65 of 365

Fear drew passengers to their windows. With oxygen masks strapped to their faces, they stared through the layers of plastic and glass, their eyes begging for a clear stretch of land. A rush of futility swept through the cabin. Mountains pierced the sky for miles, an endless pine forest filled the valleys. Hands gripped the armrests, heads pressed firmly against the backs of their seats. Then the overhead lights went dark.

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The desk was riddled with glitter glues and regular glues, dried-out markers, dull pencils, and broken crayons. There was a drawer for colored paper and a drawer for scraps, but neither was distinguishable as such. She plunged a paint brush into the blue paint, and flung it onto the paper. Strokes of red, orange, purple and green already covered the surface. With infinite vision, her imagination soared. She was the masterpiece.

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My father was arrested on casserole night. We had just sat down at the dining table, the walnut shone with a coat of fresh oil. Baked tuna and milk wafted from the orange rectangular stoneware that served as our centerpiece. My mother was holding my father's hand to say grace when we heard the knock. I remember his eyes. He knew who was at the door before my mother opened it. I have not eaten a casserole since.

PS 365 2012 Disclaimer:
All stories written for this blog's 2012 project are works of fiction.
Thanks for reading and have a happy day!

62 of 365

I will die on a Thursday morning, 6:12 a.m. to be exact. Eighty-four years to the day, hour, minute at which I was born. My mother did not know this date when she gave birth to me in the gas station bathroom just off the Interstate. She did not know ahead of time the day of her own death. I long for those innocent days. But the world has changed. There is no way to unlearn my fateful date. Knowing has changed everything.

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The brass burned his palm as he spun the door knob. He squinted, fresh autumn air blasted his face. He felt the hairs of his nose disintegrate. His hands cupped his ears, the noise of the passing cars perforating his ear drums. Then he stumbled back into the foyer, kicking the door shut in the process. The timer read twenty-four seconds. He was proud of this time. Now he could relax, not having to try again until tomorrow.

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A man sat on his deck, enjoying a quiet afternoon. A bird cried out from the power line. A fellow occupant was attempting to shove the poor soul to the ground. A flutter of wings ensued, their neighbors voicing annoyance with repeated squawks as the line bounced. The man joined in with a few squawks of his own. It was a useless effort. The victim held tightly to his perch. The line fell quiet, the pecking order in balance once more.

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He straightened the soup cans, sometimes alphabetizing the labels. He restacked the containers of yogurt and cottage cheese, and twisted all the milk jugs so the expiration dates faced out. He separated the limes from the lemons, and rescued a bundle of asparagus from the broccoli bin. He had abandoned his practice. Now he spent his days here. He could not be happier.

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He used the key from under the terracotta pot and slipped through the back door. Inside, a commercial for a travel agency specializing in virtual vacations played on the television. A grocery pallet containing powdered milk and vacuum-sealed produce sat on the counter. Water was boiling out of a pot and onto the induction stove. He pressed the button to cancel the heat. The bubbles stopped. The house was empty. She had escaped.

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He closed his eyes and listened intently to the background sounds of the disc's main menu. A cacophony of footsteps and conversation, a train coming to a halt, and a muffled announcement over a loud speaker. The sounds played on a twenty-second loop. He counted the loops. By the twelfth loop, he had deciphered the announcement and pressed play.

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She was a popular health columnist for the local paper. The years of fame had provided her with a lavish bungalow and serious case of hypochondria. When she grew sluggish and began missing deadlines, her boss threatened to fire her. When she shared the news of the cancer, her coworkers were offended she would imagine such a thing. Then her name appeared in the paper, not as a byline for the health column but first in the list of obituaries.

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It was late in the afternoon. He stood at the wash bin, cleaning his latest catch. He slit the belly and extracted the guts. Holding the stomach in his hand, entrails falling through his fingers, he felt something hard where nothing hard should be. Through a small incision, he retrieved a gold ring. Inside the band was an engraving. An etched phrase that would soon send him across the sea from which he had just returned.

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The porcelain face was frozen in observation. The deep red lips eternally mute, the green eyes in constant memorization of the passersby. The girl was sitting on the grass, caressing the doll’s face from the temple, down the jawline, to the tip of the chin. She paused briefly to circle the chipped ear and then ran her fingers through the doll‘s auburn curls. To the girl, the doll was priceless, it was all she had left from a life long gone.

