Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in Chris Beckett's LiveJournal:

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Thursday, November 15th, 2007
6:52 am	In Dreams Originally published at Maineline Musings. You can comment here or there. Here’s a new piece of fiction, as always based upon the image up at the Elephant Words site.  Enjoy.     In Dreams By Chris Beckett     This is my world.    Each morning it’s the same, dark poles and the strings connecting them.  I’ve been lucky, most days this summer there’s been that deep blue – is it cerulean – for a background.  It helps a bit to see that when I open my eyes.  Much better than the slate gray that washes everything on a dreary day.    Occasionally birds greet me, sitting on the wires like notes on a musical scale.  It should bring a smile to my face but does little else than distract me for a few seconds.  That’s probably the best I can hope for.  It’s not easy to get excited about the day with a ventilator hissing in my ear.   •••   Mom comes in.  I try to turn and look at her, but the effort is too much.  I continue to stare out the window at my canvas, a faint vapor trail stretching across the sky, an invisible crayon scratching the pristine image.    She sits on the edge of my bed (my head lolls just a bit to the right signaling this) and leans down to whisper to me.  “What would you like for breakfast, Mark?”  I don’t know why she feels a need to whisper; it’s not like I gained some expansive acuity to my hearing when it happened.   She waits patiently, then asks again.  This time I turn.  She looks tired, but it doesn’t affect me like I know it should.  It’s disconcerting, analyzing my reactions, knowing how I should be feeling while observing the opposite emotion.    I whisper to her between clicks of the ventilator, and she gets up without another word.  She’ll return in a few minutes with my oatmeal.    I’m not sure why I play this game anymore.  It all tastes the same to me.    •••   I can hear the children outside playing.  Their screams ring in my ears as I picture them playing tag or catch.  I feel the rage building in my gut, down where I should feel nothing.  But it’s there all the same, a vicious knot of anger pulsing across my body.  I remember when Zack and Carrie and all the other kids on the block would come over for things like “devil in the ditch” or “werewolf,” which was a combination of hide-and-seek and tag that we played after dark.  I was the best at that, dressing in black head to toe and lying in plain sight while the rest got caught.    A tear falls down the side of my face, tickling mercilessly at the nerve endings there.  Closing my eyes, I try to block out the voices below, and soon my pillow is damp.    I thrash my head wildly from side to side, having no other release for the tension built up inside.  My mother finds me minutes later and can do nothing but hold me until I stop.  I should be thanking her, but all I feel is revulsion.  Turning my head away from her, I refuse to answer any of her inquiries.    She leaves after a half hour of interrogation, her own disgust at what I’ve become evident in the manner in which she curses me for not allowing her to help.  What the fuck can she do?  My mother slams the door on the way out, and I don’t see her until the next morning.   •••   I awake from a sound sleep, unsure what startled me.  The heavy darkness tells me it’s late, stars subdued by dense clouds.  A dim street light flickers off on the periphery, unable to penetrate this hard blackness pressing upon me.    I am left with nothing but my thoughts – memories that haunt me, a heavy cloak draped across my shoulders, the weight of which keeps me in this bed.  The images swirl around me, mocking what I am.  I curse them silently, holding back the tears that flowed so freely earlier.       But I refuse to abandon this burden, its crutch an easy fit as I lay here.  I close my eyes and can feel the Earth tumbling around me.  Vertigo threatens to overwhelm me as I begin a mantra, working to lull myself back to sleep, yearning for the peace that awaits me there.    In dreams, I can run again.  In dreams, I am free.  In dreams, I’m the man I used to be, the one that did not lose his wife, did not lose his job, did not lose his world.    In dreams, I am human once more.   But things are never that easy.  I cannot will myself to sleep, and instead, the nausea induces a fit of vomiting.  I turn my head to the side – though I worry I may regret that action – and wait for it to subside.    Once it is done, I can do nothing else but wait for my mother to clean me in the morning.    •••   My father comes into the room, wide shoulders slumped as he looks down at me.  His face tells it all, though he tries to mask it with his words:  “. . .so sorry. . .”  “. . .wish it had been me. . .”  “. . .I’ve stopped drinking for you. . .”  “. . .if only I’d let you drive. . .”   He doesn’t mean any of it.  The scorn he feels for me contorts his face, twitching his lip as it ripples across his brow.  He can barely stand to look at me, choosing to stare out the window instead.    Whispering past snatched breaths, I ask him again to help me in the only way he can.  His head drops, staring through me, searching for the boy I once was.    A pain catches in my ribs (something I know is only a shadow of that feeling) and I worry he will deny me again, blaming my mother, refusing to take the responsibility that must be his.    “She’s at the store.”  His voice is a whisper, and in its soft utterance I hear something different.    His hand reaches down past my head – still as big as I remember it when I was nine – and flips a switch on the ventilator.  I look up into his eyes, and for the first time, I see tears welling there.  My mind hesitates, bothered about the wisdom of my decision.  I consider relenting, but the world starts to close in on me, like a fade-out in a motion picture.  I can no longer see things at the edge of my vision; my father is eaten up by my leaving and I go to cry out.   But I have no air to form words, and quicker than I came into this world, I leave it for what I hope is something better.   •••   It is hours before my mother returns.   I do not see her enter my room.   I do not hear her scream.   I do not experience her breakdown.   I do not suffer any more.       (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Saturday, November 3rd, 2007
8:19 pm	Remembrance Originally published at Maineline Musings. You can comment here or there. New elephant fiction based upon the image below.  Enjoy.     Remembrance By Chris Beckett     He kept it hidden under his bed in a small lockbox.  Girlfriends had asked what he kept hidden, using their naughty bits as bribery, but Perry had never brought any of them into his confidence.  He wasn’t able to talk about it, and if they saw what he kept in the box they would only see a rock.  But for Perry, it was so much more.  It was a reminder of how precious life is and how quickly it can be snuffed out.   •••   Perry knew what was coming.  Twenty-five years, what newspaper could pass up a silver anniversary of the mysterious disappearance of a young boy?  Of course, everyone had given him up for dead over the past quarter century.  But Perry knew better.  Perry had been there.  It was a rare day that he did not think about the blood on his hands.   •••   Perry had only been nine when the boy went “missing.”  People all around the county assumed he was kidnapped – raped and murdered in the back of some van – left to ponder “what could have been” in his afterlife, while his remains settled into the mud of one of the many rivers surrounding the town.    That wasn’t how it went, but Perry had been unable to tell anyone what he knew.  At first, he was scared people might be able to link him to the whole mess.  But nobody came around to ask him any questions.  Days passed into weeks and on into months, and Perry’s young mind raced with the trouble he would be in for not having come forward sooner.    So, he kept quiet.  What else could he do?  He was responsible, wasn’t he?   •••   At least Perry had been smart enough to retrieve the rock and to use gloves for that chore.  He’d learned that one from watching Perry Mason and Columbo with his Granddad.    He wasn’t sure what a scientific analysis of the rock would uncover, but he knew – even when he was young – that nothing good would come of it.  Since then, he’d kept it locked away from prying eyes, only pulling the instrument of that boy’s fate out on very rare occasions, making sure always to use gloves.  It seemed the wisest thing to do.   •••    It had taken years for Perry to come to grips with what had occurred on that day.  The cause of many a nightmare when he was young, Perry had only been able to comprehend the gravity of the situation in recent years, and even that understanding was suspect at best.    But there was a resignation to the experience that had developed in recent memory.  There was no way he could return to that day, as much as he would like to have done so, and there was no bringing back that boy – a boy he’d not even known, not then.  During the intervening years of course, many stories had been written on the subject, and Perry had them all, carefully cut out and pasted into a morbid scrapbook that rested beneath his lockbox.    Despite that resignation, he’d still been unable to move on from it all.  But that didn’t matter now; Perry had made a decision, and it seemed right to do it now when all the remembrances would be seeing print.  He’d been working toward this day for so many years without realizing, and now, he was content in knowing that soon he would finally be at peace.   •••   It had made the front page – not the top fold, but still significant.  Perry read it with zeal and found himself shuddered by a feeling of déjà vu.  But that was to be expected.    Perry had come out to the field where it had all happened twenty-five years prior.  Pulling a key out of his pants pocket, he unlocked the metal case and lifted the rock out of its shelter with gloved hands.  He needed to do this in his own way.  Setting it on the uneven ground, Perry stood back up and admired the rock for a minute, taking every detail for the last time.   For a second the late autumn sunshine glinted off the stone and Perry could see the blood staining the rock at his feet.  In his mind’s eye, it was a vivid red, creating a bright sheen on the rock’s surface.    Out, damn’d spot!   A knot grew in his stomach as Perry slid the gloves off his hands, pulling slowly at each finger in turn.  Bending over, he allowed his hand to hover over the nondescript stone.  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.  Nobody was there to hear him.  Looking up, Perry soaked in the scenery a final time before closing his eyes and dropping his hand onto the cold stone.   •••   When he opened his eyes again, he had been transported to another dimension, just as that boy had been so many years ago.  It was disconcerting, Perry was surrounded by darkness.  A harsh cold swept over him as he pulled his body in tightly and wished for it to be over soon.  And he wondered . . . whatever happened to that boy who had disappeared so long ago?    A minute passed.  Then another.  And soon after, Perry fell asleep in the harsh environment never to awake again.     (Comment on this)
Friday, October 19th, 2007
2:02 pm	More about process pt.4 (FINAL PIECE) Originally published at Maineline Musings. You can comment here or there. So.  One last rewrite and I have a final piece to upload to the elephant words site.  From first draft to final, I excised almost 400 words (1379 vs. 983) and the story is much sharper and far better than that initial draft, which really only gets all the ideas on paper.  After that, you have to play with it to get it right.  As always the fiction is based upon the image below.  I hope you enjoy.     The Library of the Mind By Chris Beckett The smell of the paper fills my senses, the same scent I remember from The Hobbit as a boy.  My second grade teacher read it to us, and every night after supper I would run upstairs, flop down on my bed, and stuff my head into the pages, re-experiencing the adventure with Bilbo, Gandalf, Thorin, and the others.  Ever since then, that scent has followed me, carrying warm memories with it. I walk toward the back, ambling down the 16th Century aisle, searching for Shakespeare’s quartos.  They’re near the end of course.  I pull them down, holding the ancient leaflets in my hands.  My finger tips can sense how brittle they are, the frayed edges warning against anything but the most delicate of touches.  Upon opening it, I find I have trouble reading the faint calligraphy, and choose instead to admire the artful hand that inscribed it.   As I slowly flip through the parchment, I start to notice ghost images of older words running perpendicular to the final imprints.  I wonder if it might not be some lost work of Marlowe’s. Then the itch at the back of my mind scratches toward the front, and I do something I should not – folding over the pages of the quarto.  The parchment should crack and release where I bend it, but instead, it remains pliable, revealing no trace of any defect. I’m dreaming. I replace the quarto – happy to have seen it but curious if I will even remember – and walk around the shelving.  I move past the 17th and 18th Centuries (so much bigger than the section I just left) with disappointment.  I have no idea what to look for on those shelves and worry I haven’t the time to browse.  This is an opportunity I dare not squander. Reaching the 19th Century, I step into the first row of shelves and start hunting.  Not here.  I wrap around the high wooden bookcases and it’s right in front of me – a first edition of Shelley’s Frankenstein.  Pulling down the three volumes, I thumb through them quickly, “touching the hand of God.”  I grab snatches of words but am painfully aware my time is short and replace the triple-decker.  Authors whose names I recognize and ones that have been lost forever share equal space in this mysterious building.  I chastise myself for not knowing dates and start running my eyes over book spines searching for his name.  I cross Fitzgerald, Stein, Joyce, and Wharton, and am surprised not to have found anything.  