| 1 2 3 4 |
"Blindsided" (the 102nd ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
5 6 7 8 |
Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Blindsided" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), Feb 15, 2010 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Blindsided By Michael Pelc michaelpelc@yahoo.com (Entry #2) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| She's picking at her salad again,
the way she always does, setting the olives off to the side. She's particular
about how she does it, how she pushes them to the edge of her plate. She turns
her fork around and uses the handle to do this. You know what she's thinking.
How, if she used the other end of her fork, it would somehow become
contaminated. Then everything she ate for the next two and a half days would
taste like olives. Why she doesn't simply order her salads without them is
beyond you. But it's not her way. In the half dozen years or so you've been together, you've learned that she has her ways about things. How laundry should be sorted, where things go in the refrigerator, what kind of wine goes best with which meal, and so on. In a sense, dinner is like that as well. Her concept of it, anyway. To her mind, it's not so much a time for eating, but a time for conversation. Which explains why she brings up the thing about Woodstock, telling you how some local FM station has been having a Woodstock retrospective all week. You get the sense, though, that Woodstock isn't really what she wants to talk about. In its way it's like the olives. Soon enough she'll brush it aside and get around to what she really wants to talk about. She's so predictable. "Do you ever wonder about people from your past?" she asks. "You know, what's happened to them. What they're doing. What they're like now. That sort of thing." Shit. She knows. Why else would she ask such a thing? But you can't deal with it. Not now. Not here. Not in the restaurant. Not in public like this, with all these people around. No, you need time. Time to think. Time to figure out how to weasel your way out of the situation. You think maybe you can sidetrack her, get her to talking about something else. Her thing with the olives has bugged you long enough anyway, and this would be as good a time as any to bring it up. After all, it'd be conversation, right? And that's what she wants – conversation. So you ignore the bit about Woodstock and people from the past. It's as though she never even said the words. Instead you start babbling about her salad and the olives and how some little old Greek guy tending to some God-forsaken, rock-strewn farm on a hillside half a world away isn't going to be all that offended just because some chef in Oklahoma City, which is a place he's probably never even heard of anyway, doesn't throw in one or two of his precious little olives when he makes up a salad. And it works. It works so well, in fact, that you almost forget that what she really wanted to talk about was Donna and not olives and Greeks and hillsides and all the other tangential things that came up like ouzo and Zorba and the uniquely blue color that is the Mediterranean. But you didn't forget. So, the following week, when you went to the big sales convention in Dallas, you were a saint. All right, maybe not a saint, because that's never been your style, but you did stay in and order dinner from room service every night. And you passed up the company's golf outing. And you avoided the hotel bar, too, treating it as though the place was radioactive. It didn't take long for people to begin wondering about you – asking if you were all right, if you were feeling well, wanting to know if there was something they could do to help, that sort of thing But you couldn't take the chance of bumping into Donna. Not even accidentally. You knew she would be there. Hell, you'd been looking forward to it for a month. You know, getting together again. Just for old time's sake. Just to see if maybe there was still a spark or two left over that maybe ought to be rekindled. But you resisted it. You resisted the temptation. In the end, by the time Friday morning rolled around and you were checking out of your hotel, you found yourself feeling pretty good about yourself. Riding down in the elevator, you even relaxed enough to enjoy a silent little chuckle. How funny it was, you thought, that for weeks before the convention all you could think about was getting away and getting together with Donna. And now all you wanted to do was get back home. Truth was, you had a good thing going for you back there. It would have been foolish to have jeopardized it all for a three day fling with an old high school sweetheart. For the life of you, though, you couldn't figure out how she'd found out. How she knew what you'd been planning. But more than that, you were pleased by how she'd handled it. There was no confrontation. No hysterics. She didn't even mention Donna by name. She didn't have to, of course. The bit about Woodstock and people from the past was enough. How much more obvious could she have been? Only an idiot would have missed seeing what that was about. Maybe that's why the note she left for you on the refrigerator came as such a surprise. She'd run off with someone named Cliff, she said. Cliff, a guy she'd thumbed around the country with back in the 60's. How she could do such a thing was beyond you. But then, you never did understand something as simple as why she wouldn't order her salads without olives. |
| Blindsided By Ken Staley kstaley@gmail.com (Entry #3) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| She billowed through the hotel
lobby, yards of purple satin trailing out behind her like storm warning flags.
Sparks dancing from her eyes matched those that leapt from a tiara nestled in
her tightly curled rings of red hair. Dr. H. Welwood Reams, professor of
astrophysics, almost expected her to scream, "Off with his head!" as she
stormed away. "Kind of tough on the old girl, weren't you, Woody?" Dr. Phillip Arnell asked as he approached his friend and colleague. H. Welwood Reams stopped short. Dr. Reams spent the last several hours debunking the speakers at the UFO conference. He attended such conferences, now and then, to insert a touch of truth to an impossible collection of reminiscences based in the cheapest form of science fiction. Proving the impossibility of UFOs was his new mission in life, a hobby for his later years. He spent hours demonstrating the simple laws of physics that made such travel impossible. "Peter, if you insist on inviting me to these conferences, please do me the favor of keeping people like that delusional harpy at a reasonable distance," Welwood replied. "She honestly believes what she's saying, Woody," Phillip replied with a smile. "Her stories are simply a reflection of our nuclear society. Ancients had sagas like The Odyssey, Sleeping Beauty, tales of Scheherazade to explain their visions. Our modern society demands that our myths keep pace with advancing technology." "Come, Phillip, you're much too educated to lend any credence to raving wild women," Welwood sniffed. "You may be only a sociologist, but surely even you recognize that her UFO visitor claims are completely absurd. I won't even discuss the physics her abduction claims, or her 'channels.'" "Even the most outrageous myths have some foundation in truth," Phillip replied. "If I were you, I wouldn't dismiss everything she says so completely out of hand." "Find any shred of evidence, any real crash site of such a vehicle, and not the tales of a desert episode, and I'll reconsider," Welwood sniffed. "Well, some claim the government . . ." Arnell began. "Yes, they do," Welwood cut him off with a wave. "Remember, Phillip, you're talking about our government. The same bungling idiots who brought you Watergate and The Pentagon Papers. Do you seriously think that there is enough collected intelligence in Washington to keep something this big under raps? Since the mid-1940's? No, Phillip, you study your modern myths if you like. I'll stick to physics." Welwood prided himself on his ability to navigate by the stars, like ancient sailors had done. Naming the stars and reviewing their physical make-up helped keep him alert as he returned home over isolated, mountain roads. His headlights dimmed rapidly and his car coasted to a halt on the shoulder of the road, H. Welwood Reams wondered at the cause of such a total mechanical shut down. Looking up, he found the lane ahead filled by an egg shaped object a hundred feet in front of his car. As he watched, a circle appeared in its side and a smallish, silvered colored being descended. The figure approached to stand beside his small car. It bowed to him. "Who – and what - are you?" Dr. Reams demanded angrily. *I am called Hyperbion. My point of origin is Xyress . . . called Altair by you. * Dr. Reams would swear he heard a soft, calm baritone. "Then you do not exist." Dr. Reams stated firmly, unaware that he hadn't opened the window and his visitor could not possibly have heard him. *Do I not stand before you?* "Some thing stands in front of my car," Dr. reams conceded to the silver clad figure, "but I reserve judgement on who you are.” He rolled down the window slightly. He had no intention of exposing himself any more than necessary to any stranger who would accost an innocent man this time of night. “You cannot be what you purport to be." *You deny the validity of your senses?* "I deny nothing," Dr. Reams replied. "The laws that govern our universe invalidate your claims." *Am I a figment of your imagination?