Oh, Brother

NB: This is the first assignment / challenge / task, which I've been sitting on since the first deadline.  Apologies. -- JN

“I don’t care, Henry, your little sister was upset.”
“Mom, you weren’t there.  You would have laughed too!”
“How would you feel if you were scared and upset and I just stood there laughing at you?”
“But I’m not scared of the ducks in the park!”
“Well, your sister is, and you need to be sensitive to that.  I think she’s more upset that you were laughing at her than she is about the ducks.”
“Well I’m glad her fear of ducks has some limits.”
“Henry.”
“Sorry. But it’s not like I knew she was afraid of the ducks!  She wanted to feed them.  That’s why we were there.”
“Well, now we know.  The important thing is that she’s your little sister and you need to be there for her.”
“I am there for her on stuff that matters, but mom, you should have seen her.”
“Henry, support your sister.”
“I mean, she must have dropped three crumbs and all these ducks came waddling over all quick and she freaked.”
“Henry, that’s not important.”
“No, but mom, she freaked.  She threw the bag and burst into tears and started running across the park.  The ducks all just stood there with their heads sideways.  I think they wanted to laugh too.”
“Henry, I mean it.”
“Then she wanted the bag back, but of course all the ducks were all over it eating the bread.  So then she starts wailing about that.  Her nose was all snotty and her face was all red and these ducks were all like, ‘What’s with that kid over there?  I don’t know.  Let’s just eat this bread.’ It was hilarious.”
“Henry.”
“For a minute, I thought she got stung by a bee.  When I figured out she hadn’t, I tried to walk her back over to get the bag back and she just screamed and pulled away from me.  Mom, it was like she was possessed.  Over some stupid ducks that weren’t even interested in her.  It was the funniest thing.”
“Henry.  That may be the case, but to your sister, this was a very scary thing, and her big brother just laughed at her.”
“Okay!  I’m sorry!  Jeez.”
“To her, not to me.”
With a sigh, Henry pushed himself away from the table and marched up the stairs to Samantha’s room.  He stopped at her door, trying to think of what to say.  As he did, he could hear her softly whimpering inside.  He knocked.  “Sam?” he asked.  “Sam?  I’m coming in.”  As he walked in, he saw his sister sitting in the middle of the room, arms and legs wrapped around her stuffed walrus, still snotty and teary-eyed and red in the face.  “Look Sam, I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to laugh.  I’m sorry you were afraid.”  She just stared at him.
“Wanna get something to eat?”
“Tell me a joke,” she demanded.
“A joke?  Uh. . . okay.”  He thought a moment before saying, “Why did the duck cross the road?”

november sangria

she was horrible at telling jokes. yet here she sat, uncomfortably wedged between her date on the right and a guy wearing rust colored corduroy pants on her left. all she could see were knees and the sofa. the sofa (her host insisted on calling it a "davenport," as it was a piece that he'd rescued from his grandmother's estate) was covered in a slippery pale damask, and she had already spent most of the evening finding excuses not to sit on it. the beverage of the evening was a red sangria, which was inexplicable given that it was november and they were not in spain. tell the one about the turtle with no legs, hon, her date prodded. yeah, the turtle joke was a good one, but simple. "where do you find a turtle with no legs? wherever the hell you left it in the first place."

in her head, all she could think about was the joke that someone had told her long ago. it was so funny to her that even now, when she thought of it, it made her laugh so hard that it strained the limits of her bladder control. but she could never get the tone of the delivery for the punchline right. the joke was all about subtlety; the substance was really neither here nor there-- it was really a pun dressed up a little--the funny came from the delivery. but she loved this joke. her stomach hurt and her cheeks ached when the boy from college told it to her. perhaps she laughed so much then because she thought she was falling in love with him. but now, today, so much was riding on this joke: it was a 5th date, so an attachment was forming. he obviously thought she was capable of telling a joke, because they'd accepted the invitation to his friend's 40th birthday party (no gifts, just bring a good joke to tell, read the rsvp instructions), and giggled in bed that morning, as they thought of all of the inappropriate jokes they might say out loud in a room full of mostly strangers. she really wanted to tell that joke, though-- the joke that the boy from college told her. her date's hand pressed on her knee. hon, come on-- it's your turn; make em laugh tell the turtle joke-- it's classic! he said, and in his eyes there was something-and did he just call her 'hon'?

she told the joke. there were crickets. how do you get an elephant out of the theater? you can't. it's in his blood. another gulp of the november sangria didn't help. the tears were coming. there would not be a 6th date. she couldn't look up past the damned davenport or the rust colored knees next to her.

round two

Well…a few stories were submitted on the first go around, but not quite what I had envisioned.  Maybe summer isn’t the best time?  But I digress.  If you are up for giving it another shot or are excited about writing a second piece, here’s your chance. 