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The girl took three stones from the pile. The boy smiled and took two, leaving behind a single stone. “You get the last one. You lose,” he said. The girl sulked away. “Who’s next?” the boy offered to the young crowd. The game had become a recess ritual. The winner held the power of supremacy. The boy had won each game for the past month. He was callous and took no pity. The children agreed that the only solution was mutiny.

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The sign read, “Road Closed.” He glanced around and climbed over the concrete barrier anyway. He knew this was a ruse meant to slow down him and others like him. He proceeded past warnings for trespassers and old street signs that had been spun around to mislead. Then a clearing in the trees gave way to a small hill with an entrance covered by two steel doors. He knocked. The doors strained to open, and he walked inside.

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She had used newspaper to cover each window on the first level of her three-story brownstone. The glue with which she had coated each page now coated her fingers. Sunlight penetrated the day’s news and cast a glow over the kitchen sink. She read the headline as she rinsed her hands. Her eyes widened, she frantically tried to tear the page off the glass. The glue held its grip. It was happening and she could do nothing to stop it.

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She nuzzled her temple back and forth against the brocade wallpaper. She did this many times a day, nearly wearing the paper away. One morning, she abandoned the nuzzle and attacked the wall. She took claw after claw to the formal covering, scattering strips of the paper about the floor. In her flurry, she tore through the drywall as well. With her mouth, she retrieved the pouch from within the wall and sauntered away, fully satisfied.
.

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They hid behind the couch, under the dining table, within the long drapes, and in the hall closet. At last, keys rattled the lock and the bright light of the corridor filled the room. Everyone leapt out and yelled, "Surprise!" The guest of honor screamed and then burst into laughter. She hugged her friends endearingly. In the commotion, no one saw the man in the corner grab the envelope and slip out of the apartment.
.

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She was a connoisseur of hats. Wool berets, floppy sun hats, and baseball caps. Knitted beanies with crocheted flowers, cloches wrapped in unassuming bows, and one tweed trilby adorned with a lace rosette. Those that could be stacked or folded filled her dresser drawers. Those that needed more careful attention hung from hooks on her walls. Each day, inside or out, she required a hat. Only when she hid beneath them did she feel safe.

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That morning, he had purchased a crate of preserved fruit from his neighbor’s farm stand down the road. The fruit he unloaded next to the multivitamins on the top shelf. The next shelf down contained canned vegetables, dry goods, and bags of salt. Below that were first aid supplies, flashlights, and batteries. He stored water on the bottom shelf. When his watch alarm beeped, he shut the basement door and locked himself inside.

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She cried in the morning. Her mind felt clearer at dawn than any other time of day, thus this is when she grieved. It was a rational grief. A healing grief. Much to the contrary were her attempts to mourn at dusk. The dishes that sailed across the room, shattering to pieces upon impact. The flowers she shoved in the face of the young delivery man, nearly suffocating him. No, night was not a time to mourn. Mourning in the morning was the only way.

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Her face reflected below looked nothing of the image from her memory. She lay prone on the thick branch that jutted out over the water, the soles of her hiking shoes flush against the trunk thwarting any possible descent. Here she had spent each morning for the past year. The tree was the last of its kind. It stood proud within a field of stumps, spared for reasons unknown. It was immune. This trait they shared.

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Around the handle of the suitcase hung the luggage tag. Stamped on the leather was a street address and city, no name. She was among many to be sent there, and she would return the tag upon arrival, so her name held no importance. She became fixated on the detail they had made trivial. The tag with no name. The passenger with no name. She felt herself disappearing with each step toward the gate. But the plane was waiting. As were they.

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Most of the art enthusiasts has gone by the wayside, leaving him to his thoughts in the vast corridor. The piece on the far wall drew him in. He leaned in, as close as was physically possible without brushing the tip of his nose against the paint. He examined the intricate strokes, admired how they played with the tight weave of the canvas. Then he felt the pang in his stomach. It should have been his work hanging on that wall.