* Reams considered the possibility. One satisfactory answer was that he'd drifted off to sleep. He knew enough about subliminal suggestion to realize the events of that evening could easily have affected his dreams. He dismissed the idea that he was sleeping. His car sat at the side of the lane, not in some ditch, where falling asleep at the wheel would have deposited him. Had it not been for the lateness of the hour, Dr. H. Welwood Reams might have enjoyed this pre Halloween prank - for surely that's all it was. As the hour approached midnight, he questioned the sanity of any parent who would allow their youngster to dress in so outlandish a costume and parade in the middle of a dark, isolated highway. This was obviously a clear case of child abuse. Reams intended to get to the bottom of it. "The physical laws of the universe repudiate any chance that you are anything other than a gigantic hoax, which I resent!" Reams informed his visitor. *I sense your resentment. What do your other senses tell you?* "I perceive that you are not supposed to be human," Dr. Reams smiled smugly. "You are wearing a costume and most hopefully, an ugly mask, although how you can breathe without a nose and see through those ridiculously shaped eyes I can't guess." *You are concerned for my welfare but not your own?* "Any parent who would allow a preteen child to parade around alone in that outfit, this late at night, should be arrested!" *Show me "preteen child".* Reams, a bachelor by long habit, instantly conjured images of his last run-in with his nephew, an undisciplined, overly indulged, over bearing, overweight brat of 12. The child wanted to argue the validity of "Star Trek" with him during his last visit. The images and memories flooded across his mind of their own volition - accurate to the detailed pattern of his sister's favorite chair where he sat and the smell of the roast chicken she prepared for his once monthly dinner visit. He felt manipulated, violated. With a violent shake of his head, he dismissed the memory. *Again I sense your resentment.* "I'm not surprised. Look, it's late and I have to teach an early physics class tomorrow," Reams labored at the key in his ignition unsuccessfully, cursing himself for his mechanical ineptitude. "Can't you get that – that - thing out of the road? It was nice of Dr. Arnell to go to all of this trouble. Tell him I was suitably impressed with the entire charade and that I left a believer in ufos." In spite of himself, Reams smiled. The next time Dr. Peter Arnell, whose pet paranormal projects brought about this evening's excursion, asked him for a favor ... . *You are interested in my craft?* "Aren't I supposed to be? Isn't part of the grand plan to take me aboard and confound me with wonders and miracles?" *I will show* Without being conscious of his exit from the car, Reams found himself standing beside the simple, pear shaped craft. He bent forward to examine its outer shell. "Aren't you going to show me the inside?" He asked. *It would serve no purpose. You are too primitive to understand.* "Of course," Reams nodded as he turned towards his car with every intention of leaving. He found it impossible to take steps in any direction. *I will show.* Just to his left, a portal opened and a short ladder snaked toward the ground. There was room only for Reams and his guide in the small craft. One seat, a high-backed grey chair floated just above the floor in the otherwise empty arena, devoid of anything remotely mechanical or electronic. "Lovely," Reams said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, as he looked around the bland room. There were no distinguishing marks, no separation of wall, floor or ceiling. Only the open door and the lone chair broke the monotony. "I don't wonder that you chose to visit Earth." *Please sit.* The voice contained the request with only the slightest edge of command. Welwood Reams sat, he could not stop himself. The room exploded with color. Screens flashed to life, filling the wall in front of him with numbers, patterns, equations, even scenes from the surrounding forest. Every inch of the interior of the craft flashed to life. The walls, ceiling and floor disappeared and Welwood Reams found himself swamped by more data and sensory input than he was capable of processing. He jumped dizzily to his feet and found himself standing in the same drab, colorless, lifeless room, next to the chair. "How is that done?" He stammered. *This ship recognizes your needs. Your need is reassurance of your surroundings and your science.* "What do you mean, 'Reassurance of my science.'?" Reams demanded hotly. "My science is exact and I'm secure in my knowledge of the laws of nature and physics." *Show these laws to me.* Reams found himself sitting again in the chair and reviewing everything he knew. He discovered, or rediscovered names and memories stored years ago, before graduate school, before college. He found himself recalling bits of trivia and insignificant items. Names and faces and places long buried rushed unbidden across his memory with incredible accuracy and detail. "The physical laws which govern our universe insist that you are nothing more than a gigantic hoax!" He asserted as the last of his knowledge of physics slipped back into the recesses of his mind. *Your laws - physical and natural - are flawed or incomplete. Please review them at the speed which you comprehend.* His education – his life began its parade again. Instead of memories, the chair grabbed each detail and projected the science he understood in the air just in front of him. As he watched, to his right, math came to life as a series of solid blue calculations dripping from the ceiling and flowing towards the floor. The first laws of physics tumbled from his memory to the wall and floated into the floor at his feet. Mathematical proofs as H. Welwood Reams understood them. *Your human understanding of this concept is flawed in the second equation.* In each step in his education, with each theorem, thesis, law of nature or law of physics, his understood mathematical proof rained down from the ceiling on his right. The floating equations on his left displayed his inadequate understanding, repaired faulty application, and continued its expanded validation. Occasionally, the rain from the left of the ceiling ceased for a time. Reams knew that, during such all too brief interludes, his understanding was complete. However, more and more frequently, especially when he finally began to recall the laws of quantum physics and understanding of astrophysics, the series on his right remained stuck in the air while the floating formula on his left filled in the missing gaps in his understanding. Reams watched as the very foundation of his education crumbled away as dust, to rise phoenix-like as his comprehension and understanding grew. He found himself leaning forward eagerly, responding orally with "Of course." "How obvious." Now and then, he would ask for more explanation. Without fail, the series on his left paused and expanded until he was satisfied and comfortable with the formula. Eventually, as he neared the more recent theses of his science, those propositions yet so vague as to have little mention, even in professional journals, the series on the left became almost indecipherable, raining down from the ceiling, melting into the floor so quickly that H. Welwood Reams could understand only their truths, not the concepts. He reached out his hand, trying to capture the formulae before they disappeared altogether. *We have reached the limit of your understanding.* The baritone was a harsh invasion. H. Welwood Reams found himself near tears when the screens blanked. "Show me more!" Reams demanded. *You are convinced?* "How else?" Reams nodded a vigorous agreement. "No one on this planet could possibly have produced such proofs. I insist that you show me more." His frustration and anger rose. He longed to review again that new, fundamental truth. He was willing to sacrifice all, everything, for such glimpses into his science. *It would serve no purpose.* "Then why show me any of this?" Reams' frustration boiled over. "Why do you tantalize me, tease me with brief glimpses of the truth?" *Arrogance.* "That I can believe." *Not mine. Yours.* "MY arrogance? In what manner, sir?" *Your journey tonight serves as a proper example. You humiliate. You destroy confidence. You dismiss even partial truths as impossibilities.* "How can you possibly know ... ." Dr. Reams left the question hanging. *We are aware - have been aware.* "We? There are more of you?" *Yes, there are more. Although not as many as some claim.* "Why haven't you shown yourselves? The world hungers for something – positive - useful." *It would serve no purpose.* "The truth always serves mankind," Reams insisted. *Perhaps, but you are not 'all of mankind'.* "If not now . . . when?" *Your assumptions are as faulty as you physics.* "Which assumptions are those?" Reams demanded hotly. *That we are unknown on your world.* H. Welwood Reams caught a clear vision of the raging woman standing before him. "But for what purpose? Why that - that woman? Why not someone like me - someone with the education to understand, to recognize the truth?" *She asks for no proof. Her understanding is not clouded by the laws that govern you. Her acceptance is unconditional. Yours is not.* "What happens to me now? Aren't you going to perform tests on me?" Reams could not contain his bitter sarcasm. *It would serve no relevant function to test you. You could add nothing to our understanding of your species. Others serve such physical purposes adequately.* "What will I remember from this?" Reams asked as the small being escorted him away from the craft towards his car. He felt any remaining energy flow swiftly away. *You will return as you were.* "Exactly?" Reams asked. He yawned hugely. *Not quite exactly.* A week later, for the first time since his encounter, H. Welwood Reams fought his way through his advanced physics seminar. He saw clearly the visions of the correct formulae in front of him, but seeing with a clear mind and speaking in a clear voice, or trying to write out what he recalled escaped him ever time he tried for what remained of his academic career. |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Blindsided Brian Minnick brianminnick@gmail.com http://themirrorneuron.blogspot.com |
#1 of 8 |
| 80 words | |
