The Understanding

I'm taking a quick break from NaNoWriMo to let you know how honored and excited I am to have one of my flash fiction pieces featured on the blog of good friend and talented author, Thomas Pryce. Please hop on over to Cenozoic Publishing, check out my story "The Understanding" and also be sure to read Pryce's amazing work.

Tell him I sent ya!

Now back to resting my forehead on the keyboard, er, I mean writing a novel...

NaNoWriMo Day 6: Get 'er Done

Here I am on the sixth day of NaNoWriMo and I'm more determined than ever to finish despite my overloaded schedule. This harried writer has learned a thing or two about how to get it done: hair appointment? Bring the laptop. Dentist appointment? Bring the laptop. In a wedding? Bring the laptop (I promise, I just threw together a few sentences before the bride had her makeup on). I set my alarm earlier and write before work and then I write again when I come home. I'm a MACHINE!

Oh and there's another thing I learned: my first draft sucks! Forget pretty words, poetic descriptions, realistic dialogue and character development. Pshhh, that's for Non-NaNo-ers. Besides, I'm naturally a slow writer so all that stuff needs to go out the window right now. And no offense to me, but my previous style wasn't exactly pumping out novels. I'm here to get 'er done.

Speaking of which, I gotta go. Please forgive the short and pointless post. If you're NaNo-ing look me up! I'm Little_Light and I'd love to be your writing buddy. If you're not NaNo-ing please feel free to share some advice, inspiration or encouragement. I'm not sure I'll be quite this motivated by next week...

Panic

I recently submitted the following flash fiction story to a contest hosted in one of my favorite writing forums. The story was written years ago, but I thought of it when I saw the guidelines for the contest specified that the material should cause a "ruckus". Whether emotional turmoil or physical calamity, the point was to make the reader experience something extreme. Although this story looks like a screenplay and consists of only dialogue, I hoped it packed enough punch to satisfy the judge. The competition was steep. Many talented writers submitted well written material and I was honored to have my work be considered amongst theirs (to read the other submissions check out the writer's forum on craigslist.org and look for anything entitled Ruckus Entry). To my astonishment Panic was selected as the winning entry and I wanted to share the victory with my readers. 


Wishfulthinking123: I didn't always have these thoughts. I never considered myself suicidal, just...a little down. Sometimes I can't concentrate at work, like my head is in a cloud or something. Like I'm just going through the motions. [pushes hair behind ears, shifts in seat] So I sorta surf the web and screw around even though I shouldn't. That's how I found healthychat.com. It's a web site where people can get their feelings out and, I don't know … not feel so alone? That's where I met Panic_07. See, we have these usernames and we post in forums with them. I'm Wishfulthinking123.

Dr: Go on. [adjusts glasses]

Wishfulthinking123: Well, I didn't want anyone to know I was posting stuff on that site. I was afraid of what they'd think, ya know? I lived with Joe and -

Dr: Your boyfriend.

Wishfulthinking123: Yeah. And he came into the room while I was on the site once and he almost caught me. From then on I took my laptop to a coffee shop or something when I wasn’t at work.

Dr: Tell me more about Panic_07.

Wishfulthinking123: He was just a normal poster like the rest of us. [clears throat, looks down] He said he felt lonely even when he was with people. He said he had a hard time talking about it because everyone thought he was so strong and [swallow] happy.

Dr: Did you speak with him a lot?

Wishfulthinking123: Yeah, we wrote back and forth. I told him how I lived with my boyfriend and I couldn't tell him how I was feeling. He said he understood. Everyone in the forum liked him. He was so nice.

Dr: When did you know something wasn't right?

Wishfulthinking123: I didn't. No one did until it happened. I mean, we were ALL depressed so we didn't worry because he didn't say anything different from anyone else.

Dr: Until?

Wishfulthinking123: Until two days ago. [wipes tears from eyes, looks around room] I was feeling pretty awful and my boyfriend was in a bad mood so I took my laptop to a Starbucks across town. I needed to get away. I logged in and-

Dr: How many other users were logged in with you at the time? 