Retracing steps, I spot copies of The Sun Also Rises and A Farewell to Arms but move on from these.  Finally, I locate a copy of A Moveable Feast (farther along than I expected) and pull it down expectantly.  For a time, I am lost in Paris, sipping white wine in open-air cafes while discussing world affairs with my heroes.  It’s magical, and half the book is gone in a fleeting moment.  Reluctantly, I replace the volume before finishing it.  I can’t explain why, but I know there’s something else I need to find before I leave.  Feet move of their own accord as I walk to the far end of the library, passing through the end of the 20th Century and into the near future.  I am unsure what spurs me on, but instinct directs me down another aisle that not only holds traditional books, but also houses many times more digital files, alien things even to a boy familiar with the technology.  There’s just something about a book. I move deliberately, searching intently.  I read more closely the names and titles on the spines, these unfamiliar waters cleansing that feeling of anticipation I experienced in other sections.  My mind aches, focusing hard on every title, every author. Long minutes tick away before I see it, and then understanding washes over me.  My Life: Complete, Whole, & Unexpurgated by Christopher M. Beckett.  It’s uncommonly heavy, but that’s to be expected.  It must be more than 2,000 pages long.  I open to a random part and begin reading.  The prose is passable, but it’s the content that I latch onto – exactly as the title stated.  I remember vividly the scene recounted on the page in my hand.  Details others couldn’t know are laid out in stark black and white, the turmoil surrounding my parents’ disillusionment with marriage, something about which I’ve never spoken.  It’s all there, and I feel as if I might be sick.  Flipping forward a few hundred pages I cross another memory, a good one – my oldest son’s graduation from university.  I pull him aside as we discuss his mother, and I apologize for not being there for him, for only being a “weekend Dad.”  We embrace as tears start to roll over my cheeks, and he tells me he forgave me a long time ago.  I feel my shoulders sagging with relief now as they did then.  There are other memories I find in this book, ones I had forgotten, ones that still haunt me, all of it true, some of it painful.  But then I get into parts I haven’t experienced yet.  I read a bit, and a sense of déjà vu – strong and vivid – overwhelms me.  I stop, vertigo threatening to unbalance me.  But I’m curious, and turn to the final chapter.  How does it all end?  I know I shouldn’t tempt fate.  Maybe it’s like that old wives’ tale; if I read about how I die in my dreams will I die in reality?  A tremor runs through me, a foreboding like I’ve never felt before.   Indecision seizes me as more tears well up in my eyes.  I consider closing the book right now, replacing it on the shelf; I know it would be the wisest course. But instead, I wipe my eyes and begin reading once more.     (Comment on this)
7:44 am	More about process pt.3 Originally published at Maineline Musings. You can comment here or there. So, Here’s my second pass at the short story I am working on. Not as much needs to be done at this point, really just tightening it up for me. Choosing just the right word, finding that exact turn of phrase, excising whatever doesn’t work (usually it involves an explanation of what the character is trying to get across in his/her words, something that isn’t necessary. If the readers don’t get it, I didn’t do my job). At this point, I pass my draft to my wife for her input, and she always gives me suggestions that vastly improve the work. And this time was no different. She read it through a couple of times, and something was nagging at her. Finally, she fell upon what bothered her - a section dealing with “fame” - and when she told me that should come out, I completely agreed. It didn’t fit with the rest of the story as it had been told and really came out of nowhere. So, one more rewrite, excising one relatively well-sized section along with a couple of my favorite turns of phrase (that phrase again), and I should have a final piece I am happy with sometime later today. I’ll post when it’s done, and when I have time. Thanks, chris (Comment on this)
Tuesday, October 16th, 2007
8:25 pm	More about process pt.2 Originally published at Maineline Musings. You can comment here or there. So. Instead of boring anyone with the revised text from my previous post - which will be going through a few more drafts - I chose to show you what my drafts look like after I’ve had the chance to read over them and make corrections, additions, excisions (is this a word?), and any other “ions” that make it better.  Hope you enjoy, and I will drop the final piece in once I have finished it, with a few more posts like this one in between. chris   (Comment on this)
Monday, October 15th, 2007
7:22 pm	Some more about process Originally published at Maineline Musings. You can comment here or there. Many writers have said that “writing” isn’t the actual tapping of fingers on a keyboard in order to regurgitate the words one wishes to string together.  Rather, the “real” writing occurs in the revising process, when one has to go into the draft that flowed effortlessly and completely massacre those strings of words in order to carve out something meaningful and worthwhile.  The first author who comes to mind regarding this process is Greg Rucka, whom I had the pleasure to hear speak at the culmination of the Wizard World Chicago convention in 2005.  He said one “can’t be afraid to cut, and to cut mercilessly.”  I really didn’t understand that when he first said it, and wondered at how somebody could cut things out with which they had been so happy.  But since I have finally discovered the need to write on a daily basis, I have discovered exactly what Rucka meant by that.  I find myself, almost without exeption, cutting out phrases, sentences, and whole paragraphs with which I had been very excited upon initially typing them onto the computer screen.  At first it was scary, but since then it has become second nature and now - despite still being amazed at times with the pieces I excise - I don’t worry about it, because I realize it’s necessary if I want the piece I am writing to be the best it can be.  For almost three months, I have been writing short fiction based upon the weekly images found at the elephant words site.  The contributors all have rotating deadlines in which they must finish their stories.  I allow myself the entire week if need be, but have made sure to get a new piece of fiction up in the forums every week.  This deadline is good for me.  It keeps me honest, but does not allow me to indulge in massive and multiple rewrites of my stories.  This week, I’m going to try something different and let you in on the process a bit.  It might be interesting, it could be boring, but it’s something I’ve considered doing for quite some time.  So.  It’s now time.  Tonight, I’m going to post my first draft of my new story along with the image from which it was inspired.  I’ll be following up through the rest of the week, with updates and revisions to show you what goes into this.  Hope you enjoy.     The Library By Chris Becett It’s the smell of the paper that fills my senses, the same scent from the version of The Hobbit I own.  My teacher read it to us in second grade, and at night I would run upstairs, flop down on my bed, and stuff my head into the pages, re-experiencing the adventure with Bilbo, Gandalf, Thorin, and the others.  Ever since then, that odor//// has followed me, bringing a warm memory with it every time I’ve encountered it. I walk toward the back – the place is divided//// by century – ambling down the 16th Century aisle, searching for Shakespeare’s quartos.  They’re near the end of course.  I pull them down, holding the ancient leaflets reverently in my hands.  Their brittle nature is obvious to my fingers, the frayed edges warning against anything but the most delicate of touches.  I open it slowly, staring at the beautiful manuscript within.  I have trouble reading it, and choose instead to admire the artful hand that inscribed it.  I already know the beauty that lies within these markings.  As I slowly flip through the parchment, I start to notice the ghost images of other words running perpendicular to the final imprints.  I wonder if it might not be some lost work of Marlowe’s and wonder if I might not be able to retrieve it with my PC back home. Then the itch at the back of my mind thrust forward, and I do something I should not: folding over the latest page in the folio.  It should crack and release where it bends, but instead, it remains pliable losing none of its PERMANENCE//// while also revealing no trace of the defect that should now be evident from where I bent//// it. I’m dreaming.  I thought so. I replace the folio – happy to have seen it, but curious if I will even remember – and walk around the shelving.  I move past the 17th and 18th Centuries (so much bigger than the section I just left), disappointed in myself.  I have no idea what to look for on the shelves and worry I haven’t the time to browse.  This is an opportunity I cannot waste/////. Reaching the 19th Century, I step into the first row of shelves and start hunting for it.  Not here.  I wrap around the high wooden shelving////// and spot it immediately – a first edition of Shelley’s Frankenstein.  Pulling down the three volumes, I thumb through them quickly, “touching the hand of God.”  But there’s so much to see, and I know that soon I will be called back. I replace the triple-decker and move on.  Quickly moving past multiple rows of shelving, I arrive at the early 20th Century.  I wish I could remember dates, but instead start running my eyes over the spines searching for his name.  I cross Fitzgerald, Stein, Joyce, and Wharton, and am surprised not to have found anything.  I retrace my steps, spot copies of The Sun Also Rises and A Farewell to Arms but move on.  I pass classics and forgotten tomes, authors whose names I recognize and ones that have been lost forever.  Finally, reaching the mid-sixties, I find a copy of A Moveable Feast and pull it down expectantly.  And for a time, I am lost in Paris, sipping white wine in open-air cafes while I discuss world affairs with my heroes.  It’s magical, and half of the book is gone in a fleeting moment.  Reluctantly, I choose to put the volume back before finishing it.  I can’t explain why, but I know there is something else I need to discover//// before I have to leave.  My feet move of their own accord as I round the corner.  Walking to the far end of the library, I pass through the end of the 20th Century and move into the near future, somewhere in the middle of the 21st.  I am unsure what I will find, but instinct directs me down another aisle that not only holds traditional books, but also houses many times more digital files, alien things even to a boy familiar with the technology.  There is something about a book that just suits me. I move slowly//// down the row, searching for something.  I read more closely the names and titles on these spines, realizing these unfamiliar waters do not allow me the opportunity of anticipation I held/// in other parts of the library/////.  My mind aches, focusing hard in order not to miss that which I know is here, and then my reverie is interrupted by voices. Like a murder of crows they descended upon me, a mismatched group of woman weaned//// on a steady diet of Oprah and Lifetime.  They hold massive tomes/// in their delicate hands, holding them away from their bodies as they talk over one another. “It’s him.” “I can’t believe it.  He looks younger than his picture.” “Could you sign this?” “How did you know what you wrote?” “Is it all true?  Did everything happen the way you said?” “Right here, please.” They thrust books and quills in my direction, and I sign furiously hoping to move them on.  And they do, which surprises me while also bestowing a sense of relief upon me.  But now I know what I’m looking for, and my eyes start to scan more quickly, searching for something on the size//// of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings.  It isn’t long before I have found a copy.  I pull it down, My Life: Complete, Whole, & Unexpurgated by Christopher M. Beckett.  It’s uncommonly heavy, but that’s to be expected.  Judging by the wide spine, it has to be more than 2,000 pages long, maybe more.  I open to a random page and start to read.  The prose is passable, but it’s the content that I latch onto.  It is exactly as the title advertised.  I remember vividly the scene recounted on the page in my hand.  Details others could not be privy to are laid out in stark black and white, the turmoil surrounding my parents’ disillusionment with marriage, something about which I have not spoken to anyone.  It’s all there, and I feel ill.  I flip forward a few hundred pages and find another memory, a good one – my oldest son’s graduation from university.  I pull him aside, tell him how proud I am, we discuss his mother, and I apologize for not being there for him, for only being a “weekend Dad.”  We embrace as tears start to roll over my cheeks, and he tells me he forgave me a long time ago.  I don’t feel as if I am worthy, but I can feel my shoulders sagging with relief as they did then.  There are other memories I find in this book, ones I had forgotten, ones that still haunt me, all of it true, some of it painful.  But then I get into parts I have not lived yet.  I read a bit, and a sense of déjà vu – strong and vivid – overwhelms me.  I stop, vertigo threatening to unbalance me.  But I’m curious, and turn to the final page.  How does it all end?  I know I shouldn’t tempt fate.  Maybe it’s like that old wives’ tale; if I read about how I die in my dreams will I die in reality?  A tremor runs through me, a foreboding like I’ve never felt before.  I stand there, tears blurring my visions, working to decide how to proceed.  The echoing thump of the book closing startles me.  My brain had not realized what my hands were doing.  I pull the weighty book close to me with one hand and wipe across my face with the other.  Able to see once more, I return the book to its place on the shelf and stare at it for a long second before turning and walk away.  I know I did the right thing.  I could not have acted otherwise.  But it would have been nice to know.  Maybe I could have avoided it, lived longer, had more time with my family.  My mind continues to race with the possibilities, and I struggle to keep from returning to the shelf in order to find what I think I want to know. And then.  I wake up.  You may notice a lot of backslashes in this first draft.  that’s my mnemonic device, which I use to alert me during revision that I want to look for a synonym for the word preceding the slashes.  When I’m typing, I can’t always find exactly the word I want, but I don’t want to stop the flow so I just type whatever word is closest to hand at the time so that I at least know what I was thinking of when I was typing and can find a suitable word later.  So, I hope this wasn’t too much of a bore for you, and I hope you’ll allow me a pass as my initial drafts are always utter crap.  Remember, the “writing” comes when one has to go back into the draft and cut, cut, cut.  You’ll see that cutting process in the days to come.  Thanks,  chris   (Comment on this)