| The velvet bride, drunk in Midnight’s sting, yawns and welcomes eager hands. The cold wind groom alights in shadows, sirens blazing and soon our bride will be reflected on the moon. Was it Beauty’s brush or Fate’s dark arrow who, in cigarette breath, led aggression near? Or simply Love on an endless quest for the one to pay the rent? We fantasize her final thoughts, a bouquet of ruby tears thrown and caught by canine sight. And yet, no thought could have stained her mind for Amid the chaos of the night, a silver dagger’s kiss, her final sight. |
|
| Blindsided Michael Pelc michaelpelc@yahoo.com |
#2 of 8 Winner |
| 955 words | |
| She's picking at her salad again, the way she always
does, setting the olives off to the side. She's particular about how she does
it, how she pushes them to the edge of her plate. She turns her fork around and
uses the handle to do this. You know what she's thinking. How, if she used the
other end of her fork, it would somehow become contaminated. Then everything
she ate for the next two and a half days would taste like olives. Why she
doesn't simply order her salads without them is beyond you. But it's not her way. In the half dozen years or so you've been together, you've learned that she has her ways about things. How laundry should be sorted, where things go in the refrigerator, what kind of wine goes best with which meal, and so on. In a sense, dinner is like that as well. Her concept of it, anyway. To her mind, it's not so much a time for eating, but a time for conversation. Which explains why she brings up the thing about Woodstock, telling you how some local FM station has been having a Woodstock retrospective all week. You get the sense, though, that Woodstock isn't really what she wants to talk about. In its way it's like the olives. Soon enough she'll brush it aside and get around to what she really wants to talk about. She's so predictable. "Do you ever wonder about people from your past?" she asks. "You know, what's happened to them. What they're doing. What they're like now. That sort of thing." Shit. She knows. Why else would she ask such a thing? But you can't deal with it. Not now. Not here. Not in the restaurant. Not in public like this, with all these people around. No, you need time. Time to think. Time to figure out how to weasel your way out of the situation. You think maybe you can sidetrack her, get her to talking about something else. Her thing with the olives has bugged you long enough anyway, and this would be as good a time as any to bring it up. After all, it'd be conversation, right? And that's what she wants – conversation. So you ignore the bit about Woodstock and people from the past. It's as though she never even said the words. Instead you start babbling about her salad and the olives and how some little old Greek guy tending to some God-forsaken, rock-strewn farm on a hillside half a world away isn't going to be all that offended just because some chef in Oklahoma City, which is a place he's probably never even heard of anyway, doesn't throw in one or two of his precious little olives when he makes up a salad. And it works. It works so well, in fact, that you almost forget that what she really wanted to talk about was Donna and not olives and Greeks and hillsides and all the other tangential things that came up like ouzo and Zorba and the uniquely blue color that is the Mediterranean. But you didn't forget. So, the following week, when you went to the big sales convention in Dallas, you were a saint. All right, maybe not a saint, because that's never been your style, but you did stay in and order dinner from room service every night. And you passed up the company's golf outing. And you avoided the hotel bar, too, treating it as though the place was radioactive. It didn't take long for people to begin wondering about you – asking if you were all right, if you were feeling well, wanting to know if there was something they could do to help, that sort of thing But you couldn't take the chance of bumping into Donna. Not even accidentally. You knew she would be there. Hell, you'd been looking forward to it for a month. You know, getting together again. Just for old time's sake. Just to see if maybe there was still a spark or two left over that maybe ought to be rekindled. But you resisted it. You resisted the temptation. In the end, by the time Friday morning rolled around and you were checking out of your hotel, you found yourself feeling pretty good about yourself. Riding down in the elevator, you even relaxed enough to enjoy a silent little chuckle. How funny it was, you thought, that for weeks before the convention all you could think about was getting away and getting together with Donna. And now all you wanted to do was get back home. Truth was, you had a good thing going for you back there. It would have been foolish to have jeopardized it all for a three day fling with an old high school sweetheart. For the life of you, though, you couldn't figure out how she'd found out. How she knew what you'd been planning. But more than that, you were pleased by how she'd handled it. There was no confrontation. No hysterics. She didn't even mention Donna by name. She didn't have to, of course. The bit about Woodstock and people from the past was enough. How much more obvious could she have been? Only an idiot would have missed seeing what that was about. Maybe that's why the note she left for you on the refrigerator came as such a surprise. She'd run off with someone named Cliff, she said. Cliff, a guy she'd thumbed around the country with back in the 60's. How she could do such a thing was beyond you. But then, you never did understand something as simple as why she wouldn't order her salads without olives. |
|
| Blindsided Ken Staley kstaley@gmail.com |
#3 of 8 Runner-up |
| 2450 words | |
| She billowed through the hotel lobby, yards of purple
satin trailing out behind her like storm warning flags. Sparks dancing from her
eyes matched those that leapt from a tiara nestled in her tightly curled rings
of red hair. Dr. H. Welwood Reams, professor of astrophysics, almost expected
her to scream, "Off with his head!" as she stormed away. "Kind of tough on the old girl, weren't you, Woody?" Dr. Phillip Arnell asked as he approached his friend and colleague. H. Welwood Reams stopped short. Dr. Reams spent the last several hours debunking the speakers at the UFO conference. He attended such conferences, now and then, to insert a touch of truth to an impossible collection of reminiscences based in the cheapest form of science fiction. Proving the impossibility of UFOs was his new mission in life, a hobby for his later years. He spent hours demonstrating the simple laws of physics that made such travel impossible. "Peter, if you insist on inviting me to these conferences, please do me the favor of keeping people like that delusional harpy at a reasonable distance," Welwood replied. "She honestly believes what she's saying, Woody," Phillip replied with a smile. "Her stories are simply a reflection of our nuclear society. Ancients had sagas like The Odyssey, Sleeping Beauty, tales of Scheherazade to explain their visions. Our modern society demands that our myths keep pace with advancing technology." "Come, Phillip, you're much too educated to lend any credence to raving wild women," Welwood sniffed. "You may be only a sociologist, but surely even you recognize that her UFO visitor claims are completely absurd. I won't even discuss the physics her abduction claims, or her 'channels.'" "Even the most outrageous myths have some foundation in truth," Phillip replied. "If I were you, I wouldn't dismiss everything she says so completely out of hand." "Find any shred of evidence, any real crash site of such a vehicle, and not the tales of a desert episode, and I'll reconsider," Welwood sniffed. "Well, some claim the government . . ." Arnell began. "Yes, they do," Welwood cut him off with a wave. "Remember, Phillip, you're talking about our government. The same bungling idiots who brought you Watergate and The Pentagon Papers. Do you seriously think that there is enough collected intelligence in Washington to keep something this big under raps? Since the mid-1940's? No, Phillip, you study your modern myths if you like. I'll stick to physics." Welwood prided himself on his ability to navigate by the stars, like ancient sailors had done. Naming the stars and reviewing their physical make-up helped keep him alert as he returned home over isolated, mountain roads. His headlights dimmed rapidly and his car coasted to a halt on the shoulder of the road, H. Welwood Reams wondered at the cause of such a total mechanical shut down. Looking up, he found the lane ahead filled by an egg shaped object a hundred feet in front of his car. As he watched, a circle appeared in its side and a smallish, silvered colored being descended. The figure approached to stand beside his small car. It bowed to him. "Who – and what - are you?" Dr. Reams demanded angrily. *I am called Hyperbion. My point of origin is Xyress . . . called Altair by you. * Dr. Reams would swear he heard a soft, calm baritone. "Then you do not exist." Dr. Reams stated firmly, unaware that he hadn't opened the window and his visitor could not possibly have heard him. *Do I not stand before you?* "Some thing stands in front of my car," Dr. reams conceded to the silver clad figure, "but I reserve judgement on who you are.” He rolled down the window slightly. He had no intention of exposing himself any more than necessary to any stranger who would accost an innocent man this time of night. “You cannot be what you purport to be." *You deny the validity of your senses?* "I deny nothing," Dr. Reams replied. "The laws that govern our universe invalidate your claims." *Am I a figment of your imagination?