Labor Day: An Excerpt

The following is an excerpt from my short story "Labor Day":

The chaos before him, the swinging limbs and the splashing water, along with the din of children’s screams, had dissolved into a warm bright haze. The lowering sun and the drink in his hand had turned the whole pool scene into a washed out blur. Labor Day at the neighborhood pool and by all means he should hate it. Forced cordiality, child wrangling, his soft pale paunch hanging slightly over his shorts. He sat some distance from it all. The kids were lost in the throng. He had only to raise a glass to the familiar faces with forgotten first names. And in his semi-reclined position, he would look better. At least it would look like none of it mattered to him. 

His wife was the master at this. Molly knew all the right things to say. She remembered their names, their interests, and could engage them in the sort of light and polite conversation that was safe on an afternoon such as this. Molly had opted to stay home. Laundry and housecleaning. Fair enough. He’d have rather sat in the privacy of his den, the solitude of his garden, but he could do it.

Their children, Mark and Mae, were not of an age where they could be put on their bikes and sent to the pool by themselves. Still, they didn’t require much when they were there. Especially if they had friends to play with.

He’d taken advantage of two adult swims, while the kids huddled under towels, to swim the length of the pool a few times, awakening muscles rarely stirred, and then turned to float on his back. With his ears submerged, the whole world became the sky above him. He floated and heard nothing.

She Knew: An Excerpt

The following is an excerpt from my short story "She Knew":

When she got the call, she knew. When he didn’t show when he said he would, she knew. He was dead. There was no doubt.

The call came early the next morning while her roommates were still asleep. Kelly was up, taking advantage of the rare quiet in the house, sitting in the kitchen with her coffee. The kitchen was at the south end of the narrow rental house, the sun coming in through parted curtains over the sink. She was struggling through the assigned Henry James when the chirp of her phone made her jump. 

On the phone, Kirk’s friend was full of sympathy for her, but Kelly didn’t cry. How could she be sad for him? Kirk had crashed his motorcycle on the Boulder Turnpike on his way to see her. A truck changed lanes without seeing him. Arrangements were being made for a funeral. 

She would have to go, she knew. Standing in the morning kitchen, twenty-year-old linoleum beneath her toes, she knew she would go to the funeral. She would have to look sad. Wear black. Be sullen. She was his girlfriend. Even though she was going to break up with him. It was really why she’d invited him up to Boulder, despite midterms next week. It was time to end it. Her bad-boy phase was coming to an end. At least that would explain the difference between Kirk and Gavin.

Shoot the Freak: An Excerpt

The following is an excerpt from my short story "Shoot the Freak":

Alistair balanced himself on the wide boards of the boardwalk and looked first to his right, then to his left. He was amazed by the number of people that were milling about. Coney Island on a sunny October day with temps in the seventies. He’d been told the whole amusement apparatus would be shuttered for the season, so he couldn’t see what would draw so many. It was then that Alistair looked at the ocean.

The low, fall sun reflected off the water and he had to squint to see the mirage. It looked less like water than a misty apparition, surging and heaving off into the sky without horizon. Only once, as a child, had he ever seen the ocean, the Pacific on a trip to San Francisco to visit relatives and to be reluctantly towed through every conceivable tourist attraction, including the elevator ride in Coit Tower and the haunting bars and steel doors of Alcatraz. His only experience with the sea was aboard the rain-soaked deck of a pitching and jumping vessel, clutching a chipped metal rail while keeping his eyes on his feet to avoid the nausea coming on.

The sight of the Atlantic here made him feel, instead, calm. Especially calm after the whirlwind of the past few months. Especially after the events of the day before and the long night that followed.

Skylane: An Excerpt

The following is an excerpt from my short story "Skylane":

When the plane’s engine stopped sputtering and finally gave out, Lou felt it begin to fall. Even a week later, she could still feel her stomach rise, see the water rushing up towards them, knowing that they were going to crash.

Lou and her husband, Jerry, had survived. Their Cessna Skylane had splashed down not far from shore. They had been able to make it to the sandy beach, shaken and bruised, before help arrived. One piece of broken wing floating on the lightly stirring ocean.

In their condo, four stories above the beach, she looked out past Jerry sitting in his chair at the same calm gulf. Jerry had a bandage high on his bald head. He was reading through an old pair of glasses.

“When are we going to fly again?” It wasn’t the first time since the crash that she’d asked the question.

He looked at her standing in the kitchen, her graying hair full of curlers, waved a fat hand at her and went back to his reading.