42 of 365

The bus lurched forward before I had found a seat. I was thrown back and nearly fell into the lap of an elderly woman. She gave me a disapproving look, as if I had invaded her personal space on purpose. I grabbed the metal bar and caught my footing, though my body was still susceptible to the sporadic acceleration of the driver. And then I saw her, sitting with her back to me, the fingers of her visible hand twirling a stem of jasmine.

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The shoes lay strewn across the lane, the heels torn from the soles, the black suede ground into the asphalt. From the sidewalk, he watched the residents part their drapes in curiosity, then broadcast looks of worry as cars swerved to avoid the debris. He ventured into the street and peeled up a sole. Written in permanent ink on the leather was the dead drop he sought.

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She spent her afternoons at the neighborhood thrift, paging through dusty books in search of new lands and new companions. When she happened upon the inscription, her heart stopped. It was simply composed, lacking originality to the outsider, but full of meaning to those who mattered.

"To the love of my life. Yours, V"

The kinds words though were not what intrigued her, rather it was the page on which they lay.

39 of 365

It was rush hour in the underground station where strangers waited shoulder to shoulder for the next train. They were family for that brief moment. But even in families, things go unseen. The pain overtook him. He grasped his arm and collapsed. The ground rumbled and a rush of air blew through the room. His sideways stare caught feet shuffling around him toward the opening doors of the train. He was left there alone, a dying oversight.

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The storm circled, eyeing its target, a proud young maple standing alone on the roadside. The tree shed its leaves in the wind, prominent traces of autumn cast over the ground. The final leaf released its grip and fell to a puddle below. It broke the surface and sent a ripple to the surrounding bank, capsizing every floating piece of orange and yellow in its path, stirring up the calm sea, announcing the arrival of winter.

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He spent the morning alone in the library basement, pacing the stacks, skimming every shelf. The mildewed air coupled with the fluorescent lights overhead made his eyes hurt. And then he spotted it, the sea of black plastic binding coils nearly swallowing it whole. His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He answered. "I found it. Where can I meet you?"

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The headlights were following her, she was sure of it. She had sensed she was being watched upon leaving the store. The two bright bulbs in her rear view mirror confirmed it. A few car lengths behind her, illuminating the low thick fog, every turn, every side street, they were there. She pulled into a stranger’s driveway and waited, one mississippi, two mississippi, three mississippi...she had seen the lightning, now for the thunder.

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One hand clutched a disorganized gathering of papers. The other hand held a plain brown cane and braced the weight of his body as he waited for a break in traffic. A car yielded, the driver motioning him to cross. He leaned his upper body into the street, his legs reluctantly followed suit. The cane gave way as he stepped from the curb. The papers burst from his arms as he fell, a decoupage of parchment on the damp evening road.

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A man emerged from the hanger with grease on his hands. He pulled a rag from his back pocket and wiped the first layer of black from his fingers. "What can I do you for?"
"I need a plane," the boy said.
"Can't help you, son. We only got parts here, nothing that'll fly."
“I’ll give you a hundred dollars,” the boy said without hesitation.
The man looked the boy over, shook his head, and tucked the rag back in his pocket. “Come with me.”

33 of 365

There had been a rash of thefts in recent days. Homegrown vegetables had become currency, being the only means of food for most. But she had Hurley, her loyal retriever. He took possession of the garden, napping among the raised beds during the day, standing guard at night. He would patrol the surrounding fence, barking at the slightest rustle of leaves. But she had grown used to his bark. It rarely woke her now. This was a problem.

32 of 365

They had stopped for gas, bought a bag of chips from the convenience store, but otherwise, they had passed every nuance of the road just to ensure their arrival by tomorrow's sunset. They were trapped in the trailer for a thousand more miles. He despised the trailer. Its four walls slowly creeping in on him, no privacy, no distance from his father's rants. He was subject to every word, a thousand words for every mile of the thousand miles.

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The northern ridge erupted in flames. Trees exploded and sparks flew across the valley, igniting the opposite ridge. The wildfire encroached on them from all sides, too quickly for their legs to outrun. Their only hope for survival was the creek. They plunged into the shallow water and lay prone. Their heads, propped on a stone covered in algae; their bodies, secured beneath a heavy wool blanket. All they could do now was wait.