Wishfulthinking123: Two. Panic and Nothingman. I could see Panic was logged in but he wasn't saying anything. Me and Nothingman chatted for awhile about how we hate Sundays. [breaks down sobbing, takes deep breath and composes herself] Then Panic finally said something. He said 'I have a razor'. [cries more]

Dr: Do you want to take a break?

Wishfulthinking123: I think so.

[One hour later]

Dr: Are you sure you're ready to continue?

Wishfulthinking123: [nods]

Dr: What did you do when Panic said he had a razor?

Wishfulthinking123: I asked him why the hell he had it, what he was planning to do with it. He said he was tired of everything and that he couldn't pretend anymore. I tried to get him to talk. I didn't even think of calling the police. [shuts eyes, rests forehead on hands]

Dr: Then what.

Wishfulthinking123: He told me and Nothingman that he loved us and that he wished us well. He said he'd already begun... [starts sobbing again] and that it didn't hurt like he thought it would. He started telling us stuff like how he didn't have much money or anything like that so he never made out a will. He was saying all kinds of [hiccup] crazy stuff.

Dr: What else was he saying?

Wishfulthinking123: Me and Nothingman were trying to get him to call 911. We told him we loved him too and that we wanted him to live. Then Nothingman asked for Panic's address and he wouldn't answer. After a little while he said he wasn't answering 'cause he knew Nothingman was going to call the police, ya know? [takes deep breath] Then he just started rambling about how there was blood all over his arms and on his keyboard. Nothingman asked Panic if this was some kind of prank or a way to get attention.

Dr: What did Panic say?

Wishfulthinking123: He didn't even acknowledge us anymore. It's like he was talking to himself. He said he wasn't worried about his mom now that she was remarried and not alone anymore. He said he - he wasn't worried about his cat because his girlfriend would take care of it and that [cries, chokes back tears] that's when he said he wished he found a home for Brutus. [sobs] He never mentioned Brutus before.

Dr: Who is Brutus?

Wishfulthinking123: His [hiccup] snake. I must've ran three red lights on the way home but it still wasn't fast enough. How could I not have known? Three months on that web site and I didn't know. [takes deep, slow breaths. Tears stop and eyes become far away, voice monotone] He was sitting in his computer chair when I walked in. His face was blue. There was no pulse.

Dr: Why didn't you dial 911?

Wishfulthinking123: I did. But I hung up when they answered. He was gone. Long gone [stares into corner of room] I slapped his face and it was cold. I had nothing left, there was nothing left for me. I took his razor… and I just [starts breathing faster] I just...

Dr: What is it?

Wishfulthinking123: [gazes down at bandaged wrists] I just don't understand why I lived.

Fight Scene From Chapter Three of My Untitled Novel

I pick up my book bag from the corner of the gym, heft it over my shoulder and wait for Rob who has his back to me, talking quietly with Paul. The short, thin boy has a peculiar look on his face when he glances at me past Rob and shakes his head rapidly.

“Unless you don’t think you can take her.” Rob teases.

“I’m not going to fight a girl, I’ll break her.” Paul is incredulous. “You spar her.”

“I already have. And she’s good.” Rob answers. “Go easy. Just let her practice on you.”

            I want to drop my book bag and run but all I can do is stand there frozen. The rest of the boys mill around listening to the conversation, taking great care in folding up their wraps and leisurely sipping their water. My heart hammers and my throat my goes dry, pictures of Danny flashing behind my eyelids when I blink. I’d remain motionless if not for the rage that finds my legs and drives me out the door without looking back.

            “Hold on a sec,” he says to Paul and calls after me. “Marie!”

            My nostrils flare and my stubborn legs keep pushing forward. He calls me again and I hear his quick footsteps behind me. “Thanks a lot,” I whirl around to face him. “As if I didn’t get enough humiliation from Danny now I have to deal with you embarrassing me too.”