For this story the same structural rule applies: your story must be 600 words or less.  This time, your story must end with the line, “Nothing was ever the same again after that."

Rough deadline: August 21.

Clouds

She could see the swimming pools most clearly. Little topaz circles, rectangles and kidneys beaming up from the checkered landscape below. Clouds passing beneath the airplane cast shadows over whole neighborhoods whose residents, she thought, might look out their kitchen windows and call the day overcast.

That morning, sitting in her own kitchen, she had looked up warily at the gray sky and considered packing an umbrella. She sat too long, anticipating always that the next sip of coffee would be the one granting clarity, but the comforting haze of recent sleep still gave sanctuary to thoughts she wasn’t sure she should let out.

“Better get movin’,” Bruce startled her from the kitchen doorway. “Planes don’t wait.”

“I know, I know,” she said, moving passed him with a quick kiss on the way to the bedroom.

“Time flies like and arrow,” Bruce called after her. She rolled her eyes.

“And fruit flies like a banana,” they said in unison – one of the phrases that had crept in to their familiar vernacular. She hastily threw clothes into a small shoulder bag, and forgot about the umbrella after all.

“When did you last see Rebecca?” Bruce asked, dodging traffic on the way to the airport.

“Two years ago. I think,” her face flushed, and she was glad Bruce was distracted with the driving, “at her wedding.” She pressed her cheek to the cool window.

“Right, right,” said Bruce. “And this Tom fellow she married is a good guy, I hope. I’ve always liked Rebecca.”

“Yeah. He’s a good guy.” Rebecca kept her eyes on the passing scenery of corporate parks and airport hotels. “I’m sure you’d like him. Tom, Rebecca and I were all pretty good friends in college.”

“Maybe they could bring the baby and come and visit us sometime.”

Rebecca closed her eyes, “yeah, maybe. I’ll ask.”

- - -

A wail from across the airplane aisle yanked her gaze away from the window. Tears tumbled over the reddening cheeks of an infant in her row. Her glance caught the father’s apologetic eyes, and she smiled. For six months she had planned to fly out and visit once Rebecca’s baby was born, but as the date of the trip approached, she had grown less and less sure why she was really going. Watching as the father thumbed tears away from the baby’s face, she imagined Tom holding his own newborn with such tenderness. She turned back toward the window. Clouds moved in, blocking her view of the houses below as the plane tipped forward to land.

Stepping outside the terminal to the airport pick up lane, she looked around for Rebecca’s familiar face, fixed in her mind by the photos around her house – college graduation, their trip to Mexico, a dress fitting for Rebecca’s wedding. Her throat began to feel tight. She swallowed hard and looked up to the clouds for help. A rain drop hit her cheek, and her eyes fluttered in surprise.

“I’ve got something for that.” Tom appeared, unfurling an umbrella and holding it out over her head. Tom smiled his broad, confident smile and took her shoulder bag. “Rebecca’s at home with the baby so I volunteered to pick you up.” He stood with an innocent tilt to his head, and reached up to wipe the fallen raindrop from her cheek.

“You’d better keep this” he said, taking her hand to place the umbrella handle in it. “This rain has been coming and going all day.”

“Thanks, Tom,” she managed, silently pleading with the clouds to stay.

A Loss Observed

            By the time Samantha Peters opened her eyes to the blinding daylight pouring into her cramped but comfortable bedroom the snooze button on her bedside alarm clock had given up.  Whether she had unconsciously turned it off or it reached its requisite limit of attempts to rouse her didn’t matter at this point.  What did matter was that she would be late for work.  Again.

            For the past two months, the basic routines of life had been a struggle for her.  Derrick’s abrupt departure from her life had been more traumatic than she had ever imagined.  Samantha had always prided herself on being a strong and independent woman, but lately everything was a challenge for her, and she was beginning to think that Derrick’s absence left a larger hole in her life than she cared to admit.  At this moment, summoning the will to move her body and rise from the sheets was the task at hand.

            Thankfully, she wasn’t totally alone.  The moisture of Avon’s warm breath on her cheek arrived a split second before his sloppy tongue did, and she giggled in response to the mutt’s endearing love.  Avon Barksdale was the lone remnant from her relationship with Derrick.  They found him on a Sunday, nearly a year ago, at the humane society, malnourished and weak, and immediately fell in love with him.  They named him after the maliciously charming character from The Wire, which Samantha and Derrick watched avidly together and would discuss at length after each episode.  Memories such as these were the most difficult to let go of, but Samantha refused to be paralyzed by sadness and regret and deliberately swung her legs over the bed to the floor below.

            “Mother f-!!” 

            Samantha’s right foot landed on the dried bone left by Avon and the searing pain brought immediate tears to her eyes and an uncharacteristically caustic response to her lips.

            She stepped gingerly to the bathroom, turned on the shower, and began the process of preparing herself for another day.