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She poured the thick liquid into the spoon, its convexity threatening to spill onto the floral sheets. She held it to her son's lips. Then the cough returned. The boy hid his face in the pillow, the burst staining the case red. The woman begged God to quiet the cough, but she ached with each syllable of the prayer. Mothers across town had echoed this prayer, and every time He had quieted the cough, He had quieted the child as well.

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She woke on the park bench to something rough and wet sliding down her toes. A glance to her feet revealed a salivating mass of pink. It was Leonard, the town pig, sitting on his hindquarters, thoroughly enjoying the taste of her big toe. She retracted her feet and wiped them dry with her sleeve. Leonard snorted in displeasure. She stood and stared at the pig. Leonard stood and held her stare. She walked down the path. Leonard followed.

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She had heard her mother tell stories of the great quake. The day the river's current reversed and the sun turned black. The day the earth opened up and swallowed all the flowers. She had never felt the ground move beneath her feet. She had never seen holes appear in the dirt where no holes had been before. These stories gave her nightmares. So when she felt her bed shaking one night, she thought it was another nightmare. She was wrong.

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He stood alone at the water’s edge, shoes still laced and soaking wet. His feet sunk further into the sand with each receding wave. The impact came from behind, shoving him face first into the shallow water. He felt a sharp radiating pain in his core when he tried to stand. His legs buckled and he fell back down. The waves crashed over him, grappling with the weight of his body, trying to pull him out to sea.

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She placed the damp branches in a metal bin beside the stove, her boots nearby, and draped her wet socks over the top. The cabin was generations old. She tried her best to maintain it, but she at ten years old could only do so much. She was thawing her toes by the stove when the train sped by, as it did twice a day everyday, precisely on schedule. So when the walls shook and a dish fell from a shelf, she thought nothing of it. Then the roof caved in.

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He had been sitting near the door, working on his laptop for the past hour. Celeste had spent most of that hour staring at him, memorizing his strong jaw and dark brows. Then she sketched him, committing his likeness to a piece of scratch paper from her purse. She gathered her things, placed her coffee cup in the basket above the trash can, and approached him. By the time the drawing landed on the man's keyboard, she was already out the door.

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The pilot was still unconscious and sat slumped in his seat. Graham tried to pull back on the yoke, but the nose of the plane fought his effort and continued to plummet. The surface of the water came quickly. Though with no engine sounds, the descent was nearly serene, like the hush that fell over the crowd as an Olympian dove from the ten-meter platform. Time slowed, breaths ceased, death was imminent.

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She sat cross-legged on a blanket in the open-air market. She had spent the week beading her inventory and still felt pain in her knuckles from the task. The first few hours of the morning brought appreciative remarks but no purchases, though this was not her concern. What she cared for were the people beside her. Those that laid out similar blankets with similar inventory, and sat with similarly crossed legs, yet were far from similar.

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He worked carefully on the nose, smoothing the deep red clay with his finger. He glazed and fired the piece, and hung it by a nail on the front exterior wall of his house. Earlier that day, he had watched a man with tearful eyes sit hunched on a curb. A woman approached the man, laid a hand on his shoulder, and asked how she could help. It was this woman he sculpted, her face now among the hundreds on his front wall, watching over him and the world.

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The daffodils grew where no life had grown in years. They had broken through the drought-ridden ground and found shelter below the corrugated steel eaves. Streaks of rust slowly crept down the side of the house and threatened to poison the soil, but he wouldn't let that happen. He saw the blooms as his welcome home banner. He had no more reason to keep walking than he did to rip nature's beauty from its roots and toss it aside.

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She rose from the exposed mattress and parted the metal blinds. She stared into the night, avoiding her reflection in the glass. The hedge on the far side of the parking lot lit up as a pair of headlights rounded the corner. She did not linger. She opened the door and exited into the empty hallway. The door shut with finality. The lonely door to the lonely room that no longer sheltered the lonely girl.

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The boy sat perched on the small hill, watching the elderly man push a shopping cart into a mobile home park. Like an ant perusing an empty picnic table, the man wove through the trailers, pausing at some, ignoring others. Something in a carport caught his attention. He abandoned his cart in the middle of the road, and rushed to retrieve the item. Knowing exactly what the man had taken, the boy ran down the hill to warn the others.