* Reams considered the possibility. One satisfactory answer was that he'd drifted off to sleep. He knew enough about subliminal suggestion to realize the events of that evening could easily have affected his dreams. He dismissed the idea that he was sleeping. His car sat at the side of the lane, not in some ditch, where falling asleep at the wheel would have deposited him. Had it not been for the lateness of the hour, Dr. H. Welwood Reams might have enjoyed this pre Halloween prank - for surely that's all it was. As the hour approached midnight, he questioned the sanity of any parent who would allow their youngster to dress in so outlandish a costume and parade in the middle of a dark, isolated highway. This was obviously a clear case of child abuse. Reams intended to get to the bottom of it. "The physical laws of the universe repudiate any chance that you are anything other than a gigantic hoax, which I resent!" Reams informed his visitor. *I sense your resentment. What do your other senses tell you?* "I perceive that you are not supposed to be human," Dr. Reams smiled smugly. "You are wearing a costume and most hopefully, an ugly mask, although how you can breathe without a nose and see through those ridiculously shaped eyes I can't guess." *You are concerned for my welfare but not your own?* "Any parent who would allow a preteen child to parade around alone in that outfit, this late at night, should be arrested!" *Show me "preteen child".* Reams, a bachelor by long habit, instantly conjured images of his last run-in with his nephew, an undisciplined, overly indulged, over bearing, overweight brat of 12. The child wanted to argue the validity of "Star Trek" with him during his last visit. The images and memories flooded across his mind of their own volition - accurate to the detailed pattern of his sister's favorite chair where he sat and the smell of the roast chicken she prepared for his once monthly dinner visit. He felt manipulated, violated. With a violent shake of his head, he dismissed the memory. *Again I sense your resentment.* "I'm not surprised. Look, it's late and I have to teach an early physics class tomorrow," Reams labored at the key in his ignition unsuccessfully, cursing himself for his mechanical ineptitude. "Can't you get that – that - thing out of the road? It was nice of Dr. Arnell to go to all of this trouble. Tell him I was suitably impressed with the entire charade and that I left a believer in ufos." In spite of himself, Reams smiled. The next time Dr. Peter Arnell, whose pet paranormal projects brought about this evening's excursion, asked him for a favor ... . *You are interested in my craft?* "Aren't I supposed to be? Isn't part of the grand plan to take me aboard and confound me with wonders and miracles?" *I will show* Without being conscious of his exit from the car, Reams found himself standing beside the simple, pear shaped craft. He bent forward to examine its outer shell. "Aren't you going to show me the inside?" He asked. *It would serve no purpose. You are too primitive to understand.* "Of course," Reams nodded as he turned towards his car with every intention of leaving. He found it impossible to take steps in any direction. *I will show.* Just to his left, a portal opened and a short ladder snaked toward the ground. There was room only for Reams and his guide in the small craft. One seat, a high-backed grey chair floated just above the floor in the otherwise empty arena, devoid of anything remotely mechanical or electronic. "Lovely," Reams said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, as he looked around the bland room. There were no distinguishing marks, no separation of wall, floor or ceiling. Only the open door and the lone chair broke the monotony. "I don't wonder that you chose to visit Earth." *Please sit.* The voice contained the request with only the slightest edge of command. Welwood Reams sat, he could not stop himself. The room exploded with color. Screens flashed to life, filling the wall in front of him with numbers, patterns, equations, even scenes from the surrounding forest. Every inch of the interior of the craft flashed to life. The walls, ceiling and floor disappeared and Welwood Reams found himself swamped by more data and sensory input than he was capable of processing. He jumped dizzily to his feet and found himself standing in the same drab, colorless, lifeless room, next to the chair. "How is that done?" He stammered. *This ship recognizes your needs. Your need is reassurance of your surroundings and your science.* "What do you mean, 'Reassurance of my science.'?" Reams demanded hotly. "My science is exact and I'm secure in my knowledge of the laws of nature and physics." *Show these laws to me.* Reams found himself sitting again in the chair and reviewing everything he knew. He discovered, or rediscovered names and memories stored years ago, before graduate school, before college. He found himself recalling bits of trivia and insignificant items. Names and faces and places long buried rushed unbidden across his memory with incredible accuracy and detail. "The physical laws which govern our universe insist that you are nothing more than a gigantic hoax!" He asserted as the last of his knowledge of physics slipped back into the recesses of his mind. *Your laws - physical and natural - are flawed or incomplete. Please review them at the speed which you comprehend.* His education – his life began its parade again. Instead of memories, the chair grabbed each detail and projected the science he understood in the air just in front of him. As he watched, to his right, math came to life as a series of solid blue calculations dripping from the ceiling and flowing towards the floor. The first laws of physics tumbled from his memory to the wall and floated into the floor at his feet. Mathematical proofs as H. Welwood Reams understood them. *Your human understanding of this concept is flawed in the second equation.* In each step in his education, with each theorem, thesis, law of nature or law of physics, his understood mathematical proof rained down from the ceiling on his right. The floating equations on his left displayed his inadequate understanding, repaired faulty application, and continued its expanded validation. Occasionally, the rain from the left of the ceiling ceased for a time. Reams knew that, during such all too brief interludes, his understanding was complete. However, more and more frequently, especially when he finally began to recall the laws of quantum physics and understanding of astrophysics, the series on his right remained stuck in the air while the floating formula on his left filled in the missing gaps in his understanding. Reams watched as the very foundation of his education crumbled away as dust, to rise phoenix-like as his comprehension and understanding grew. He found himself leaning forward eagerly, responding orally with "Of course." "How obvious." Now and then, he would ask for more explanation. Without fail, the series on his left paused and expanded until he was satisfied and comfortable with the formula. Eventually, as he neared the more recent theses of his science, those propositions yet so vague as to have little mention, even in professional journals, the series on the left became almost indecipherable, raining down from the ceiling, melting into the floor so quickly that H. Welwood Reams could understand only their truths, not the concepts. He reached out his hand, trying to capture the formulae before they disappeared altogether. *We have reached the limit of your understanding.* The baritone was a harsh invasion. H. Welwood Reams found himself near tears when the screens blanked. "Show me more!" Reams demanded. *You are convinced?* "How else?" Reams nodded a vigorous agreement. "No one on this planet could possibly have produced such proofs. I insist that you show me more." His frustration and anger rose. He longed to review again that new, fundamental truth. He was willing to sacrifice all, everything, for such glimpses into his science. *It would serve no purpose.* "Then why show me any of this?" Reams' frustration boiled over. "Why do you tantalize me, tease me with brief glimpses of the truth?" *Arrogance.* "That I can believe." *Not mine. Yours.* "MY arrogance? In what manner, sir?" *Your journey tonight serves as a proper example. You humiliate. You destroy confidence. You dismiss even partial truths as impossibilities.* "How can you possibly know ... ." Dr. Reams left the question hanging. *We are aware - have been aware.* "We? There are more of you?" *Yes, there are more. Although not as many as some claim.* "Why haven't you shown yourselves? The world hungers for something – positive - useful." *It would serve no purpose.* "The truth always serves mankind," Reams insisted. *Perhaps, but you are not 'all of mankind'.* "If not now . . . when?" *Your assumptions are as faulty as you physics.* "Which assumptions are those?" Reams demanded hotly. *That we are unknown on your world.* H. Welwood Reams caught a clear vision of the raging woman standing before him. "But for what purpose? Why that - that woman? Why not someone like me - someone with the education to understand, to recognize the truth?" *She asks for no proof. Her understanding is not clouded by the laws that govern you. Her acceptance is unconditional. Yours is not.* "What happens to me now? Aren't you going to perform tests on me?" Reams could not contain his bitter sarcasm. *It would serve no relevant function to test you. You could add nothing to our understanding of your species. Others serve such physical purposes adequately.* "What will I remember from this?" Reams asked as the small being escorted him away from the craft towards his car. He felt any remaining energy flow swiftly away. *You will return as you were.* "Exactly?" Reams asked. He yawned hugely. *Not quite exactly.* A week later, for the first time since his encounter, H. Welwood Reams fought his way through his advanced physics seminar. He saw clearly the visions of the correct formulae in front of him, but seeing with a clear mind and speaking in a clear voice, or trying to write out what he recalled escaped him ever time he tried for what remained of his academic career. |
|
| Blindsided David Griffin www.windsweptpress.com © 2010 |
#4 of 8 |
| 1236 words | |
| Ever since Zach Worthman took the assistant
professor’s job at a college twenty miles distant from our home town, I
had tried to goad him into the Drive Off prank. I was mostly idle that year,