“Get back on the horse, you know?”

“You know where the plane is, Mom?” He didn’t look up at her.

“Yes.”

“Not exactly in flying condition, is she? Sitting under the water now.”

Save the Tiger: An Excerpt

The following is an excerpt from my short story "Save the Tiger":

It was around eleven in the morning when he realized his shoes didn’t match. Standing in the breakroom, having poured his cup full of rancid, tepid, but necessary coffee, Matt paused, leaned against the counter to take a sip. And there were his shoes. The right, hard-soled, the toes brought together in a sort of point, the leather shined. The left, still black, but the leather and soles soft, the stitching rough and casual. He really should have noticed. Noticed when he put them on in the dark, when he walked to the car, and through the hours seated at his desk.

He blamed the girls. One of them, either Amy at five, or the older, Naomi at seven, had been playing in the closet and moved his shoes around. Yet there they were, the two shoes paired up, where he would have left the normal pair the previous night.

Still, he smiled. Not at the thought of one mischievously mismatching the shoes. Not at his own foolishness, absentmindedness that would have let him go through the whole morning in shoes that didn’t match. He smiled at the thought of his girls. All else could go wrong in the world, but it would all be okay in the company of Naomi and Amy.

Fault: An excerpt

The following is an excerpt from my short story "Fault":

He was probably twelve or thirteen, the same as his son now, when he’d walked into the kitchen to see, spread across the Sunday paper, the pieces of his father’s pistol. Each part laying there as if placed delicately, awaiting cleaning. The black metal was innocent, innocuous. Taken individually one could hardly see the violence in each. Together, though, they were a threat. A threat cared for. A loving task to fill an afternoon. And yet he’d been as nervous as he’d ever been in the vicinity of that gun.

It was only later that Matt realized that he could have stolen one of those pieces, one dull piece, chucked over the back fence and been rid of that threat.

And now, thirty years later, it was as if it was his fault that the gun that pointed at him even existed. That some stranger was threatening him with it. If it fired, if before him there was a tiny explosion that propelled the bullet in his direction, it would be his fault. It would be because he had fled from the kitchen without acting.

It would be one of many reasons. It would be because he had believed that owning this river resort was a good idea. Because he thought he’d spend his evenings near campfires, his days floating the river. His wife could mind the store where they sold bait and sunscreen and gossip. His son would grow up exposed to a variety of people.

And that it wasn’t exactly like that was his fault.

When the Writing Isn't Easy

Sometimes sitting down to write isn't terribly easy. There is always this balance between letting the mind wander freely, to discover as you progress, and having a thorough plan so you don't just end up wandering pointlessly. This morning, that's where I am. I know the overall course, but I don't want to frame it all out too completely. Yet, I'm afraid to put my pen to the paper without knowing exactly where it is I'm heading. 

I shouldn't worry. I know that. It is a first draft. I will spend a lot of time chopping it up and reshaping it. So, no need to worry about it now. I've read so many novels, though, that seem to go through these periods of wandering. Chapters that seem to serve very little purpose except to stall until the action can advance.

I also am easily hooked on what I've written. Reshaping, reordering, and adding are easy. Stripping away the unnecessary is more difficult. I always look and find hints of what is to come. Elements of the character that seem critical to the reader. How can I cut what is so fundamental?

I need to be harder on my own writing. I need to be willing to be heartless. Also, I must remember that all first drafts are shit. It is always more important to forge on.

The Latest Bunch of Short Stories

The demands on a person can be many. From travelling for work to engaging with the children, finding time for other activities (like blogging) can seem practically impossible. That said, the past year has been pretty productive.

Since finishing the last draft of my latest novel manuscript, Another Blade of Grass, and setting it aside before query agents, I returned to short fiction. After spending two years working on a single work, it was a relief to turn to things with entirely different elements. The requirements of short fiction are fewer than the novel. It is easier to try different things, attempt different effects. And I wanted to purge myself of some of the ideas that had been floating around for some time.

I think the change was well worth the effort. I churned out six short stories that are already making the submission-rejection circuit. At least it feels like it's going full circle.

So, over the next few weeks, I'll present excerpts of each of the new stories. Just the first couple of paragraphs to give you a feeling for the direction of the new work. Any feedback you care to give will be appreciated.

Since this bout of short fiction, I've returned to the longer form, spurred on by an idea my wife provided. The notion stirred in my head for a few days, the story ever expanding, and I knew that I'd better get writing.