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The thin bedspread did little to keep out the sharp winter air, which had managed to seep through all the cracks in the house. She had begged him a week ago to purchase a space heater, but received a lecture on the high cost of utilities instead. She was awake at midnight waiting for his return. At 3 a.m., she became worried. At some point sleep found her, and she woke to sunlight shining through the blinds. His side of the bed was still empty.

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It began on the adjoining wall, a baseline percussion that summoned the other residents. A tapping came next, dance steps from above. She grabbed a spoon and banged the dishes in her stainless steel sink, falling into a rhythm. The building was speaking and she was a sentence of its discourse. When she had hit her final dish, and the surrounding walls fell quiet, she found her way to her bed and fell asleep.

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I figured a happy, melodic hitchhiker was less threatening. So on the roadside I stood, smiling and strumming the strings of my Gibson, hoping someone would take pity. I was thrilled when the VW bus slowed and parked on the shoulder. The back of the bus was riddled with stickers and the words "0 to 60 in 15 minutes." It may take a while but I would get to San Francisco somehow.

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She awoke to a bright flickering through her bedroom window. It was the third night in a row. The porch light of the neighboring condo appeared to have a faulty circuit. She tried to close her eyes but her lids glowed with the hypnotic rhythm. She knew that rhythm. She had seen it once before. Di-dah-dit di-di-dah dah-dit. The Morse code spoke to her, and in seconds, she had her phone in hand and dialed.

14 of 365

At precisely 2 p.m., the computer rang with an incoming video call. He clicked to answer and the sound of banjo strings sang from the desktop speaker. He smiled, grabbed his ukulele, and joined in. Each strum entwined with hers. Their notes harmonized to perfection. The pairing spanned thousands of miles, but if he closed his eyes, it was as if she were right there beside him.

13 of 365

With no more room to build out, they built up. They salvaged what they could from the burnt pier to reinforce the pilings of the one that remained. They extracted the skylights from the existing structures on the pier and quickly sealed the voids. Rooms once infused with sunlight now sat dark, though a necessary sacrifice for the good of the town. With the first floor secure, they could then build the two new floors to house the refugees.

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There was a parking space on the opposite side of the street. She drove up to the stop sign, made a U-turn after a white SUV, and then cursed the air as the SUV stole her spot. She circled the block once, and then again. As she passed the office a third time, through her rear view mirror she saw a car near the front door pulling out of its spot. Her eyes fell back to the street ahead just as the man rolled onto her hood and up her windshield.

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The bus was full of chatter. Cora, alone in her seat, was staring out the window when she felt the rise and fall of the cushion beneath her legs. The chatter stopped abruptly. Cora froze upon seeing Elliot Mitchell next to her. Her heart raced. She became distinctly aware of his shoulder’s proximity to hers. A long silent minute passed. Then the chatter resumed, leaving Elliot and Cora alone in the seat they now shared.

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She sat fidgeting with the clothespin, spinning it between her index finger and thumb, squeezing the ends, analyzing the tension of the spring. With her free hand, she pinched the skin of her inner thigh and eased the pin in place. A ghostly white circle surrounded the tip of the pin as it jutted from her leg. She tried with all her might to will feeling where no feeling existed. Her will failed. It always failed.

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"What would you want if you couldn't have it anymore?" Hazel had taken to asking questions like this since their world had changed. "I don't know, socks maybe," Henry said, wiggling his bare toes. "What would you want, Z?" She thought for a moment, and then she spoke. "I'd want the wind." Henry caught the eyes of his young sister. They nodded in unison, then gathered their belongings, and walked into town.

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A slice of orange hung low in the sky, gently grazing the harbor lights. Mira paused on the hill and looked back toward the dark water. She could picture Ian standing on the bow of his boat. He was pleading with the moon. He was asking permission to hook his fingers around the crescent. The moon would abide and slowly pull him down into the sea. Down to a land half a world away, one just waking and one that would welcome him without question.