rather directionless after we’d both finished up at the university
downstate, and I would sometimes drive over to meet him for lunch. Zach and I
had been friends since we were boys growing up together in a factory
workers’ neighborhood. His office was on the east side of the campus in an ancient looking building often featured in the college’s fanciful brochures. The PR department evidently wanted prospective freshmen to believe the campus dated back centuries. In truth, the building everyone called “Old Main” had been built around 1910 by a medieval minded spiritualist, who became wealthy communicating with the dead relatives of the city’s elite. Zach’s tiny work space in the basement of the Old Main building always reminded me of a dungeon. The dank air and windows set high on the wall behind his desk had on more than one occasion inspired me ask when his Dominatrix was due to arrive. “Turn the goddamned lights on,” I said as I knocked once and kept coming through the door into his office. “You need clarity more than light, Bert” he said. “What’re you, blind?” I asked him, probably for the thousandth time in our lives. In fact he was sightless, and had been for almost ten years, since that awful trail bike accident. “You ought to teach Rover to clean your office.” I said. “Even in the dark, this place is a mess.” “Rover”, said Zach, “is about to bite you in the ass, aren’t you Pup.” Pup was a full grown male German Shepherd guide dog, who spent his office hours under the small library table placed in front of Zach’s desk and extending its surface. Visitors often sat at the table unaware a large canine lurked in the dark cavern just beyond their toes, until Pup nosed around the guest’s ankles. Or higher. Julie Dartbonger had flipped over backwards in her chair when Pup nosed upward the day before she was installed as assistant Dean of Instruction. Pup really likes women. Julie says the feeling is not mutual, but if she hasn’t found a steady date by the end of her first year at the college, she may reconsider. “Next time I come over, let’s do the Drive Off ,” I said. “It’ll put some fun in your life.” “Won’t work if the cop recognizes you,” he replied. “I’m working on a really great disguise,” I said. The streets winding through the campus had limited parking, as well as lots of drivers who didn’t give a damn about where or how long they parked. The Campus Security Patrol constantly walked up and down the sidewalks, writing tickets and waving off cars without the correct green stickers. But my visitor’s pass allowed me into the block of spaces marked with paint along the curb just outside Zach’s office. In this crowded scene, two apparently blind men driving away in a convertible would certainly turn a few heads. The following Tuesday we stood like two kids at the windows in Zach’s office, while I described the scene outside to him and noted there were plenty of security cops out roaming the sidewalk. Any one of them could be our target. I pulled my floppy fishing hat down tight on my head and donned the raincoat and dark glasses. “Are you ready?” I asked. Zach handed me a white cane. “Where did you get this?” I said. “You never use one.” “The Society hands them out for free. I took five or six. They’re good for tying up my tomato plants.” Out on the sidewalk, we walked along arm in arm as I tapped my stick, getting the tip caught on the sidewalk twice and ramming myself in the stomach. We stopped when we came to my rusty old VW convertible. Within moments a member of the Security Patrol came strutting our way in his crisply pressed uniform. “Not this guy,” said Zach, “it’s McAllister. I recognize his walk. He’s too shrewd.” Soon, another security guard approached. “Patrolman Farley,” said Zach. “Perfectly gullible. He’s got new shoes on, too.” “Excuse me, m’am or sir,” I said to Farley, trying to contain my mirth, “is there a yellow convertible around here somewhere?” “Hello, sir,” said Farley, “and good Morning to you, Dr. Worthman. Where’s Pup?” “Well …. “ said Zach, “Dr. Dartbonger told me to get rid of him. “What ……?” “So Mr. Smith, here, has replaced him.” “Excuse me, sir,” Farley said to me, “aren’t you … uh … visually challenged?” “As a bat,” I replied. “But I smell better than Pup when I’m wet.” Farley looked me up and down and nodded his head. “So, is there a yellow convertible around here?” I repeated, beginning to feel uncomfortable. This prank was starting to get wobbly. “Farley,” said Zach, “Smith here really isn’t a guide dog and Pup is back in my office, under the table as usual. But we need to find his car so we can drive off and kill ourselves.” “Geez!” said Farley. “What you wanna go and do that for, Dr. Worthman?” “We’re lovers, and our wives just discovered us.” Zach turned, threw his arms around me and planted a big smacker on my ear before I could pull away from him. “Stop that, Zach!” I said. “Officer, is there a yellow convertible here or not?” I asked, putting my hand on my VW convertible. “Why yes, Mr. Smith, you’re standing right next to it.” Farley reached to the passenger door of my car and opened it. “Step right in, gentlemen,” he said. I looked at Zach in surprise, but of course he didn’t look back. Instead, he stepped through the opened door while I clumsily felt my way around the vehicle and let myself in the driver’s side. Julie Dartbonger walked up just then, pointed at me and said, “Officer Farley, arrest that man!” “For being Zach’s lover?” asked Farley. “No, he’s kidnapped Pup,” she said. “We never got to that part,” Zach said to Julie. “You’re under arrest!” Farley addressed me. “For kidnapping a dog and his man.” “Thank God, I’m saved!” cried Zach. “We were going to my bank for the ransom, and if I write one more bad check ….” Meanwhile, I was angling out of the parking spot and aiming down the street. Instead of leaving astonished bystanders behind, Farley and Dartbonger were laughing and waving us goodbye as we drove off. “God damn it, Zach,” I said as I ripped off my hat and threw it in the back seat, “how did they guess?” “Do you know how many times that stunt has been pulled by students?” said Zach, between his bursts of laughter. “No,” I said, “I was under the impression I thought it up.” “I couldn’t resist Julie’s suggestion to turn the joke on you,” he said. “So, now you got one over on me, huh?” “Yup,” he said. “And you just got blindsided by a blind man.” |
|
| Blindsided glenlee10@sky.com |
#5 of 8 |
| 2470 words | |
| It was with great reluctance that I took out a civil
action against the wife of one of my oldest friends but I had no choice. I had
to vindicate my character and my reputation. When Lady Rolleston wrote a letter to a colleague saying, “I consider that Dr.Davies murdered my husband and all my friends agree with me,” I was of course, extremely upset. When she made this claim on the night of Sir John’s death, I put her words down to grief. Even then, I would have accepted an apology. None was not forthcoming. The Assizes were held on 14th June 1920, thirteen months since the letter had been sent; thirteen months of turmoil on my part and certainty and arrogance from Lady Rolleston. The court was crowded with her friends. No doubt they had come to witness my comeuppance. It had been made quite plain by the county’s gentlefolk that Lady Rolleston could not be wrong, by dint of her higher birth, and that I must be slapped down for daring to reach above my station in taking out this action. I started my medical practice in 1890 and John Fowke Lancelot Rolleston was one of my first patients. He was very active in the Conservative Party and served the Borough Council for many years. He married Eliza Morant in 1892. It was John Rolleston’s second marriage but there were no offspring from either wife so Eliza Rolleston threw herself into good works alongside her husband. Sir John was a Member of Parliament from 1900 to 1906 and then again from 1910 to 1916. He would have fought the seat again in the 1916 election but it was my duty to advise him not to do so because his active life was damaging his health. Sir John took my advice and began to spend more of his time in the country home and less in London. He still went to London on business of course, and it was while he was down there in April 1919 that his health deteriorated quite suddenly. And that led to the events which brought me and Lady Rolleston face to face across the courtroom. Lord Justice Horridge took his seat and the reporters began scribbling. Mr. Hollis Walker KC was appearing for me. After all the preliminaries had been dealt with he made his opening statement to a hushed court. “Besides the relationship which existed as between doctor and patient, there was a considerable degree of mutual respect and friendship between the plaintiff, Doctor John Thomas Horron Davies, and the late Sir John Rolleston. The audience was silent. No word was to be missed. Mr. Hollis Walker continued. “In 1919, Sir John consulted a medical gentleman in London and was advised to undergo complete rest so he left London for his country home. The doctor in London wrote a letter to Dr. Davies who called upon Sir John. Dr.Davies found that his patient was suffering a good deal a pain, shortness of breath and a feeble pulse. He diagnosed the case as degeneration of the muscles of the heart.” It was a very frustrating time, I remember. I wanted Sir John to hire a nurse but Lady Rolleston wouldn’t have one in her house. She said she could do what nursing was required. I don’t think she realised how serious her husband’s illness was. She insisted on keeping three, big dogs in the bedroom, despite my suggesting this might not be conducive to the peace and quiet her husband needed. “Dr.Davies made visits, morning and evening on the following days. On the evening of April 8th an injection was given and the following morning, Sir John seemed much better. Later, however, he became restless again. I was so angry when I discovered that Sir John had been out of bed, wandering round the room and looking out the window. No wonder he was restless. My instructions