6:53 am	True Story Originally published at Maineline Musings. You can comment here or there.   True Story By Chris Beckett     I was waiting for a call from some guy I didn’t know so that he could interview me over the phone and let me know whether my unemployment would be halting any time soon or not.  It had been a few days since my initial interview with the store manager, but he’d explained that his district manager needed to speak to me as well since I had applied to be a manager trainee (which I came to find out is just a glorified assistant manager who gets to work more hours and is expected to one day take over his/her own store within the company).    I’d gone out and bought a phone with an answering machine just so I wouldn’t miss this call.   I needed this job, if for no other reason than my last check from the school – which luckily paid salaries in 52 allotments so that I had an income through the summer – had just arrived in the mail and I needed something resembling equal pay in order to survive while also paying child support.   My existence had become pretty dismal at this point with desperation setting in.  And now, with this as my best option, I waited around my efficiency (read: one combination living/dining/bedroom sans closet, one cramped kitchen/minor hallway, and one diminutive bathroom) for some news.   Why hadn’t he called?  I checked my messages again, but the tape was still blank.  I’d called the manager yesterday, just to follow up, and he assured me I would be getting a call soon enough.    So, what to do?  Better turn on the tube.   I didn’t have cable at the time (couldn’t afford it, still can’t for that matter, not for the exorbitant cost per usage ratio that I would incur).    I grabbed the remote, slid my thumb over the power button and the screen burned to life as a skyscraper smoked and flamed.  I had no idea what the hell it was all about.  It was too early for drama, but maybe the networks had juggled their new fall schedule and thrown some shitty soap opera earlier in the morning to go against Regis.    I watched for a minute, but without any type of context, I didn’t stick around.  Clicking the button on the remote, I darted over to the next channel, AND I SAW THE SAME THING.    What the fuck was going on?   My mind was racing now, not sure what I was watching, realizing this must be live, but how could it be, and really who could generate such a hoax if it wasn’t live, but they weren’t saying much, a few hems and haws, they had no clue what happened either, and then a speck slipped across the screen – or half the screen – and the second building beside this first exploded near its top, smoke and ash and debris spewing out in all directions, and they cut to the newscasters.   And they sat mute.  Shock, horror, fear – it all mixed on their face.   And I waited for some explanation.   Planes.  They flew planes into the World Trade Center buildings.  I sat, and I watched, and still my mind was unable to wrap itself around this warped ideal that had caused people to hijack planes and fly them into skyscrapers.  Why?  What the fuck did those people do to them?   And sickened, I resolved to turn off the TV.   •••   But that lasted only a minute, and soon I flicked it back on.  I sat, and I ate my stale cereal, and I waited for news, anything that might help put this into a better understood context – a context that did not surface that day.   I watched the towers burn, and I saw people jumping out of windows, afraid to stay in what was the most untenable situation I could imagine.  Did they have a chance to call their families?  Did they speak with their sons?  Their daughters?  What did they say?  Could they even mention the situation they were in, or would they protect their children to their last breath?    How’s your day?  What are your plans for tonight?  Be good.  I’ll see you . . . .   What would I do?   •••   I moved about my confined space, an area where I had lain for months feeling sorry for myself.  Sorry that I got divorced.  Sorry I was now alone.  Pissed at my ex-wife because she “took” my kids from me, forced my hand, made me divorce her; I couldn’t live with her and now she’d won.  She had the kids full time, and I only got to see them on her schedule because “they needed a schedule after the shit I put them through.”  And even then, it was questionable whether they would go with me or not.  If they cried, if they were uncomfortable, I couldn’t very well tell them they had to get in my car “because it was the schedule.”  So, I would end up not even spending time with them the afternoons I should have.   But   I could see them.  I knew they were right down the road.  I knew they were safe and that their mother loved them and was taking care of them the best she knew how.  I had my children.  I could call my children.  I could tell them I loved them, and would eventually get to hug them again.    The people trapped in the towers.    They had none of that.  It was all taken away by madmen.  Irreversible and inconceivable.   •••   And now.  Six years later.  Do I understand it any better?  I don’t think so.  I’ve never been in a fight, let alone considered killing someone else.  So the answer has to be no.  Despite all the “facts” that I have accumulated, I have no idea what the fuck happened that day.   All I know is that tonight I got to tuck my sons in bed.  I gave them a kiss and a hug and I told them again that I love them.  And they told me they love me.    And that is the greatest gift in the world.   (Comment on this)
Sunday, October 7th, 2007
6:37 am	B-sides Originally published at Maineline Musings. You can comment here or there.   B-sides By Chris Beckett   Jimmy looked at his watch.  He was surprised only ten minutes had gone by.    The past few hours were already beginning to feel like someone else’s memory, but it had been inevitable.  The tension had been building for months – walking around the apartment like some ghost, trying not to step on that creaking floorboard beside the couch, working not to chew with his mouth open.  Maris had become a bitch and Jimmy was at a loss as to how that happened.  He chalked it up to the old adage that once they had their claws into you, chicks just stopped giving with the sex and tried to control you.   He refused to let himself fall into that trap.   The prick.  Why couldn’t he at least attempt to pick up his dirty laundry?  Leaving it all around the apartment for friends to see, or worse, my mother when she drops in unannounced.  Didn’t men grow out of that teenage “let my Mom do everything for me” phase at some point in their thirties?   Our mothers warn us, but we never listen because the men we choose will be different - more mature, more romantic.  And if they have flaws?  We can deal with that; we can change them.  The mistakes made by our mothers won’t be repeated.   We’ll just repeat new ones.   It was frustrating.  Maris never wanted to go out anymore, didn’t want to hit the clubs or take in a show.  They used to have so much fun.  It was wild and crazy, and she was so fuckin’ hot.  What happened to that girl from long ago was a mystery.  Jimmy longed to take her out again, but the answer was always the same.   No.   And why not?  She seemed so unhappy.  It was like she didn’t want to let her guard down for fear she might act like that kid Jimmy’d fallen in love with.  It made no sense.   I’ve felt a creeping sense of unease for months now, an unsettling itch like when your leg falls asleep.  I didn’t want to admit it, but maybe Jimmy isn’t the right guy for me.  Sure, his smile sings and he has a great ass (with that tight curve right at its base), but we don’t talk like we used to.    I miss that.  Lying in bed, his arm wrapped around me, lips tickling my ear as he whispered to me, discussing his day, our dreams.  I don’t know what happened.  We’ve been in a holding pattern for years now – same apartment, same jobs, no prospects for anything better like we wanted.    “The time isn’t right.”  That’s his answer.  Every.  Damn.  Time.  He wants to wait until we’re financially prepared.  But if we wait for that, we’ll never take that next step.  It might feel like we’re moving, but that’d just be the Earth spinning around us while we stand still.   Jimmy found Maris beautiful, but had begun to doubt his love for her in the past year.  He believed it when he said it but questioned whether it wasn’t just the reflection of her affection he’d felt all that time.    It was nice to be wanted, and Maris made him feel that way once.  But now?  He wasn’t sure.  She’d become so distant.  They used to cook together, but now she’d rather thaw a frozen pizza.  And whenever he nuzzled next to her in bed, she was always tired.  That was never an option when they first met.    It’s liberating, finally being able to let it all out.  I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but the pain on Jimmy’s face made me feel a little better.  I’ve been stuck for too long.  It’s time he felt some of the anxiety I’ve been enduring.    I wish I hadn’t smashed that tape he made me though.  Not that I didn’t enjoy the feeling of hitting him where it hurt, but it had the only copy of “Don’t Stop Believing” I own and now I’ll have to hunt down that CD.   I guess that’s a small price to pay.       At least it was over now, thought Jimmy.  He’d been going crazy for too long, wanting to say something, but afraid of being “that asshole.”  It ended as well as it could.  Maris walking out left him in the clear.    But it wasn’t like Jimmy wanted this.  He would’ve liked to fix things if he knew how, and maybe they still would, but he couldn’t dwell on that right now.  He needed to find a new roomie.  He couldn’t afford that place on his own.  Besides, Maris would come back eventually.    He just wished she hadn’t smashed that tape.  It had his only copy of “Don’t Stop Believing.”  Now he’d have to find a download of it.   THE END       (Comment on this)
6:35 am	Blood Runs Deep Originally published at Maineline Musings. You can comment here or there.   Blood Runs Deep By Chris Beckett     You look just like your mother.   Shihong could not remember a time in her life when that mantra had been absent.  As a young child, the girls had convinced her it was a good thing, something for which Shihong should be proud.  But as she got older, it felt more like a curse.   Shihong never got to know her mother well, she having passed away when the girl was only six, and despite arguments on scientific grounds, she doubted she ever had a father.  Having no other family, the girls immediately took her in and gave her as good a life as they were able.  It had been Shihong’s Mom that watched over them for so many years, and they could do nothing less for her own child.  In hindsight, Shihong’s life was not as bad as some of her classmates had wanted to believe.  The girls even managed to keep her hidden away from their employer until she was almost in her teens, something for which she was grateful knowing now what she was ignorant of then.  It was a hard life, but somehow Shihong persevered.   When discussing her childhood, many people jump to the conclusion that Shihong never went to school, running the streets like some Katzenjammer Kid in a bad 1940s film.  This was never the case.  The girls made sure she was in school every day, didn’t matter if she was sick or not, she was there, or they made sure she regretted staying home.  After the first few years, Shihong never missed a day of school right up to graduation, which was surprising considering how far outside the clique boundaries she orbited.    Shihong loathed the pretentiousness that hung over the entire school, especially the jocks with their chests puffed out, talking as if they knew something of the world, bragging about their “conquests.”  What did they really know?  By the time she was a junior in high school, Shihong had been experiencing the callous indifference of life for over half a decade while most of the posers surrounding her were at least fifteen years from any true understanding of life, if they ever managed it at all.  And although most of them were unable to articulate it, they could all tell just by the way Shihong held herself as she passed through the halls that she was different.  Whether fear or jealousy or an unconscious grasp of their own shortcomings, they all gave Shihong a wide berth for which she was grateful.  She heard enough sad stories at work to last ten lifetimes.   But Shihong loved books, and she craved knowledge.  It was this thirst, more than anything, that kept her in school.  She graduated at the top of her class but refused to give a speech, believing what she had to say would have flown over the heads of eighty percent of those in attendance while probably offending the other twenty percent.  Colleges showed interest, but Shihong was afraid the classes would fail to keep her interest and chose to continue her own education through the local library.  Not only was this less painful for her, but it also allowed Shihong the freedom to work any night she wished absent the anxiety that came from arbitrary deadlines.   