: Steinbeck, Hesse, Hemingway, McCullers, Dostoyevski, Rand and other notable authors.

Apart from novels, short stories have long been an exciting medium and mode of expression - perhaps oddly enough - many years before the "invention" of the modern novel. And so I would like to include as many entries of short stories here on The Book Bag as possible. In some ways, because of its inherent limits, the short story is much more difficult to cultivate than the novel. With the latter, sentences, like blurred thoughts, are lost with little notice; however, with the former, every sentence, every word, every character, like transparent images, are found with much abandon.

Anyway, I am excited about pulling myself from the TV screen and, instead, moving again toward the...computer screen? Wait...oh well...cultivate my garden however I will.

Oh, and a fun note:

Copyright 2005 by Sean Battles, all rights reserved. All text herein may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of U.S. Copyright law, and it may be archived and redistributed in electronic form, provided that the editors are notified and no fee is charged for access. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the notification of the journal and consent of the author.

As always,