to Lady Rolleston had been to ensure that Sir John did not get out of bed. And those dogs were still roaming round the sick room. Of course, I could not show my anger but as Sir John’s condition had worsened, I again suggested that a nurse be hired. I said it was essential and I also insisted on a second opinion. Lady Rolleston agreed reluctantly to the nurse but more happily to the second opinion. I therefore arranged for Dr.Jones Duncan Sleight to pay a visit. “Dr.Sleight examined Sir John that afternoon and agreed with Dr.Davies that there was degeneration of the heart muscles. The two doctors discussed the treatment and decided that the injection that had proved so successful the night before should be tried again. I prepared the injection and left it with the newly arrived nurse to administer it, should Sir John become restless. The same night, within an hour or so of the injection being given, Sir John, in his 72nd year, died. “The plaintiff said that Lady Rolleston was very much upset. She said to the nurse, “Dr.Davies murdered him!” but I do not suggest that things said at such moments should be taken seriously.” I went to the house as soon as I was given the news. In the presence of Major Rolleston, Sir John’s brother, Lady Rolleston said to my face, “You murdered him.” I tried to quieten her but failed. “Five weeks after Sir John Rolleston’s death, the defendant wrote to Dr.Sleight. She referred to morphia. She said she considered that Dr.Davies had murdered her husband and she didn’t care if Dr.Sleight told Dr.Davies what she had said. Lady Rolleston added a postscript. She said the injection would have taken effect sooner only a badly-trained nurse, sent by Dr.Davies without her permission, made such a noise in the room there was no wonder her husband was distressed.” When I was called to the witness box, I went with a heavy heart. Lady Rolleston stared hard at me, as though I was an ogre. We had been friends for many years. Whatever the outcome of the day’s events, that friendship was at an end. Mr. Marriott, who was instructing my Counsel on behalf of the Medical Defence Union, questioned me about the nurse. “It has been suggested that the nursing attention was of a poor quality,” he said. I told the Court that Nurse Swann was from the Institute of Trained Nurses. “And during your attendance from April 4th to April 9th, what was Lady Rolleston’s attitude during the illness?” I replied that she had appeared always to be hostile and did not carry out my instructions with regard to the treatment. “Can you give one or two illustrations of what you refer to?” I said that I was referring to the absolute necessity of keeping the patient quiet but Lady Rolleston would insist on having those noisy dogs in the room, barking and jumping on the bed. The reporters, heads bowed, wrote down every detail, as I told how she was always arguing and irritating Sir John. ”There was no repose in the room,” I said. “And when you left Sir John after giving him that first injection…?” I looked sadly at Lady Rolleston. I was telling the truth but she sat upright in her chair with that steady stare, defying me, it seemed. I spoke my answer to her. I told how I had impressed upon her that the lights must be put out and that Sir John must be kept absolutely quiet and that she was not to go to bed with him, which she was always doing. I spoke of how, on leaving the house, I met Major Rolleston. He and I stood talking in the drive and within a few minutes, I saw the lights go on and Lady Rolleston walking about the room. The following day Lady Rolleston denied having done it. I was released from the witness box. My place was taken by the nurse, Miss Mabel Swann. She confirmed that I had sent for her on April 19th and that Dr.Sleight and I had instructed her to give the patient an injection if he became restless. She said she administered the injection at about 10 pm. Lady Rolleston was in the room, saw what had been done and screamed at Miss Swann to, “Get out of the house, you vile wretch. You have poisoned my husband. You and Dr.Davies planned it together!” Mr. Hugo Young, the defendant’s Counsel interjected. He said that the word used by Lady Rolleston was ‘planned’ not ‘arranged’. Miss Swann said it was in no sense ‘arranged’ as the injection had been administered under doctor’s orders. My case was concluded and there was a luncheon break. When we returned to Court, Mr. Hugo Young made his opening statement. Lady Rolleston was being fussed over by a friend and no longer looked at me. “When Lady Rolleston expressed the opinion she did,” he said, “it was the outcome of great grief and great anguish of mind and stress of body and she is now being called to account for those words. There was no animosity on her part. The slander complained of, at worst, was only in her own private circle.” He claimed ‘privilege’. He said that the letter had been written to a doctor and was therefore not to be considered in the public realm. He said that the written words were ‘privileged’ and the words spoken to her friends were made without malice. And because Lady Rolleston did truly believe what she was saying, she had no motive. Her anguish should therefore not have been brought to the attention of the court. Mr. Hugo Young then called Lady Rolleston to the witness box. She appeared distressed but still held her head erect. Once she had been settled, the questioning began She agreed that the London doctor had advised Sir John to have a fortnight’s quiet rest in the country and that he must put his business letters in the wastepaper basket. The first evening they were in the country, she admitted that Sir John had asked me to give him something to put him to sleep. “When Dr. Davies was mixing it,” she said, “my husband asked what he was being given and Dr.Davies replied, “Trional”. The drug upset him so I made him promise not to ask for any more injections. I told Dr.Davies this.” Then Lady Rolleston was asked to describe Sir John’s final hours. “The nurse gave my husband an injection and about 20 minutes later, he became unconscious. Then he woke up, much distressed, made a huge effort and turned over on his side. Then the nurse said, “He’s gone.”” Someone groaned and most of Lady Rolleston’s lady friends and relatives began to cry. There was a considerable fluttering of handkerchiefs in the audience Counsel asked if she honestly believed that the administering of the injection was the cause of Sir John’s death. “I know it was. I am as sure of it as that we are sitting here. On May 7th, I saw Dr.Fuller in London and showed him the morphia tablets. Dr.Fuller said the morphia injection killed him. I asked him about morphia because I have a knowledge of it and have had a life-long horror of it.” She took her own handkerchief from a pocket and wiped her eyes. “I know that morphia kills. I have a medical book on the subject.” Mr. Hollis Walker handed her the book in question and she pointed out a certain passage. He asked Lady Rolleston how old the book was. “I have had the book for 30 years,” she said. “Have you read any more modern books on the subject?” Mr. Hollis Walker asked. “No,” Lady Rolleston admitted. The questioning continued with Mr. Hollis Walker taking her through the final days. She did not know, she said, that the illness was dangerous, although she knew it was serious and the first thing she knew of the final injection was when she saw the nurse administering it. “But my husband was not restless when she did it. He had just had a cup of milk. I do believe that the anaesthetic killed him but I do not mean that the doctor had knowingly caused his death. I am quite sure that Dr.Davies did his best. I just thought, when I wrote the letter to Dr.Sleight that Dr.Davies had been mistaken. I did not discuss the matter with my friends” Mr. Hollis Walker asked, “Why did you write and say you did?” “I was angry. And those friends were only the servants and my sister.” I noted that her arrogant demeanour had returned and wondered if the weeping into her handkerchief might not have been an act. Then she told Mr. Hollis Walker, “You are quibbling!” At this point, His Lordship looked stern and said that no one at the bar was more courteous than Mr. Hollis Walker. Lady Rolleston did not look repentant. “About the letter you wrote,” Mr. Hollis Walker asked. “Did you not want the world to know?” “It is a matter of indifference. I know and that is all. Why do you ask such silly questions?” Lady Rolleston exclaimed. And again, His Lordship had to chastise the defendant. He told her that it was in her own best interest, as well as proper decency, to remember…” Interrupting him, Lady Rolleston said, “Why should he worry me? He is bullying me.” “This position is a little difficult,” Mr. Hollis Walker said. “For you, not for me,” she replied. Shortly after this, Lady Rolleston said Mr. Hollis Walker was offensive. He replied that he was sorry but he was sure he was not and His Lordship said the jury would bear him out. Finally, Mr. Hugo Young wound up his argument. “There was no malice and if there was no malice, there was no cause of action and Lady Rolleston is not liable to apologise. Her words were used on impulse and were only natural when she had just lost her husband, who was so very precious to her. I believe that the case for the plaintiff seems to be like squeezing the very last drop from a lemon. As long as she believed what she said was true, there is no malice and no case.” The jury took an hour reaching its verdict. The Foreman coughed nervously. “We find the verdict is for the plaintiff with £100 damages and costs.” I heard a gasp, audible despite the excited chattering that had rolled over the audience following the foreman’s pronouncement. Blindsided by justice, Lady Rolleston seemed to shrink, to slump in her seat. Suddenly she was not a high and mighty lady, just another lost and troubled widow, whose soul-mate had left her to cope alone in a difficult world. |
|
| Blindsided heidib@me.com |
#6 of 8 |
| 2471 words | |
| Christian took a deep breath. Be cool, he told himself.