__

            There was something about the look of black coffee being poured into a thick ceramic mug that seemed reassuring.  Having called the shop to say she would be late – again – bought Samantha some time, so she chose to turn on the TV and not sweat the rush to leave.  Comedy Central was serendipitously replaying the previous night’s Colbert Report.

            ''And though I am a committed Christian, I believe everyone has the right to their own religion -- be you Hindu, Jewish, or Muslim, I believe there are infinite paths to accepting Jesus Christ as your personal savior…”

            She snickered as Stephen Colbert received a similar response from his audience.  Having been brought up in a fervent evangelical home, Samantha resonated with the comedian’s dig at modern Christianity.   She enjoyed the brief respite of humor and the warmth that the coffee seemed to bring to her entire body.  It would be a good buffer from the deceptively frigid Chicago morning.

            Samantha turned off the TV, tossed the remote on the couch, and began to don her layers of protection against the arctic blast she would soon face.  She slung her bag over her shoulder then reached down to lovingly rub Avon’s chin.  As she stood erect, she looked over her barren apartment and emitted a deep, vacuous sigh.  She tugged the door shut, all the while picturing Derrick in warm southern California, hoping he was alone too.

Barstool

The only hazards of a summer Tuesday, he thought, were Cubs parking restrictions and the fact that it got dark so damn late.

The last remnants of the softball team were around the big table at the back, reliving the best plays of the evening’s game. Voices rose and fell as they recounted, again, their feats of glory and dissected errors and outs.

Someone had filled the jukebox, and Patsy Cline was singing about falling to pieces. “I always get misty when I hear this song. She’s amazing,” a girlfriend of one of the players explained to no one in particular. She swayed in the corner near the speaker, her hair lit by the glow of the jukebox.

Jim looked up as the bartender put the soup next to his glass. He tapped the glass rim and looked her in the eye.

“You gotta eat something. Seemed easy.”

She poured him another Jack Daniels and found some crackers to sit next to the soup.

The sharp smell of the bar floor, part vomit, part wet rag, part stale beer, were a familiar Tuesday smell. On busy nights the smell of popcorn and bodies overcame it, but tonight was quiet. He liked it when it was busy. Not just the smell was easier to avoid, but the quiet, the eyes, the thoughtfulness of the bartender. She was too busy on those nights to pay attention to the number of times she had filled his glass. Not that Jim didn’t appreciate that she worried, but he had carefully cultivated being alone and it was a crack in his solitude. Kelly had stopped flirting with him months ago. He wasn’t sure if this maternal mode was better than the flirting, but the soup was good, or at least it smelled better than the back bar.

Patsy Cline was on heavy rotation tonight, and Jim noticed Softball Girlfriend, slowly dancing by herself. She had gone past misty to silently crying, tears pulling at her mascara. He wondered who she was thinking of - certainly not Mr. First Base. The last holdouts from the infield were laughing. Mr. First Base was in rare form tonight. Maybe she was just tired of the jokes. Jim could ignore them, mostly. He watched the television in the corner. The Cubs were losing.

“And mister, that’s a Ferrari not a porch...” An awkward quiet moment, the punch line to a Dumb Blond joke that Jim had heard a million times rose above the other sounds in the room, courtesy of Mr. First Base. The wave of laughter made it hard to hear Bob Brenly, not like it mattered, but still - obnoxious, he thought. Could it at least be funny?

“Eat.” Kelly, back to check on him. He tapped the rim of his empty glass and she shook her head. “Not ‘til you eat. At least the soup.”

“I’m not sitting here for you to take care of me.”

“I know. But you can’t live on bourbon.”

“I can try.”

“Not here.”

He picked up the spoon. At least it wasn’t a bowl. Beef. As it had cooled, fat had risen to the surface. It made him queasy to look at it. By the time Kelly had delivered another pitcher of beer to the team, he had eaten. Made him queasy now that it was in his stomach, so he ate the slightly stale saltines. He tapped his glass, and she slowly nodded okay.

Kelly poured him another and turned to walk away.

“...and I try and I try, but I can’t forget. You walk by and I fall to pieces.”

yo! yo! yo!

If you've made it this far (which, let's be honest, isn't very) you are curious to explore your hand at writing with the intent to share with others.  For our first attempt to make this work, we'll follow the structure of NPR's Three-Minute Fiction, a contest that asks listeners to submit stories that have one simple premise: they can be read in three minutes.  Each round entails some type of hook - be it a starting phrase, an element or two which needs to be followed - with the length generally limited to 600 words.  Again, an easy mark for us to hit in our rookie foray.  (I did this with my 8th graders this year and they loved writing and sharing.)

So if you think you've got game and this sounds like fun, then let's see what we compose.  The premise of the first story is that one of the characters tells a joke and one of the characters cries.  600 words max.  Deadline to submit: July 20.

Simply post your story when it's completed and freely comment on each others' work.

Go.