So it was, finally of an age to choose for herself, that Shihong followed her now deceased mother into the skin trade.  Some of the girls acted as if they wanted to exclude her and made obtuse comments to that effect.  But if that was the case, why hadn’t they spoken up when their pimp had finally discovered the cute twelve-year-old living rent-free in his flophouse and thrown her out on the corner with all the other girls?    Once she was shoved onto that corner, Shihong took up smoking.  Their pimp, Lenny, liked it because it made her look just that much older, but for Shihong, it calmed her nerves and was something she could control in an uncontrollable environment.  The refrain “you look just like your mother” increased once again at this point.  Her Mom had also been a smoker, and many of the girls told Shihong that not only did the cigarette in her mouth bring back intense memories, but the way she held it – between the very tips of her middle and index fingers – was also eerily reminiscent of her mother.    Despite the ruthless nature of their trade, the girls still watched out for Shihong, and on at least one occasion, Shihong was happy to have a guardian angel watching over her.  As he was walking toward her, she could tell the guy was hopped up on something.  Xiaoli had crossed in front of Shihong, hoping to deflect his attention from the jail bait, but the guy had been insistent, and the girls knew they couldn’t turn away tricks because Lenny always had a bottom girl keeping an eye on them.  Unable to persuade him, Xiaoli deferred to Shihong and watched the two head back upstairs into the flophouse.  Seconds later, Xiaoli followed and settled in around the corner from the room.    It wasn’t long – five minutes, maybe less – before Xiaoli heard banging coming from the corner room.  Jumping up, Xiaoli heard Shihong’s first screams rip through the thin walls sending shivers up the older girl’s spine.  Rushing in (first lesson: palm the lock so it looks like you’re turning the latch and leave yourself an out), Xiaoli reached down for the crowbar behind the dresser.  The client, fetid cellulite rippling from the strain, was on top of Shihong threatening to crush her in the bed if he was unable to suffocate her first.  Xiaoli brought the heavy iron bar down on his plump head multiple times, blood spattering in all directions, staining the wood floors as it tie-dyed the fraying sheets.  Shihong was frantic and took the rest of the night to calm down while the other girls disposed of the body.  But the next day she was back to school, and nobody ever talked about it again.    Oddly enough, when she was older – but hardly much bigger – Shihong had little trouble with her clients and rarely encountered a rape scenarist, which seemed to be a common theme for the rest of the girls.  This latter fact she kept to herself, preferring not to rock the boat now that she was a peer.  For a long time, this unique shift in sentiment was a mystery to Shihong, and she had other matters weighing on her mind as it was.    Shihong’s smoking had incited a cancer of the mouth that was particularly virulent.  The cancer was unique, one that most doctors would find impossible to treat effectively.  But making one’s living on the street brings with it little in the way of health insurance, so Shihong was forced to go to a chop shop and have the cancer cut out.  The doctor, who looked more like a trash man than a physician, told Shihong he hoped all the cancer was gone, but he really couldn’t be certain.  It was this harshest of realities that left Shihong with a large hole in her cheek – just as her mother had incurred many years before.   Shihong took to wearing face paint in an attempt to distract clients from the absence of flesh on her face.  She worried about finding other work and wondered how she would fare in a society she had avoided all her life.  But instead of scanning employment ads, Shihong found herself acquiring more clients than she had at any time before.  At first she denied it, but eventually Shihong came to understand it was her disfigurement that not only elicited the best from her clients but also brought more tricks to her corner.  Most of them were gentle and would ask if they could touch her cheek when they were with her.  Shihong often said yes, and was always surprised at the affection she felt for them whenever they touched her there, as softly as if they were caressing a newborn.    It had been a good life, and Shihong felt no regrets at the path she had taken.  But eventually the cancer caught up to her – it always does – and when she began having unbearable pains in her chest, she knew what it was even if she didn’t wish to admit it.  After months of enduring the pain, Shihong went back to the same doctor she had seen before.  He told her there was nothing he could do.  It was too widespread and far too close to her heart and lungs for him to be able to operate successfully.  Maybe if she could go to a local hospital –    But that wasn’t an option.  Shihong continued to work for as long as she could and managed to hide her pain from the other girls for nearly a year.  But one day it became too much, and Shihong found herself lacking the strength to get out of bed.  When Xiaoli found her laying there, eyes unable to focus, she knew immediately what was going on.  It was just like Shihong’s mother all over again.   And now Shihong sits here, only thirty years old and far past her time on this Earth, and she looks at her own daughter ready to turn five and leave for school, and Shihong worries about how much little Jiao looks like her, and how much she must look like her grandmother and what that will mean for her.    (Comment on this)
Thursday, October 4th, 2007
8:14 am	the cold Originally published at Maineline Musings. You can comment here or there.   The Cold By Chris Beckett   Cold washes over me, wrapping me in a cocoon, muscles ache, arguing with me as I push against my bonds.  Up above an inconsistent light shines down on me, calling out my name.   Am I dying?   Fuckin’ knee-jerk indoctrinated horseshit!  I hate that goddamn cliché, what friggin’ crap!   That’s good, stay mad.  It’s the only way I’m getting out of here.    I feel my feet being dragged heavily from below.  Working to free myself pain rises up my back, I focus on that damn light like in those birthing classes.  I work to sharpen my vision, but the light retains its faint blur, the source a mystery.  I believe it to be my salvation, how can it not be, it’s the only thing I can see.   Why is it so dark?   Inky blackness threatens to overwhelm me, pushing me back down from where I wish to escape.  I don’t even know how I got here.  I was drinking, but it wasn’t much, how could I forget landing here when I remember the Heineken?   Numbness stretches over my fingers, cold equals pain, I can’t stand it, but I grit my teeth, bearing down hard, worried of cracking my new crown, and where will I get the money to fix it again?  Fuck me.    Eyes are closed again, I hadn’t noticed.  Opening them, I find the light once more, bright against the nothingness.  I thought it was an illusion, but it’s there and bigger now.  Where the hell is it coming from?  It’s like elementary school, my dreams riddled with clichés of aliens, lasers, damsels in distress, and my personal heroism that was never evident in the waking world.  I wish my mother hadn’t coddled me so much as a kid, let me do something strenuous or challenging rather than babying me, letting me grow up to be some pussy.    He’s such a sensitive young man.   Fuck that.  Girls don’t give a shit about sensitive.  They want the goon with his muscles, torn jeans, and Harley.  They call us shallow, but what the hell are they?  No better.  But don’t tell them that, they’ll pounce quicker than a cheetah.   Why is it so cold?   My head feels as if it might split in two, the pain bringing me back to the present, all I want to do is shove my fingers through my temples, relieve some of the pressure crackling over my skull like a frozen spider’s web, threatening to send me back under, I can’t fight anymore, want to give up.    Eyes shoot open again, wanting to cry, unable to, and who could notice?  I need to stay awake.  I push through the murkiness, my body wants to shiver but can’t, it’s too cold, my lungs are going to burst, the pain is unreal, I don’t think I can hold out any longer.   The light comes into sharper focus, I continue despite the desire to sleep, almost there, not going to die, an angel shines down on me, Gabriel waits, is my time over with so much left undone?   Please God.  I’ve mocked you, but please, help me now.   My head breaks water, I gasp uncontrollably, air rushes in, water follows, I choke, but my head stays above the waves.    “Hey!  Turn the light!  Over there!”    I hear the voices, they’re miles away.  I wonder if I can hold on; will they get me in time?  My body wants to give up, just lay to rest.  Muscles refuse to work and panic sets back in, I lay back, hoping the water will carry me, and then I feel hands (they feel so far away) pushing through the numbness, I turn to see who it is but can only see that light, silhouetting their faces, draping them in the darkness.    Thank you God.   I close my eyes.  They tell me it’s all right.  I smile, go limp, and drift away on the waves, dropping through consciousness to a place where I can rest.    Somewhere away from the cold.   (Comment on this)
8:12 am	MARS EXPLORER Originally published at Maineline Musings. You can comment here or there. Mars Explorer By Chris Beckett     A ruddy cloud blew across Jimmy’s vision.  Raising his hand instinctively, he took a deep breath, air hissing in his ears as it carried through his spacesuit.  Dropping his gloved hand Jimmy turned slowly, absorbing the barren expanse of the Martian landscape.  It was just as he’d always imagined.    He took one hesitant step, unsure of the relative gravity, afraid of flying off awkwardly.  With the slightest push, he managed to float quite a few feet away from the ship.  It was exhilarating.  Jimmy pushed off harder, his stomach tingling as he jumped toward the horizon.    “Hey!  Where you goin’?”  Janey’s signal came over the wireless in the helmet.  Jimmy turned to see her standing in the hatchway of the Double-X Rocket ™.  Even in the bulky pressure suit, he thought she was beautiful.    Jimmy waved his hand buoyantly, his excitement threatening to overwhelm him.  He gave no reply, but knew Janey could see his smile.  Turning, he made for a large outcropping about a mile east of the landing.    “Be careful.”  Jimmy nodded slightly as he raised his hand in acknowledgement.   Bounding across the flat expanse, Jimmy felt like he was back home in the neighbor’s pool, moving lazily through the soft pull of the water.  Looking up, the rough pile of stones barely appeared any closer.  He stopped for a quick rest; the exertion coupled with his excitement threatening hyperventilation.   Looking back, Jimmy saw Janey now following him.  He could see her head turning left and right as if she were out for an afternoon walk, working to take everything in.    “What are you up to?” he called through the headset.   “Just checkin’ things out.  You?”    “Taking a breather on my way to those boulders.  Wonder what’s on the other side.”    “More rocks.  Haha.”    “Comedian,” came Jimmy’s droll reply.   He got up and moved toward the eastern horizon once more.  Before him, the huge stones bounced in his vision, growing slowly bigger with every up/down, up/down.  Jimmy worked to keep his mind from racing again, replaying Janey’s remark, more rocks, over and over.  So many others had come here looking for that Rosetta stone to explain the mysteries of the universe and only returned with handfuls of dust.  He couldn’t let himself get too excited.   A few minutes and Jimmy reached the base of the outcrop.  It rose fifty feet into the air, multiple handholds and ledges crossing its jagged face.  Janey had picked up her pace and, looking back, he could see she was almost on top of him.  He awaited her before beginning his ascent.   “Sucker!”  Janey didn’t slow down, taking the first fifteen feet in one leap.  It was a second before Jimmy recovered.  He pushed off hard, clearing a wide ledge above his head quite easily.  Without taking time to firmly plant, he shoved off once more and passed Janey who had reverted to a traditional climbing technique past that initial jump.    Floating through the air, Jimmy watched as Janey panicked and steadied for her own giant leap.  He smiled and turned his gaze toward his next foothold.    Landing hard, he pushed off, and the rocks gave way.  His face fell toward one large boulder as his arms hit heavily, legs flying out into nothing.  The impact shuddered his suit, rippled across his body.  Gravity snagged him; he began sliding down the steep face, feet flailing, searching for anything to break his fall.   As he settled into a tiny crevice, Janey passed him, eyeing the summit as she ignored him.   “Hey, a little help,” he called into the speaker.   “Uhn-uh.  Not falling for that one,” came her titter.   Jimmy pushed up and bounded after her.  Thirty feet from the top he watched her go over.  He stopped to gain his bearings a bit.   “AAAAAHHHHH!!”  Janey’s screech numbed him.  With a single leap, Jimmy was over the summit.    Before Janey was a huge beast, white and hairy, almost four meters high, Jimmy immediately thought - Abominable from Rudolph.  Keying his glove console, Jimmy felt his palm warm up as the battery charged, readying the laser housed in the arm of his suit.    “JIMMY!!”    He looked up to see the beast upon him, Janey small in the background lying on her side.  His eyes widened as the albino monster raised its arms.  Jimmy did the same, but too late.  It smashed into the side of his helmet.  Jimmy soared fifty feet through the air, skidding over jagged rocks.  A small hiss came to his ears.  His faceplate was cracked just below his left eye.  The readout showed the system working to compensate for the drop in pressure, but it wouldn’t be long.   “Jimmy!”  Janey yelled for him again.  He tried to raise himself, but his arms were limp, fatigue overcoming him, no air to breathe.   “Jimmy,” her voice more distant than before.  He could feel himself going into shock and wondered what would happen to Janey.    “Jimmy.”  Fainter still.  His eyes rolled as darkness enveloped him.  Why couldn’t he save her?    •••   “Jimmy.  Supper.”  His mother called from the back door.  Jimmy opened his eyes, clouds now covered the sun, and he could feel a dampness now clinging to his clothes.   Sighing deeply, Jimmy unlocked his wheels and turned his chair around.  Pushing hard, he rolled up over the walkway his dad had constructed last summer for him to “walk” out into the back field.  A tear cooled softly on his cheek as he moved toward the house.   Rolling up the ramp, Jimmy made his way into the kitchen.  From across the back lawn he could hear Mrs. Parks next door calling her own children to supper.   “Tom.  Janey.  Hurry up or it’ll get cold.”   And the sound of the door closing behind him rang heavy in his ears.     (Comment on this)