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Sam walked the streets in the blue light of morning. Houses hummed with running water, but the ground beneath his feet lay still and sound asleep. He sought a small red cottage a few blocks north, and sat on a bench at the property's edge to wait. Soon a song resonated from the cottage. The melody approached him, enveloped him, and then disappeared. He stared into the dawn sky to where the music had gone. Now he would go too.

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The kids were all in bed. Her husband was engulfed in cigar smoke and tucked privately behind his desk in the study. She gripped the stem of the martini glass, what was left of the alcohol sloshed from rim to rim. Diamonds in liquid form, matching those at home on her skin. Difficult to choose which was more of a best friend. Those that adorned her body kept her from the gossip circle, those that slid down her throat kept her from the truth.

5 of 365

He worked methodically. The process was simple. Purchase the journal. Fill the journal with his confession. Drill through the cover. Chisel out a large square hole in the pages. Place the clock's mechanism in the hole, and finally, close and secure the cover. He sold his creations online. To date, he had made twelve. Buyers never knew what he had hidden inside. That is, until the day one of his clocks fell off a wall and burst open.

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Her heels fiercely pounded the gravel of the parking lot. Passing eyes strained to ignore her. She screamed. The mother's face awash with calm and a soft smile, her hand outstretched to protect the girl’s head. Then the sound of terror transitioned to an endearing weep. The mother swept the girl up into her arms, squeezed her, absorbed her pain. And into their car they climbed, continuing on with their day.

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The radio filled the car with the sound of a reporter speaking French. A grocery store had run out of citrus. Elise glanced in worry at the bag of oranges on the passenger seat. Then a recording played, "Couvre-feu commencera à huit heures ce soir." It was 7:59. In a panic, she left her car in the middle of the road, just short of her driveway in the Los Angeles suburb. She hurried inside with oranges in hand and locked the deadbolt behind her.

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The suitcase felt heavy on her legs, but she refused to tuck it below her seat and continued to hug it desperately. The man stood on the platform staring at her through the window. For a moment, she thought he was about to step toward the train, attempt to stop her from leaving. But she was wrong. He hadn't moved, he never would. Thus she sat, alone with the weight of the case on her legs, and the weight of her heart on her shoulders.

1 of 365

“The best show is the one after the curtain falls,” the man said, leaning back in his chair and raising his glass. A matching chair lay in pieces on the linoleum floor. The woman snatched her scarf from around the man’s neck and stormed out the room. The air of her departure spiraled and swept the remaining script pages off the table and onto the floor. He chuckled, brought his glass to his lips, and downed the final drops of his drink.

PS365 Goal for 2012

I've spent the last month pondering what to do for this blog in 2012. I knew I wanted to change it up a bit, focus more on writing, find a way to hold myself accountable for writing everyday. Inspiration came by way of a interview I heard on NPR with the illustrator Lou Beach who had dreams of being a writer. In 2009, he began writing a story a day in his Facebook status box, using the maximum character allowance of the box as his maximum story length. Seeing how my own 365 photos of 2010, and the 52 composites of 2011, better honed my skill as a photographer, I figure a story a day with a cap on length is an excellent way to fine-tune my writing skills. At the very least, it will be an interesting journey in learning how to trim the ramblings of an often wordy writer. A story a day for 365 days. Maximum character allowance: 365 (spaces not included). Let the scribbling begin.

Happy New Year everyone!

P.S. I still plan to post photographs. Maybe they'll accompany the stories, maybe they won't. We'll just have to see what the year has in store.

Week Fifty-Two Part Two

Until next year...
Good tidings!

Week Fifty-Two Part One

Week Fifty-One Part 2

Week Fifty-One Part One

Week Fifty

Week 49

Week Forty-Eight

Week Forty-Seven

Week Forty-Six

Week Forty-Five

Week Forty-Four

Week Forty-Three

Week Forty-Two

Week Forty-One

Week Forty

Week 39

Week Thirty-Eight

Week Thirty-Seven

Week Thirty-Six Part Two

Week Thirty-Six Part One

Week Thirty-Five

Week Thirty-Four

Week Thirty-Three

Week Thirty-Two

Week Thirty-One

Week Thirty

Week 29

Week Twenty-Eight

Week Twenty-Seven

Week Twenty-Six

Week Twenty-Five

Week Twenty-Four

Week Twenty-Three

Week Twenty-Two