Be cool. He lifted a shaking finger and pressed Hannah’s doorbell. He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet as he listened for sounds inside the house. In all his seventeen years, he had only rung this doorbell a handful of times. It wasn’t that he and Hannah weren’t friends, it was more that they traveled in different circles. Hannah had lived three blocks away from Christian for as long as he could remember. They didn’t go to the same school, but most of the kids knew each other in Wilton due to local dances and Saturday sporting teams. Christian couldn’t put his finger on the defining moment he started to fall in love with Hannah, it had just been burning slowly inside him for some time now. He had never acted on it, and as far as he could tell, he had never made it obvious to her. But now they were nearing the end of high school, he had decided it was time to let her know. Footsteps approached the door and Christian drew another deep breath. The door swung open. It was Hannah. “Christian!” She was surprised. He never visited her without a reason. “Hi Hannah,” he said, trying not to let the nerves be heard. “Um, can we talk?” Hannah smiled warmly. It was such an inviting smile Christian felt himself relax slightly. “Sure.” She waited patiently. After a moment, she realised he meant they needed to talk somewhere other than her front stoop. “Oh,” she looked behind her and back to Christian. “Want to come out to the back garden?” “That would be great.” Christian followed Hannah through her house and out onto the back patio. He didn’t take his eyes off her the entire time. Her long blonde hair was pulled back into a low ponytail. She was just wearing sweats, as though she recently got home from a jog, but she still looked amazing to him. They walked silently down to the old garden bench and sat side by side. “So what’s up?” Hannah asked, turning to him. Her blue eyes were wide and curious. Christian knew that if he didn’t just spit this out he would never have the guts to go through with it. “Hannah, I’ve known you all my life. I know we don’t go to the same school so we only really see each other on the occasional weekend at parties but … “ He trailed off, the nerves really getting to him. Hannah watched him from beneath her thick, dark lashes. Her eyes really were amazing. Oh hell, he thought, I’ve made it this far. “Hannah I love you. I know this might come as a shock, but I’ve loved you for a while now. I think you’re amazing and I can’t stop thinking about you.” Hannah’s face didn’t change, but her pink lips parted slightly as though ready to say something, but no words came forth. “I know it’s weird timing, right at the end of school and everything. But when you told me last week that you were applying to Colombia like I am I just, I don’t know, I thought it was now or never.” Christian stopped and looked at his hands. When Hannah stayed silent, he forced himself to look up at her. She had closed her mouth and a small smile played on her lips. A cheeky look crept into her eyes. Clearing her throat, she stood up. “I think you should leave.” Christian was floored. This was the last reaction he was expecting. “What?” He stammered. “We’ve known each other for seventeen years Christian, you’ve had your whole life to come up with a way to let me know how you feel. And you just come here on a Sunday afternoon and blurt it out like that?” Christian stood up next to her, unsure what to say. “Where’s the romance in that? Geez, it was almost like you were going for an interview!” Hannah turned and began walking inside, her ponytail swinging. Christian raced after her to the front door. “So … there’s a chance for us? If I give you a more romantic gesture you would actually consider me?” Hannah smiled at him. “I want you to prove yourself to me.” And with that, she closed the door on his face without another word. ****** Two days later, Hannah stood on her doorstep looking at the bunch of roses in her hand. “Roses Christian? Really?” Christian’s stomach took a dive. This time, he hadn’t been nervous, but had been excited. Surely Hannah was interested in him if she had demanded a romantic gesture. He had decided roses and chocolates were a good idea, and had turned up to her house, expecting her to swoon and fall into his arms. This wasn’t exactly the reaction he was expecting. “You asked for romance.” “I asked for romance, not standard textbook procedure.” She sighed and put the roses down on the hall table beside her. Walking out onto the front porch, she looked at Christian and crossed her arms. “Christian, I’m the most popular girl in my school. I receive roses from guys every second week. It’s dull. It’s been done. What I haven’t received is a gesture that is so romantic that it knocks my socks off. Something so romantic it shows me that this guy is different to all the rest.” She stopped, putting her head to the side. “Do you understand?” Hannah continued before he had a chance to respond. “Not only am I looking for a romantic gesture that stands out from all the rest, I’m also looking for a reason why I should accept your offer of love.” Christian frowned, “What do you mean?” Sighing, Hannah walked over to the stairs of the porch and stared down the street. She lifted a hand and absently twirled a strand of her long, blonde hair. “It’s not exactly a secret that you are … well … punching above your weight if you know what I mean.” Christian’s face showed that he knew exactly what she meant. Christian wasn’t one of the popular boys. He didn’t play football and he didn’t drink beer at every party. Instead he studied hard and got good grades. He always knew Hannah was out of his league, but she was also one of the girls that always stood up for him if someone was teasing him. She had always looked out for Christian more than other girls. And now that she was applying to University he thought maybe she was also ready to settle down into her studies and appreciate his mind over his lack of sporting prowess. She nodded. “You know what I mean, good. Look, I’m sorry to sound harsh, but you really need to give me a good reason why I should be with you. I think an over the top romantic gesture would be a good start.” “OK,” Christian started, finding his backbone. “So you want a reason to date the dork. Well what about me? I need a reason too.” Hannah looked shocked, her blue eyes widening. “For what?” She asked. “Give me a reason to believe I even have a shot here Hannah. I won’t go around doing huge gestures if there isn’t even a chance you would consider me.” He stood tall, trying not to show how nervous he was to be standing up to her like this. A slow smile spread across Hannah’s perfect lips. “OK,” she nodded. “That’s fair.” She walked over to him slowly, her hips sashaying from side to side. It felt like an eternity for her to take the few steps to him and Christian prayed he wouldn’t faint from the feeling of blood draining from his head. Hannah stopped when she was only inches from him. He could feel her sweet breath on his face and he hoped she couldn’t tell where the blood from his face had rushed to. Taking his face in her soft hands, she kissed him lightly on the lips. It was sweet, it was innocent, but it was a promise. When she spoke it was barely more than a whisper. “I need a good story to tell my children.” And with that, she walked back into the house, a knowing smile playing on her lips. ****** Christian lay on his bed that night, replaying the feel of Hannah’s lips on his again and again. He exhaled slowly unable to believe he really had a chance with her. She was so beautiful, so popular and he was … well he wasn’t any of those things. But she had even spoken of children! Did she mean children they might share together one day? It was a restless night, but Christian finally came up with a gesture grand enough to match her beauty. ****** Two weeks later, Christian stood in the unfamiliar surroundings of Hannah’s school. He had begged and pleaded but had finally managed to convince the office ladies to let him play music over the school’s sound system. It was the last few weeks before the school year was over, so they were a bit more relaxed. Christian sent up a silent prayer. He was nervous as hell. He had always been the dork and had spent all his life trying to stay out of the spotlight, and here he was about to throw himself right into it. But it was OK, once Hannah was his girlfriend, everyone would give him the respect he deserved. Clearing his throat, he picked up the microphone. As the first few bars of ‘Amazed’ by Lonestar began to play, Christian walked out into the school grounds where the entire student body was having their lunch. He knew where Hannah was sitting already, having scoped it out from the office windows. “Every time our eyes meet, this feeling inside me,” he warbled, walking slowly, deliberately over to her. He continued singing, even though every single person had stopped what they were doing and were watching his every move. Sandwiches were frozen halfway towards mouths, conversations hung in mid air, tennis balls were abandoned. Although he was terrified, Christian kept singing. He had reached the chorus and hoped perhaps the song would catch on and some people would start singing to make him feel better. “I