8:10 am	TONIGHT I SLEEP Originally published at Maineline Musings. You can comment here or there.   Tonight I Sleep By Chris Beckett     I wander aimlessly, The horizon a blank slate, My steps nothing but random thoughts.    Remembering little of the past days, All before me is empty, A return to the day I was born.   Reaching back, I haunt my memory, Searching.  Frustrated. Longing for understanding.   A gun, “I can see you.” A loud crack.  I hit the floor; A haze engulfs me.   Voices carry.  A sweet susurrus lapping At the shores of my consciousness. I hear its murmur but nothing more.   And then – sharp focus – My chest tightens and that voice Returns, “I can see you.”   What does it mean? How could I know? And my mind drifts with my body.   With nothing to anchor me, I continue for days Solace a meaningless word.   Day and Night merge, My compass without bearings I give up, go limp, fall.   That’s when I see it: A break in the clouds Delicate webs parting slowly.   The mast rises high up ahead, Announcing its arrival while The main vessel remains shrouded.   A chill runs my spine, Shooting across my back As it raises the hair on my neck.   I can’t explain this feeling. Is it fear?  Anxiety? Or something else entirely?   I look down now and realize That I no longer walk – Must not have for a long time.   The sense of flying overwhelms me, A revelation that leaves me Wondering how did I not know?   The rolling mist fades more than moves, Making way for the scarlet ship Propelled by nothing, moved by everything.   And again, that voice, “I can see you.” But this time it’s familiar.   A mixture, like a good recipe, Nothing distinct and yet wholly its own. My son/grandmother/father/mother.   They all talk to me, speak As they once spoke.  And their Sum total comprises that voice.   As too does the one that shot me. I hear its faint tone lying in wait Hoping to disrupt me.   But it will not happen. I know who I am now. I know where I am now.   Floating with purpose, I move to the great vessel Approaching from beneath.   It is something brand new to me And something as old as time. It is as it has always been.   Coming over the side, I spy The crowd on deck and my heart jumps As it has not for some time.   My family is waiting for me As I have waited for them. It has been lonely all these years.   And he is there as well, Forgiven in a way I’d not thought possible, And yet my heart does not darken at his presence.   He took them from me – All of them – And I vowed revenge.   But when it was time for that, My hand faltered Because I was not that man.   And now understanding floods me, Threatening to overwhelm that which I once was, But a comfort to that which I now am.   It has been a long journey, But tonight I will sleep as I have not for a long time.   Tonight I will sleep with my family. Tonight I will sleep with my enemy. Tonight I will sleep forever.                (Comment on this)
Thursday, September 6th, 2007
7:33 pm	How? (some new elephant fiction) Originally published at Maineline Musings. You can comment here or there.     HOW? By Chris Beckett     Boots scrape through rough gravel as I walk across the dull gray expanse.  The sound echoes softly in my ears, as if from far away, and I wonder again if I should have come here.  At the edge of my vision, I spy figures moving in the ruins – the emaciated ghosts of the prisoners that were sent here to their deaths.  I squint hard, looking for you both, but the images remain indistinct.    When I inquired as to a guide in the village, nobody would speak with me.  I understand better now that cold response.  All joy has been leeched from this place, replaced by shadows of the horror that lived here decades earlier.  I try to think happy thoughts but find it difficult, able only to consider the bloody history that surrounds me.  Shoulders heavy, I plod forward, determined not to give in as I have done so many times before.   The old buildings have crumbled during the intervening years, nobody to take care of them, none willing to observe the decay as it set in.  They speak to me – these rotting husks – imparting the atrocities that inhabited this field, and still inhabits it today.  Their sullen whispers send shivers through me as a stinging tear forms against my wishes.  Clutching at the air, fists flexing without thought, I let the pain wash over me, hoping it won’t follow when I leave.    Again I ask myself, why did I travel all the way out here?  What do I hope to accomplish?  Am I looking for answers?  I don’t know.  I’ve avoided this journey for too long and whatever comes of this, it’s important that I find something to close the wounds laying on my soul.    It’s a fool’s errand.  There is no solace here.  No retribution.    I cast my gaze around, taking everything in.  Tiny islands of grass vainly spread across the hardened dirt – testaments to the hope found in all life, examples of the futility that defines this place.  A pall hangs over this land, a stultifying odor more hinted at than genuine.  I close my eyes and see the ashes floating across the winds, mixing with the dirt at my feet, spreading over everything like some gruesome snow flurry.  It is this that I smell, that I feel coursing coldly through my veins.  It is alive, and it eats at me as I try to work out the contradictions racing through my mind.       It’s years since you died – only months apart as it should have been – and only now do I find the courage to visit this place where you first met.  How could you have discovered love in such an ugly place?  Did you need to retreat from the horrors, to discover solace and warmth in each other’s arms?  Or was it something else, something more mundane that brought you together in this hell?  No matter, it happened.  A miracle in a sea of filth.    Bending down, I run my fingers over the gnarled wire that seems to grow from the earth.  So ruddy, I wonder if it’s rust or what’s left of the blood that flowed so readily here.    I don’t know if you can hear me, but I can feel you in this place.  I wanted to tell you I’m a father.  It sounds foolish when I consider it, like I’m still playing at being grown up, but it’s true.  Dieter Ahrends.  I can still hear his breathing in my ear as I rocked him to sleep on my shoulder last night.  Every time I look at him I think of you, and I wonder, how can I expect to be a good father?    It wasn’t planned.  Truth be told, I didn’t want to be a father.  It scared me when Ariana told me, and I thought about leaving.  I tried to explain my fears to her, but she just looked at me with those hurt eyes and crushed my heart.  I couldn’t leave then.   And now.    I’m glad I stayed.  Dieter is . . . amazing – so tiny and delicate, and yet so full of life.  How could I not love him?  But I wonder if this euphoria will last, or will genetics kick in.  Because how can I hope to be a good parent when I now know who you were?  It’s almost funny – me, the son of an SS-Gruppenführer and Aufseherin, a good father.   I take a deep breath, my shoulders easing just a little.  What I needed to do, I’ve done.  My wife waits for me with our son.  I look around once more and although the ghosts still haunt my vision, I feel relieved.    I can finally go home.   (Comment on this)
Sunday, September 2nd, 2007
6:30 pm	Sand in my Toes Originally published at Maineline Musings. You can comment here or there.   Sand In My Toes By Chris Beckett     I remember the day you left.  I was so angry.  Mom tried to talk to me, but I wouldn’t have any of that.  Like any kid, I preferred to be miserable alone, but needed to make enough of a scene so that everybody knew I was unhappy – the center of attention without acknowledging it.  Of course, Dad just sat in front of the television watching the game, which was typical.  I’m not sure how I could have expected anything more from him?   It was hard; I was only seven.  How was I supposed to understand?  For so long, I resented you for abandoning me like that.  I’m sorry.   I come out here whenever I’m home now.  Running my fingers across the smooth stones, I stretch back through scattered memories, searching for one I recognize, for a stone we might have skipped across the river that used to run through here.   The state dammed it up quite a few years back, sent all the water toward the farms on the other side of the next town.  Maybe you heard.  But I don’t know.   Not a day goes by I don’t think of you, wonder what you’re doing, imagine what we could be doing together if you were still around.  It’s foolish, I know, but it’s what I do.  I can dream, can’t I?   On some level, I think I’ve finally come to terms with the whole thing.  I needed years of therapy, which I only agreed to once my first marriage went to hell.  But that’s another story, and one I’m not ready to discuss.    Shit, what a life.   It wasn’t that I couldn’t comprehend the realities in my head.  You were the older brother.  You were the one that could swim.  I wasn’t strong enough, and I even had trouble with a life jacket, always felt like I was sinking despite its buoyancy.  But none of that mattered.  In my heart, I couldn’t reconcile the fact that I hadn’t saved you.    To be honest, when you first started flailing I thought you were pulling my leg, trying to scare me.  That wouldn’t have been beyond you.  I sat there in the sand watching you splash around, expecting you to stop suddenly and swim back over to shore.  But when the splashing stopped, I couldn’t see you.  I had no idea what to do, I swear.  I wanted to rush in and save you, wanted to swim out to where the water rippled softly, but I was scared.  I couldn’t move.    So I sat there, pulling my knees up to my chest, worrying my toes into the sand.  (I still have trouble with grit between my toes.)   There are some mornings I wake up, and for a moment I forget and call out your name.  It’s a reflex, probably just a specter of my dreams, but for that split second my heart skips and I wonder what we might do today.    But then I remember and pull myself back under the covers.    (Comment on this)
Monday, August 20th, 2007
6:13 am	A bit of script Originally published at Maineline Musings. You can comment here or there. What follows is a short script I sent off to an artist last week for inclusion in an upcoming issue of our anthology WARRIOR27.  There’s a bit of an overview also included to put it into context - a context that has changed since I first wrote this.  Enjoy.   IRISES: A Brief Overview.   Ted,   When I first wrote this, I imagined it as the opening of a graphic novella, but have since discovered it is actually the opening for the second part of a much larger story, but I still think it works well on its own.   SOME BACKGROUND: Nathan Riley was a very good hitman for a local crime boss.  He could be counted on to do his job efficiently, and if he were ever caught nobody needed worry that he would turn state’s evidence.  That was his way, and though people looked up to him within the family, there were also those that were jealous of him and thought they could get ahead by either taking him out or sabotaging one of his hits.  This latter alternative is what happened, though Nathan may not be aware of it.  Somebody sabotaged one of his hits – a major one that the crime boss needed done.  The boss was not happy it did not go down, and as punishment, he felt the need to do away with Riley’s family, feeling they were too much of a distraction for the man.    This caused a riff, as Riley knew who had contracted the hit on his family but was unable to prove it, and he left the crime family to work on his own, make a new life, and all that.  But things were not so easy for him, especially since he was blackballed by the rest of the criminal community, and finding honest work when one’s life has been a life of crime is near impossible.  As a result, Nathan falls on incredibly tough times, dumpster diving for food, doing penny-ante stuff to make ends meet.  Finally, at his lowest ebb, Riley decides he needs to get back into the life.  It’s the only thing he knows, and his reputation should allow some consideration from the boss.  It is around this background, which is really only the broad brushstrokes, that this script revolves.   This 5-page story takes place in three different times of Nathan Riley’s life.  One portion of the story is the funeral of his wife and children.  Though they were cremated, Nathan wanted a headstone to remember them by and thought it best to place that in a field where irises – his wife’s favorite flowers – grow wild.  This is where the service is taking place, and where Nathan will spread the ashes.  Her parents are present at the service along with Nathan, the minister, and possibly a few other close friends, but anyone other than these four mentioned are little more than window dressing.   A second part of the story is during Nathan’s lowest ebb.  He is ragged, wearing clothes that are well worn and maybe don’t fit him exactly right.  During this portion of the story, he has decided to try and get back into the “business.”  We watch him shave, put on a suit – that is frazzled at the ends – and then make his way to the boss’s office in an upscale office building.   The third part takes place soon after he is welcomed back into the family.  During this part, Nathan is in a very nice apartment or ritzy hotel room.  He is clean-shaven, slick in his Armani suit, and writing a letter to his dead wife asking her forgiveness.  Nathan will take this letter, and the urn in which their ashes had been placed, out to the headstone and burn the letter, allowing the ashes to form in the bottom of the urn before spreading the ashes of the letter on the winds at the headstone as well.  It is the text of this letter that makes up the captions within each panel.    I’ve done the script on a 6-grid, but if you see a better way of presenting the information, and want to draw this, please feel free to go for it.  You’re the artist.  As long as the different periods are evident and the information gets across to the readers, that’s great.  If you do decide to go for this, we will hopefully be able to put it in the new issue of WARRIOR27, our anthology of comics and prose.  I look forward to hearing back from you soon.   Take care, Chris Beckett         IRISES   Page 1   Panel 1: On NATHAN RILEY.  He is haggard, unshaven, wearing clothes that are, if not ratty, at least unkempt.  He is sitting, hunched in the corner of a dank, dreary apartment   CAPTION                               My dearest Irene,   Panel 2: Closeup on a beautiful Iris in full bloom, with others surrounding this one coming in off-panel.   CAPTION                               You always looked so beautiful in the morning light.   Panel 3: On a minister, standing in the middle of a long field.  He is holding a Bible in front of him conducting a funeral service, though that may not be obvious, and the wind is blowing his robes all about.  The sun is shining brightly down from behind him.   CAPTION                               The way the sun would make your hair sparkle, the                                                 shadows accenting your soft cheeks.   Panel 4: From behind we are looking at Nathan as he sits at a desk in an upscale apartment, possibly a penthouse, writing a letter.  HAIR IS LONG BUT NEAT.   CAPTION                               I always looked forward to the morning.    Panel 5: Nathan AT HIS LOWEST EBB staring into a mirror, whiskers evident, a hollow look in his eyes.   CAPTION                               To waking up beside you.   Panel 6: CU on a headstone.  We are unable to see the very top or the ground upon which it sits.  On it is inscribed: RILEY IRENE, BELOVED WIFE 1971 – 2001 TRAVIS NATHAN 1995 - 2001  KAYLA IRENE 1997 – 2001   CAPTION                               I miss that.   Page 2   Panel 1: From in front and slightly below Nathan as he continues to sit and write his letter.  A single tear is rolling down his cheek.   CAPTION                               Losing you and the kids finally brought a clarity to what                                                 I was doing to myself.   Panel 2: Back at the funeral.  We are behind an older couple who are holding one another tightly.  Over their shoulders we can see Nathan standing stoically, no emotion crossing his face.  If the minister is visible he would be coming in just off the right of the panel.  The image should be such that the headstone in front of the minister is not visible.   CAPTION                               I knew then I should leave.   Panel 3: On a shaving mug sitting on the back of a sink, the brush handle sticking up from within.  In the foreground we just see a hand dropping a razor into the sink in order to rinse it off.   CAPTION                               I can’t bear to remember that day.   Panel 4: Nathan is now shaven, but his hair is slightly untidy a she stands in his apartment window.  His dress shirt is only half buttoned up.  He is staring out the window at a young couple walking their dog on the street below.   CAPTION                               Some days I just sit, trying to make sense of everything.   Panel 5: Nathan has finished writing his letter and is dripping wax onto the envelope that now sits upon his desk.   CAPTION                               To figure out where it    all went wrong.   Panel 6: From on high we are looking down upon the funeral.  Although it may not be completely obvious, the urn with Nathan’s wife’s and children’s ashes is sitting in front of the headstone.   CAPTION                               But nothing ever comes.   Page 3   Panel 1: Nathan bends down to pick up the urn from in front of the headstone.  If we are far enough back this may be the first time we notice that behind the headstone a stand of irises is growing, in full bloom.  Just hint at this.   CAPTION                               I wish I could say things have been better since I                                                 stopped,   Panel 2: Back in the DREARY APARTMENT, Nathan has buttoned up his shirt and is shrugging on his dark suit jacket, which may be slightly frayed at the cuffs and edges.  He has been down on his luck for quite a while.   CAPTION                               but without you there’s a gaping hole I can’t begin                                                 to fill.   Panel 3: On the iris again, the top of the headstone should be creeping into the bottom of the panel as well.   CAPTION                               I’ve tried.  Nothing works.   Panel 4: In his NEW APARTMENT, with the letter in one hand Nathan reaches up and takes down the urn from his mantel.  It is the same urn he used at his family’s funeral.   CAPTION                               Things have been tougher than I ever imagined                                                 possible.   Panel 5: DOUBLE PANEL, across the bottom of the page.  Clean-shaven, in his tattered suit jacket, he is now walking down the street – shoulders back and straight, eyes piercing the vista before him, oblivious to any people around him.  Some passersby may be looking at him sideways because of the way he carries himself, despite being dressed poorly.    CAPTION                               And it has only gotten worse.   Page 4   Panel 1: Nathan is standing in an inner hallway of an older building.  There are hardwood floors, tin ceilings, and ornate woodwork around the doorways.  This is an upscale joint.  He is standing before one of these doorways where two very large men with close-cropped hair in dark suits and dark glasses are standing guard.  They betray no emotion as they look at this haggard man trying so hard to look sophisticated in his old suit.   CAPTION                               I am writing now because I don’t know how much longer I                                                 can last.   Panel 2: On Nathan as he kisses the envelope.  He is now out in the field where the headstone for his family sits at a slight angle due to the ground settling.  The irises behind it are wilting slightly, just past their prime.    CAPTION                               I promised you this would all be over.   Panel 3: CU on the envelope as Nathan sets it alight with a Zippo lighter, IRENE’S NAME evident on the front of the envelope.   CAPTION                               And I have tried.   Panel 4: On the bunch of irises now obviously growing behind his family’s headstone   CAPTION                               but if I continue this way I’m afraid I may end it all.   Panel 5: One of the guards holds the door open as Nathan walks in.  Within the office, if it is visible, we can see the silhouette of a large man sitting at a desk in front of a picture window opposite the entrance.   CAPTION                               I can’t bear the thought of approaching another                                                 empty morning.   Panel 6: At the funeral, Nathan is kissing the urn while the minister and distraught parents look on.   CAPTION                               I need a reason to keep on living.   Page 5   Panel 1: Interior of the office.  The large man at the desk is obviously a mob boss, he is smoking a large cigar as he gestures for Nathan to take a seat in front of the large mahogany desk.  The backlighting from the picture window behind the boss adds to his menacing demeanor.   CAPTION                               That’s why I have to break my word to you.   Panel 2: Within the urn we see the letter smoldering and falling away to ash.   CAPTION                               Going back to work might help give me some purpose.   Panel 3: CU on the top of the desk as the boss hands over a gun to Nathan, signifying that he is back in line with the mob, back at work.   CAPTION                               I hope you understand.   Panel 4: Nathan goes to hand the urn to the parents at the funeral   CAPTION                               I have to do this.   Panel 5: INSET TO PANEL 4.  The mother slaps Nathan in the face as he holds the urn steady in his hands, the father looking on, anger etched across his face.  (they are his dead wife’s parents)   NO DIALOGUE   Panel 6: DOUBLE PANEL across bottom of the page.  In the present Nathan is at the headstone spreading the ashes of the letter across his family’s grave in order to send the letter to them.  Overlaid upon this is a larger ghost image of Nathan spreading the ashes of his family at the funeral, the minister and parents present off to each side, possibly through the forms of the clouds or the shape of the trees surrounding the field.   CAPTION                               I love you.  I always will.   (Comment on this)
Sunday, August 12th, 2007
7:12 pm	Scarecrow Originally published at Maineline Musings. You can comment here or there. here’s the latest fiction by me from the Elephant Words site     SCARECROW by Chris Beckett   Henry led the young girl through the field, the tall blades of grass tiny whispers on their arms as they moved away from the Pontiac parked on the soft shoulder.  This was Henry’s favorite place in the world.  Any new friends, particularly ones as pretty as Serena, were always introduced to this field.  It lay down a long dirt road ten miles out of the city.  Henry liked it for its solitude; there would be no reason to expect they would be interrupted.   Serena was a typical girl.  Living in one of the piss-ant towns surrounding Brooks Harbor, she came to town for some excitement.  And excitement was always on the menu for a seventeen-year-old who looked twenty-five and showed enough skin.  She’d already been to three bars when Henry spotted her in Geaghan’s Pub.  After fifteen minutes of conversation and two free drinks, he’d easily sheared the girl away from her friends as the two of them made their way outside to his Grand Am.  She didn’t hesitate when he opened the door for her, and her hands roamed her body as they drove through the quiet streets.   Walking behind, Henry enjoyed the way her skirt rode up her thighs, the tight fabric molding softly to her round cheeks.  The white t-shirt too was far too small, pressing snugly on her pert breasts.  They were tiny, round and firm, braless nipples standing at attention, ripe fruits waiting to be plucked.    Henry could feel an aching in his groin as he licked his lips.  Anticipation made his heart race, the blood pounding in his temples making his mind rush as the pressure built up.  He could feel a prickling sensation at his fingertips as his arms began to twitch.  Legs wanting to give way, he stopped and reached out for Serena’s arm.   “Right here.  Let’s do it right here.”   She turned, her eyes glazed with alcohol, smiling lasciviously as she ran a moist tongue over bright red lips.    “How do you want me?”    A glint sparkled in her left eye as clouds pulled back from the moon above, and then just as quickly a new formation swept across the celestial spotlight.  Henry welcomed the warm blanket of night that covered them, preferring the darkness for such things.   “On your back,” he said with a slight rasp.  Her smile widened as she pulled off the white t-shirt, throwing it behind her where it landed on a bent sapling.  Shucking off her sandals, Serena slid the skirt over her hips, letting it drop to the ground, revealing her lithe body for Henry to soak in.    Henry cupped his groin vigorously, unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it aside but left his shorts on.  Serena lay down on the damp ground, her arms reaching out to invite him to her.  Serena’s eyes fluttered as he lay on top of her, grinding his crotch against hers.  He let his arms roam over her body, pinching her nipples before sliding his fingers over her soft shoulders, moving to the base of her neck.   Henry kissed her lightly on the lips as Serena softly breathed his name into the night breeze.  She ran her long nails down his back and humped up against him.    “Please,” she whispered as she looked into his eyes, boring deeply into his soul.  He smiled and shook his head, causing her to pout ridiculously.  Pressing his crotch more strongly against Serena, Henry ran his fingers along the hollow below her chin.  Serena’s head lolled back as a gasp escaped her, and Henry slowly wrapped his hands about her delicate neck.    Serena didn’t notice at first, all her attention was focused on the frenzied spasms clutching her middle.  But soon ecstasy turned to anxiety and then to stark fear as she realized it was getting harder to breathe.  Eyes wide with panic, Serena looked up into Henry’s and saw only black.  His face betrayed no emotion as hands clenched more strongly.  She tried to call out, to protest, but could no longer find the air necessary to do so.  Kicking wildly, she tried to buck him off, but his weight was more than double her own and he only grunted dismissively at her futile attempts.  She didn’t want to die, wondered if anyone would find her, would catch him, and worried about her mother discovering she’d gone bar-hopping in that mini skirt she detested.    •••   Afterward, Henry stood up.  He retrieved his shirt from where it had dropped into the grass and buttoned it up meticulously.  He considered returning Serena’s shirt, but thought it looked nice fluttering in the night air, the moon’s faint rays illuminating it like some ghost.    Running his fingers through his hair, Henry tucked his shirt back into his waistband and walked back to the car, serenity returned to his features, the pressure relieved until next time.   (Comment on this)
Wednesday, August 8th, 2007