don’t know how you do what you do, I’m so in love with you, it just keeps getting better,” his voice strained, his hand shook, but still he kept moving forward until he was standing right in front of Hannah. She was fixed to her seat, looking up at him with her big blue eyes, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. “I want to spend the rest of my life, with you by my side, forever and ever,” he continued. In a flash of inspiration, Christian knelt in front of Hannah to continue singing. He could hear gasps around him, and was buoyed on by the reaction. “Every little thing that you do, baby, I’m amazed by you.” Christian’s voice grew louder and more confident as he made his way through the song. Finally, the last few notes faded out and there was silence. He was still kneeling in front of Hannah and she was still staring at him. But now she was struggling to keep the smile off her face. She loved it! He could tell! “Hannah Marsden,” he spoke into his microphone. The school collectively held their breath. “I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you forever. Will you be my girl?” Hannah looked around her and pulled him to his feet. She stood too. This was it. The smile on her face broke wider and she started to giggle. Christian smiled expectantly. Soon, Hannah’s giggle turned into an outright laugh. OK, thought Christian, she must be nervous. Perhaps this gesture was far more than what she was expecting? But her laugh caught on and soon her friends were laughing, and then other people nearby were laughing too. It wasn’t long till it felt like the entire high school was in raptures. Christian turned a deep crimson. This wasn’t quite turning out the way it was supposed to. He lifted the microphone to his lips, ready to quiet everybody with more declarations of love. He was sure Hannah’s laughter would move to tears of joy with just a few words. But before he managed to say a word he noticed a movement behind him. From out of nowhere, Johnny Richmond sauntered up to Hannah and swung a confident arm around her shoulders. “Aw shucks that was sweet,” Johnny said with a smirk. Johnny was the most popular guy in school. Actually, he was the most popular guy in all of Wilton. Why did he have his arm around Hannah? “But buddy,” Johnny continued. “Hannah can’t be your girl. You see, she’s already my girl.” To accentuate his point, Johnny turned to Hannah and gave her a passionate Hollywood kiss. Christian’s blush spread from his face down his chest. He felt like he was going to faint. Was this a joke? She had asked him to do this, why would she do that if she already had a boyfriend? He waited for the dramatic kiss to end so he could watch Hannah slap Johnny and declare her love for Christian. But the kiss felt like it went on forever and Christian was very aware of the stifled laughs around him. This was getting awkward. Finally they pulled apart and Hannah looked Christian in the eye. She had an amused smile. “Oh sorry Christian, didn’t you know I had a boyfriend?” She grinned smugly as she ran a finger along her pink lips. “Johnny meet Christian,” she said, not breaking eye contact with Christian the whole time. “He lives down the block from me and has had a crush on me since forever.” Johnny looked Christian up and down. “I hope the little dweeb hasn’t laid a finger on you babe.” Hannah’s laugh tinkled and Christian knew he would never forget the sound. He turned on his heel and walked away from them as fast as he could, his brain still trying to process how this turn of events had happened. He hadn’t seen it coming and he felt dizzy from the sudden change in his emotions. He was near the school gates, near freedom when he heard Johnny call out one last time. “Hey Christian!” He called. Christian stopped, but didn’t turn around. He didn’t want anyone to see the tears welling up in his eyes as it would just further cement his humiliation. “I look forward to seeing you at Columbia U.” And with that, the entire school broke out in laughter. |
|
| Blindsided hj lazarus hjlazarus@gmail.com |
#7 of 8 |
| 38 words | |
| Blindsided and, of course, not, since you saw it coming- his shoulder curving away towards the paper on Sundays, how it was always your tongue pushing past his lips. And, obviously, not from the side, but straight-on, a slamming through your chest as you stood before the emptied-out closet seeing nothing. |
|
| Blindsided Stella Deleuze deleuze.stella@googlemail.com |
#8 of 8 |
| 834 words | |
| You zoom back at your friend who's prattling away. 'You
see, it hit me blindsided,' she says. 'The rain came down unexpected.' You look
at her, then shake your head. 'I'm sorry, but that's not possible.' 'What do you mean, it's not possible?' she asks. 'Well, how can rain be out of the blue? Usually there are signs, aren't there?' 'Yes, only I didn't see it coming, didn't take the grey sky seriously,' she replies, audibly angry about your philosophical response. She tried to tell you something and you feel guilty not to have listened properly. You can't help it though. 'Have you never been in a situation like this? When you forget everything around you?' she asks. You think for a while. 'No, I don't think I ever have. Sorry.' 'Are you serious? Have you any idea how much you're missing out?' Being the realist you are, you shake your head. 'I guess not.' 'No wonder you act like this,' she really seems upset. You decide it's better to make up for it. 'I'm sorry to have interrupted. So, go ahead, please,' you say. The key is to keep her talking. 'It's okay, you are like you are.' She sighs. 'As I already said, I believe in fate and there was this guy...I saw him and couldn't believe it's true. The second he looked at me I was fallen for him. What a gorgeous man.' 'What exactly made him so special?' Her eyes sparkle with excitement. 'Tall. He was tall, and with full hair, artfully combed into his face. Beautiful eyes-' 'How could you see his eyes when it was covered by his hair?' She stops walking and turns to look at you. 'Who said it was?' 'Um, I just thought-' Her eyes are narrow. 'Will you stop making assumptions, please?' 'Excuse me, my fault. So his eyes were?' you say. 'They were open like I could see right through to his soul, warm and inviting.' 'What colour?' you ask to keep the conversation going. She had started to walk, but your question makes her pause again. 'I don't know, to be honest.' You laugh. 'Oh dear, you missed such an important detail?' 'Glad I amuse you,' she says. You can feel that if you are not careful, she might stomp off. You don't want that. 'So what else made you gasp?' She pouts but then the urge to tell wins over her anger. 'I first saw his well-shaped backside. A real eyes-magnet, I can tell you. 'I hear that's a very popular one for women,' you mumble. She heard it and smiles. 'It is indeed.' You wonder if you have any valuable attributes you could score with. 'Tell me more,' you ask, curiosity takes over. 'He had wonderful hands, like a pianist.' 'Have you ever met a pianist?' you ask before you can bite your lip. You manage to get out of the way before her fist meets your shoulder. Not hard, only to remind you that you have to listen. You grin. 'No, but I imagine they have slim, long fingers and that's what he had.' 'I'm not a pianist,' you reply. She laughs softly. 'I know you aren't.' 'Okay, I still don't see why you are swooning over this guy, care to explain further?' Her cheeks redden. 'The way he moved, such elegance, but powerful and manly.' She looks dreamily. You watch her from the side. 'Don't look at me like that,' she says. 'What do you mean?' 'You always have that weird expression on your face.' 'Where else should I have it?' you ask, the joke a try. 'Ha ha, very funny. You know what I mean.' If only I would, you think. 'Will you continue now? I guess you're not finished with your explanations,' you reply. 'Only if you don't laugh again.' You nod and she goes ahead, 'His whole appearance engaged me and I couldn't take my eyes off him. The style, the way he went through his hair, his smile...' She sighs again. 'He seems to have captivated your heart. It's an acute condition, my dear.' She lifts her head to stare up in the clouds. 'I think it's pretty serious.' 'Something you can't change though,' you answer, following her gaze. A slight stab irritates you. 'What's wrong?' she asks, her eyes are on you now. You shrug. 'Nothing, I'm waiting.' 'For what?' she asks. 'The characterisations of your dream man.' Deep inside, you feel it's hurting. She exhales loudly. 'You are one of a kind, you know that? Typical man.' 'I hope that's meant in a positive way.' You smile. She smiles back. 'Yes and no.' 'Explain,' you say. 'Which one first?' You ponder a while, then look into her eyes. 'The negative one.' 'Sometimes, you don't listen to what I say. I'm sure you haven't when I started telling you about this guy.' She's so smart, you think. 'And the positive one?' 'If you had listened, you'd know I'm talking about-' Fat raindrops fall onto her beautiful face, causing her to pause. 'About whom?' you ask. The next you realise is her lips sealing yours. She must have known, you think. When she breaks away, heavy rain glues your hair to your face. 'It's almost like the first time we met,' she whispers. |
|