6:00 am	Fire and Ash Originally published at Maineline Musings. You can comment here or there. New week.  New image at Elephant Words.  That means new fiction, and this means I am all caught up here with my pieces.  enjoy.     Fire and Ash by Chris Beckett   Gem’s parents died suddenly when he was only six.  The tiny village organized quickly – the boy’s neighbors took him in – and sent off dispatches to any known relatives with regards to young Gem’s misfortune.  Only one replied.  His Uncle Valencium.   People in the village were wary of Gem’s uncle.  He lived in a thatch hut atop the bald hill that overlooked the village and rarely made his way down from this perch.  There were many believed him to be an alchemist of a kind, though they had no proof, and objected to Gem staying with some mystical hermit.   But, the young boy’s stay was determined overlong after two weeks.  And so, Gem found himself being escorted by two elderly women in long, dark robes up the hill to his Uncle Valencium.   When Gem arrived, he found the whispers had been true.  Gem’s uncle was indeed a wizard and a powerful one at that.  Many years ago, he had been banished from the walled city that lay a day’s walk to the west for acts none would discuss.  Those rare times that Gem broached the subject it always sent a chill through his uncle, and the boy quickly dropped the matter.   Thankfully, his uncle had a loose memory, and these dark thoughts would soon whisk away on the breeze, leaving a void to fill with knowledge and laughter.  It had been too many years since Valencium had known an apprentice, and when his nephew reverted to his care, he was happy at the thought of imparting his wizardly knowledge to the malleable child.  It was an amazing time for young Gem.  He learned alchemical techniques for transforming the brittle vegetation surrounding their hut into lush plentiful foodstuffs – yet another myth proved true – as well as how to become invisible, how to snatch whispered secrets from a stolen breath, how to make a spinster fall in love with an ass, along with a multitude of other incantations, spells, and potions.   But the most intriguing aspect of this time with his uncle was the enclosure on the second floor – a second floor not evident from the hut’s exterior.  Gem would often hear bumping noises coming from the secret room, a scratching of claws waking him many nights.  Whenever he asked his uncle about this, he would only say, “Later.  Save that for later,” but that later never arrived, not with his uncle.     •••   Valencium had a renewed spirit in these years, finding purpose in his life where there had been none for so long.  And Gem absorbed everything fully, his mind open wide to the possibilities that lay ahead of him.    A score of years passed, and with each passing season Valencium looked younger, more vigorous, while Gem grew to be a stout and handsome young man.  A new generation in the hamlet below was now talking about the old hermit and his nephew, though sometimes he was named as a son, and the strange rituals performed atop their hill.  Gem enjoyed going down at night and walking unseen among them, hearing the tall tales being spun.  Gem would come back to his uncle with a multitude of stories for him, and the two men would laugh heartily until daybreak.   And then one day, his uncle passed away.    It happened without fanfare.  Valencium did not awaken one morning, and when Gem walked over to check, he found his uncle was not breathing.    Gem searched his memories and pored over the parchments that were stashed all about the hut, but nothing could he find that would reincarnate his uncle.  But what he did find in those stacks was almost as important.  Valencium’s final wish had been left for his nephew to find, and at the bottom of the parchment, the young wizard also discovered the “later” he’d been awaiting all these years was now at hand.   So Gem took his uncle down to the base of their hill and dug five holes, burying different parts of his uncle in each, for it is never safe to bury a wizard complete.  Chanting over the small mounds, Gem wept openly for the first time he could remember.  Masking the area with a complex façade spell, he returned to the hut on the hill and slept for three days.    On the fourth day, Gem rose before the sun and performed a cleansing ritual prior to fulfilling his uncle’s last wish.    •••   The gray haze of dusk seeped over the hard stone of the city walls as Gem approached.  He had been all day rolling over the valleys that lay between, and the sack on his shoulder was heavy.   “chrp” The sound from the burlap was weak, almost a whisper.       Gem had not been ready for the sigh of the feeble bird when he opened the secret room that morning.  But looking into its eyes, Gem had come to the realization that his uncle and this bird were connected in some way.  During the trek, he had come to understand better that bond and knew bringing it to the city was as much a return for Valencium as it was for the ancient bird.   Gem toiled up the final few yards to the base of the eastern wall and dropped to one knee.  Sliding the sack off his shoulder, Gem carefully untied it and let the burlap slide to the ground.  The bird within was more frail than he remembered it being that morning.  Its wings convulsed weakly, barely sighing on the night air as they moved.  Trying to lift its head, the animal found the effort too much and let it fall back to the hard ground, its eyes twitching erratically as it did so.    Gem felt a tear roll down his cheek, the night air cooling its traces.  Leaning over, he picked the bird up – which was all bones and skin now – and stood up.  Looking up, Gem bent at his knees and drew the bird down before heaving it toward the upper reach of the wall where a lit torch flamed dully in the cool night.  A soft flutter of wings accompanied the young wizard’s throw and he watched as the skeletal bird arced toward the torch and passed right over its flames.   In a sudden burst, the bird erupted into a monstrous ball of flames that lit the entire valley for miles around, sending guards rushing over the sides of the walls in an attempt to escape the fire.  The tiny sun roiled vigorously, sending heat off in incredible waves.  Sweat stood out on Gem’s brow as he shaded his eyes with a hand, working a spell to insulate him from most of the heat.  This went on for many minutes; the screams from within the city brought a smile to Gem’s face.   But eventually, the flames started to subside, pulling back into themselves until all that was left was a ball of flame roughly the size of a small man.    From the midst of this fiery ball, a great bird of flames shot forth screeching through the night.  It wheeled and came back over the city flying low over the parapets.  Making one final turn, the regal bird sped off into the night.  The residual fireball was now fading, leaving the dull flicker of the torches to light the night.  Inside the screams continued to ring while outside, Gem sat down and watched the soaring flame roll off into the night.  A smile came to the young wizard’s face and he thought of his uncle, laying beneath the mound back home, smiling just as broadly.   THE END     (Comment on this)
Monday, August 6th, 2007
8:01 pm	A Journey into Night Originally published at Maineline Musings. You can comment here or there. Here’s the second piece I wrote based upon the first image at the elephant words site.  They smartly ran the audition pieces of the new contributors during the first “official” week of the site, but as I was unhampered by such chains, I created something new based on the elephant.  Read ahead and enjoy.   A Journey Into Night By Chris Beckett     Delilah walked down the street pulling her wire cart behind.  It had been a good day.  She’d discovered a decent amount of refuse she could put to use – a length of rope, some discarded sheet metal that was only beginning to rust, and a number of other pieces she might be able to sell at the market.  But best of all, she had found an ancient figurine of Ganesh.  It was a beautiful ivory with hardly a blemish on it.    She could remember her grandmother having just such an ornament, which had been passed down to her by her own grandmother.  It had been lost in the upheaval that came years ago.  Nobody in the lower classes had survived unscathed, and much history was lost in that time.  Delilah could hardly accept her good fortune.   “Hey.”  The tall man in his pressed uniform grabbed Delilah’s shoulder as he spoke to her.    “You do realize the sun is setting,” he said.   Delilah did not like the man’s tone and against her better judgement allowed her disdain to roll through her reply.  “I do have eyes, and I can see that it is time for me to get home.  I do not believe the bell has chimed, so if you will allow me, I would appreciate it if you did not delay me any further.”   “I could run you in for insubordination,” said the officer.    “Yes you could, but all I want to do is get home, and I would rather not cause you any inconvenience that my arresting paperwork would engender.”   She thought of leaving it there, but could see the officer’s arm was still tense on the butt of his pistol so she added, “And I apologize for being curt.  I have had a long day and am quite fatigued.”   The officer leveled his gaze at a point between her eyes, and she felt as if he wasn’t even looking at her.  There was a long pause before he dropped his hand from his firearm and straightened up to his full height.    “I’ll let you go this time.  But I would advise against being a smartmouth, especially to an officer of the law.  Next time, I’ll run you in.”   “Thank you,” said Delilah and walked off cursing under her breath.    Yes, it was a good thing to have found that figure of Ganesh.   •••     Two of Gotham’s thought police – Janyx and Aramid – dropped from their suspensor-chairs and raced for the corridor, scooping up their helmets from the table as they went.  Aramid linked into the net and pulled up the warrant on the holoscreen inside his visor.   Tag #:  0421598764-pw   Name:__n/a_______________________________________________________ Address (line #1): __n/a_____________________________________________ Address  (line #2): __n/a____________________________________________ City: __n/a_____________ ___State: __n/a_________ Zip: ___ n/a _________ Phone #: __ n/a_________________ SSN#: __ n/a_______________________ D.O.B. __ n/a________________ Gender: __ n/a________________________   Criminal History: n/a       WARRANT:  JP-4278934-AA   Date:   22.06.57                     Time:  23:07:17 Judge:  Rt. Hon. Azim Akberali   Penal Code Offense Details 1138 Idolatry Unlawful worship of the deity Ganesh (Hindu; elephant-headed god; Ganesh is worshipped as the lord of beginnings and as the lord of obstacles; Ganesh is honored with affection at the start of any journey) 0812 Unauthorized expedition Subject is preparing to make an unspecified journey.  Subject has no visa, has filled out no travel application, and has received no authorization for said excursion from the proper officials.   It didn’t make sense.  “Jan, did you pull up the warrant?”   “Yes.”   “There’s no ID?”    “It’ll be there when we hit the door.”   “But-“   “It’ll be there!  Now shut up and move.    “And make sure you go dark on the other side of the port, no vocalizing.”  Aramid was unsure if it was anger or anxiety in his partner’s voice.  Regardless, he shut up and kept moving.   Turning into the third room on the left, the two officers grabbed pistols from the wall and stepped over to the port-door, a bio-tech composite that was more a curtain of light than a proper door.  Stepping into the waves of green light, the bio-energy read the two men’s DNA and darkness fell over them.   A moment later the two men were standing in the middle of a street on the other side of town.  It was past curfew and the street was empty.  They both started turning in circles, working to pinpoint the target.  It was difficult.  Something was interfering with their scans.   Aramid tapped the comm on the side of his helmet twice and brought the holoscreen back up.  He started scrolling down through the thousands of red flags for the past twenty-four hours, filtering them for geography and threat level.    Two seconds later Aramid was left with only confusion.  No flagged entries relating to this sector, no hint of illicit travel plans, nothing even tangential.  How could somebody expect to exit the city without leaving a data trail?    Got it!  Janyx’s thought was startling, interrupting Aramid’s reverie and snapping him back to reality.  Two doors down.  On the corner.  Single female.  Hurry up, I already pulled the security code.   Aramid fell in behind Janyx, his mind racing.    “Jan, don’t you think this a bit odd What are you talking about It’s just that she’s made no plans and Who cares How can she have time to make plans  But don’t you think she would have to prepare for something like this Nobody makes a trip without getting things in order Will you stop whining and just do your job”     Their thoughts raced back and forth, twisting around one another, threatening to drown out either one’s arguments.  As they ascended the front steps, Janyx – the senior of the two – cut off any more conversation, “Fall in and quit complaining or head back to the barn!  Your choice, but make it quick.”   Aramid closed off his verbal center.  To himself, he scolded his actions.  More like a rookie than anything.  He should have been running black the whole time.   Janyx punched in the keycode and palmed the identipad that slid up from the console.  A silent hiss and the front door opened for the officers.  Nudging it back with one hand Janyx led the way in, Aramid close on his heels.   All was dark except for a sliver of light leaking beneath a door at the end of the hall.  Janyx turned and looked at Aramid who nodded assent.  They both pulled their guns from their belts and stepped cautiously along the carpeted floor.    Reaching the end of the hallway the two men scanned for any hostile thoughts, but nothing registered.  In fact, Aramid was surprised at how calm the thoughts emanating from the room actually were.  It made little sense to him.  He thought of mentioning it to Jan but reconsidered quickly.    Janyx palmed the door and allowed it to slide into the wall.  The dim light washed over them as their lenses polarized automatically.  The strong smell of incense assaulted their noses; a thread of smoke weaved its way toward the ceiling in front of the woman, whose back was to them.  Before her was a small ivory bust of a weird elephant, which doubled as the incense burner.  She looked up from where she was praying and met Aramid’s eyes in the long mirror covering the wall before her.     Aramid shuddered imperceptibly at her gaze.   Pursuant to Warrant number JP-4278934-AA,  you will cease illegal worship this instant!  Janyx’s thought spiked into the woman’s brain, slicing into her cerebral cortex with a severity that often left offenders with little resistance.  But the woman flinched only once and then returned to her prayers.   Janyx raised his gun.  He held it there for a second and then looked to his right, catching Aramid’s gaze.  Aramid blinked once and then raised his own gun.  The law was clear on this count.  No worship of any deity other than the State would be tolerated.   Janyx warned her one more time.  The thought-spike was so intense that it even made Aramid flinch a bit.  The woman slumped over the short table in front of her, knocking the incense off its burner.  But again, she recovered quickly and set about lighting another length of the incense.   Before she could get it properly lit, the two men fired their weapons, vaporizing her on the spot.  And that was it.   The charred floor would be cleaned up later that day by drones and the house would no doubt be occupied come evening.  There were enough applications for citizenship from those on the Fringe that it would be easy to fill the vacancy.   Janyx and Aramid turned on their heels and walked back outside where a transport was awaiting them.    •••   After finishing the paperwork, Janyx and Aramid returned to the common room to wind down.    “Jan?”  Aramid’s thought was filled with emotion  He couldn’t remain quiet any longer.   “I do not want to hear it!  You have some doubts about tonight.  Drop ‘em.  Once you head down that road, there’s no turning back.”    “And if I have to be the one to stop you, I’ll do it.”   “But –”   “No.  Leave it, or I’ll be the one reporting you.”  Janyx turned back to the vid and immersed himself in the drama on the screen.   Aramid slumped into his chair and tried to do the same, but he couldn’t get it out of his head no matter how he tried.  She’d looked right at him, right into his eyes.   And she smiled.  Why had she smiled? THE END (Comment on this)
Wednesday, August 1st, 2007
6:37 am	The Wide Expanse Originally published at Maineline Musings. You can comment here or there. Here’s the audition piece  I sent in for the elephant words site.  I turned it around in 24 hours, and I think it does not suffer because of that.  I hope you enjoy.     The Wide Expanse By Chris Beckett   Stifling heat rises off the veldt, perspiration gluing my shirt against my back.  I stand up in the jeep and stare into its eyes.  My shoulders tighten, tension settles over me, a heavy cloak refusing my limbs their full range of motion.  I roll my shoulders to no avail and curse under my breath, a whisper barely audible to my own ears.  I want to cry out as my body works against me, the skin around my skull feeling as if it is slowly being stretched to its limit as a throbbing drums in my temples, blood rushing through my ears, drowning out all background noise.  The elephant and I lock in a silent staring contest, and I ask myself again, what are we doing here?   “Ha ha ha ha ha!  Look at the cute wittle animal.”  My wife’s words slur behind me as Janet lifts the wine bottle to her mouth again.  I can smell the alcohol hanging on the air assailing my nostrils as I try to think.    “Aren’t you going to shoot the evil thing?”  Her voice takes me back to when I was a kid reminding me of Miss Gladys who lived down the street from us.  At the time she seemed ninety, and her voice cracked so badly it sent shivers up my spine every time she spoke.  The hair rises on the back of my neck to hear that voice again out here in the bush.    I raise the gun to my shoulder, but I pause before dropping my eye to the sight.  The elephant lifts its trunk, snorting as it does.  Is it marking its territory?  (Or, does it piss like a dog?)  I can’t tell what’s going through the huge beast’s mind.  My knees begin to ache from the strain.    “Hooooney,” Janet crows.  “Can’t we get this macho shit over ‘n go back?  I’m starving.”  Slumping against the side of the jeep she stares off at the sun making its way toward the horizon.  It will still be light for a couple of hours, but the stillness that comes with evening is leisurely crossing the plains lulling me into a false sense of security.     “Phil!”  She snaps the name off violently but follows it with silence – icy and cold, just the way she’s cultivated it over the years.    Why hadn’t Janet announced what a bitch she was when I first asked her out?  It was such an inconsideration.  But no, she had been amazing – introducing me to new things, interested in everything I said, and crazy in bed.  The sex was ridiculous; we couldn’t get enough those first few years, and she was always up for experimenting.     It wasn’t until after the marriage, and to be fair it was at least a few months, that she started to change.  It was subtle at first – not wanting to go for a walk after supper or showing no interest in taking in a play anymore.  These were easily overlooked at the time, but upon reflection, I see that now as the start of it all.  It wasn’t until some time later that it all went bad.   Janet started going out with friends, only a couple times a month, perfectly understandable.  But it wasn’t long before these late night excursions increased in frequency, and where Janet used to get picked up by one of the other women, she would now go off on her own to “meet the girls.”  I chalked my suspicions up to jealousy and knew if I said anything it would only turn out poorly.  So I remained mute and allowed it to fester.   After a while, I noticed this increase in girls’ nights out also coincided with my wife’s diminishing libido.  It used to be a day never went by without the two of us attacking one another, but as Janet discovered her new social outlets it seemed I was lucky if we fucked once a week.  Of course, age diminishes the sex drive.  But that happens gradually, not within the first few years of marriage?  She always had an excuse, and on those few occasions when I tried to push her all it won me was her enmity and a harsh stare that made my stomach sick.    That was a feeling that reminded me of the time when I was nine and discovered our cat dead in the field behind our house.  Jake, which I christened because I always wanted a dog, had been gone for a week when I finally came across him.  His eyes were open and lifeless, and there was a gaping hole in Jake’s stomach.  At that young age, I could only imagine that some rabid dog had attacked Jake and left him once his body went limp.  As an adult, it always hurt to remember that incident because I could now peer at Jake through the mirror of experience and realize that there had been no rabid dog.    “Philip!”  Janet’s screech is chilling.  I shake my head violently, wiping the memories from my eyes.  I squint once, returning my vision to the present, and see the elephant charging toward the jeep.  I quickly bring the sight of the gun up and settle my finger on the trigger.    But I don’t squeeze.   My legs stiffen as a pain clutches vigorously in my scrotum.  I notice pressure in my bladder of which I was previously unaware.  The bull elephant takes two more crashing steps and halts barely ten feet from our grille.  Staring through the sight, the “+” quivering faintly over the large gray skull, I feel the pressure building in my bladder.  I know I can’t hold my water much longer.   “Philip!  Din’t you come out here to be a f’cking man?  Wha’s wrong with you?   “Fuckin’ pussy!”  Janet spits these last words out, and I turn to see her reaching for me, falling into the space between the seats as her hand rests on nothing but air.  “Fck,” comes her mumbled response as I return my gaze to the behemoth in front of us.  I set my eye to the sight once more and rest my finger on the trigger guard, afraid that nerves might prematurely set off the charge.  I take a deep breath but am unable to quench my need for air and inhale deeply a second time.    Focusing, I again stare into the elephant’s eyes, and I behold a majesty that I could not see as it stood so many yards away.  It is a magical and a scary moment, like those expressed on nature shows, but one that I had previously considered a myth.  A shiver ripples through my body and I feel my bladder give way.   I clutch my legs tightly together, but it is of little use as urine runs down my legs, soaking my shorts as it puddles in my boots.  Intensified with the heat, the smell is pungent and unmistakable.  Janet begins to laugh again as she pulls herself up.   “My man,” drips her sarcasm.  “What th’ hell is wrong wif you?    “Yer a fuckin’ pussy and I’m the fool that married you!  What a f’ckin’ joke.”  Her voice stops for a moment.  Must be tipping the bottle again.    I hear the clink of the heavy glass – now empty and of no use to my wife – as it strikes the bottom of the jeep.  The fact that I was correct does little to temper my embarrassment.  I can think of nothing else to do so I continue to stare at the elephant through the gun sight.    “Why’d ya piss yer pants, Philly?”  Janet’s cackle strikes me in the back, worse at this moment than any blade struck Caesar, and my tension shifts, no longer a product of this primal standoff but a reaction to my loving wife.  I want to answer her but realize it is useless.    I reply under my breath anyway, maybe as a way to cleanse myself.  “I cannot kill him,” the whisper comes to my ears.  And suddenly, I am at peace.   BANG!!   The gun goes off.  I sit down, and as I drop the large gun over the side of the jeep I see, out of the corner of my eye, the large elephant raise its trunk one final time before turning and rushing off to find its herd.    I drop my head into my hands and begin to weep uncontrollably.      THE END       (Comment on this)
Tuesday, July 31st, 2007
2:34 pm	The Lost Originally published at Maineline Musings. You can comment here or there. New week.  New picture.  New fiction.  Enjoy.     The Lost by Chris Beckett   Six children had gone missing in less than two weeks, all of them lost near Big Lake outside of Rumford.  A sign warned against going in the lake, birthing its fair share of urban legends through the years, but it had apparently done no good. The disappearances prompted the Bangor Daily to send a photog to Rumford, but the myths surrounding the lake relegated the assignment to one farther down the pecking order.  That was where Darren Fletcher came in.  He understood his laughable “role” at the paper, but was determined to make the most of this opportunity.  After scouting the area in the daylight, Darren had returned near midnight thinking he could find it again easily. “Aw, shit.”  Mud oozed over his left foot, sucking his Teva into the soft earth.  At least the moisture assured him he was close.  Darren released his foot with a loud squoosh and took halting steps forward.  A scream from behind made him stop suddenly.  He peered into the darkness for the source of the sound, but the clouds kept what little illumination available at bay. “Eeehh.”  A spider’s web stretched across his face.  He clutched at his face, wiping harshly down each cheek.  It took a couple of swipes before the tingle of gossamer threads retreated.  Once he’d finished clawing through his hair, a faint sound came to his ears.  Isolated notes made it difficult to place, but it felt familiar somehow.  Darren turned slowly to the left, following the faint notes.  Zeroing in on the music, Darren caught a glimmer of light through the silhouetted trees. Checking that his camera was still on his hip, Darren moved forward with more resolve.  Walking quickly, he slashed wildly at the branches surrounding him.  The lilting tones were clearer now, but he could still not place them.  Pushing through the underbrush, Darren refocused on the light ahead.  His heart raced. “uh–” A sharp hiss of breath as a line of thorns raked across his calf.  He thought they might have drawn blood but had no time to check. Approaching the odd luminescence, Darren was now able to make out the local geography.  The music was louder but still inscrutable. “Shit.”  Something buzzed Darren’s ear.  A bat, maybe an owl, didn’t matter, he was sure his heart seized for a second.  Leaves rustled up high as it alighted on a branch.  Darren wiped his brow and took a deep breath.  He held it for a moment, then let it out slowly.  Release the balloon. Darren moved more deliberately now – curious, anxious, his stomach clenching as he felt an urge to relieve himself.  Pushing that down, he reached for a branch crossing his face and nudged it aside.   •••   “SURPRISE!!” The light was blinding.  He blinked furiously, willing his pupils to adjust.  Finally, he looked up.  His jaw dropped. The lake was solid, but not frozen.  Tiny waves rippled against the embankment.  A group of children sat at picnic tables on the middle of the water.  They were eating ice cream and playing “go fish.”  Darren recognized four of the kids that had gone missing.  The other two were turned away from him, but Darren knew they were numbers five and six. They paid Darren no mind and were not those who greeted him.  Behind the children, next to a brightly painted ice cream truck (the memorable jingle now audible) stood a group of animated teddy bears.  They were apparently expecting Darren, beaming at him, as if anticipating some great feat of magic of dexterity. Waving merrily, they motioned for Darren to join them. He was at a loss.  He looked down at his camera.  Returned his gaze to the scene before him.  Considered the most feasible reaction to such a situation.  Disregarded that option.  And then took one tentative step out onto the lake. It held.  A smile came to his face as he took another step onto the water.  Then a third and a fourth.  Picking up his pace, Darren reached down with one hand and pulled out all the spare change he was carrying.     THE END   (Comment on this)