            “What are you talking about?”

             I turn to start walking again but he steps in front of me, blocking my way and I stare up into his clueless face. “Next time you want to put on a good show for your friends find someone else to screw with. I liked coming here. This was my favorite place and now you’ve messed it all up.”

            “Put on a good show? Are you kidding? You’d kill Paul and you know it. If there’s going to be a show it’s going to be a little girl beating on a dude.”

            “I couldn’t even hit Danny and I wanted to hit him! I’ve got nothing against Paul, how am I supposed to beat him up?”

            He coughs, ineffectively covering a laugh. “That’s not what sparring is about, you see us do it all the time. You know that. You’ve sparred with me haven’t you?”

            “That was different.” The edge of my anger dulls, revealing a churning layer of fear underneath it.

            “No it wasn’t.”

I sigh, looking past him at the entrance to the alley where only three months ago Rob rescued me from Danny while I stood pinned against a wall letting my fear win. “But why?” I ask him. “Why bother setting up a sparring match with Paul?”

            “Because it’s going to be funny as hell when you beat him.”

            “I’m not going to beat him.” I glare at Rob and his stupid grin.

            “Just trust me, will ya?” He turns me by the shoulders and shoves me forward.

            “Fine.” I concede. “But this is going to be a disaster.”

            “I wouldn’t hurt you. You’re like the little brother I never had.”

            “Shut up.” I shove his arm away when he playfully puts it around my shoulder.

            We walk back to the gym where Rob wraps my hands and lets me borrow his gloves, which look big and silly on my scrawny arms. He fits me with headgear that smells like the dried sweat of the dozens of boys that have already used it. If anything, Paul is even more reluctant than I was but eventually gives in with Rob assuring him the whole time that he’s just helping me practice. We stand in our respective corners on opposite sides of the mat and cautiously step toward each other after Rob yells “ding ding” to signal the beginning of the round.

            All I can hear is the sound of my own breathing as Paul and I stare at each other from the black padded cages around our faces. With an awkward smile, he throws a deliberately weak right hand and doesn’t even hit me in the face with it. He aims it purposely to the side of my head so I could easily block it, which I do and return the gesture with a slow punch of my own. 

            “Come on guys,” Rob says. “Let’s go. This is a fight, not a ballet.” 

            Paul throws a slow left hook, which I answer with a gentle body shot and he nods approvingly. If only he’d stop being so nice maybe I could punch him for real. I play with my distance, shuffling backward and forward until I find my reach. He completely misses the next punch as I get more comfortable with my head movement and easily bob out of the way. He misses the next and the next despite his increasing speed, both of which I counter with light jabs to the padding on his face. His smile fades into a look of concentration as his punches start coming with more force and he lands one on the side of my head throwing me off balance.

“Sorry.” He doesn’t have time to finish the word before my glove lands against his nose. All of the guys begin laughing and cheering me on, Rob’s voice barely audible over the din telling me to circle to the left away from Paul’s more powerful arm.

            I move toward him and hit him with a series of body punches, taking advantage of the elbows he always forgets to tuck in. I parry his jab and counter with a straight right followed by a fast right to the body. Our force escalates with each exchange, the sound getting louder along with the voices of the onlookers. A strange feeling comes over me, the fear that quaked in my legs converts into energy that rushes through my veins and propels my fists into Paul’s sides, stomach and head. He answers with punches that are hard enough to surprise me when they land…luckily not many of them do.

            Somewhere in the back of my mind I’m remembering the conversations Rob and I have had about the boys in his class and their various weaknesses. I recall our discussion of Paul and his haphazard blocking and tendency to telegraph his punches. His right arm rears back and I dance out of the way, jumping back into the pocket and sneaking a powerful right hook that whips his head to the side. He swears and his face flushes pink under the spattering of freckles across his nose. The guys go crazy, clapping and calling out to me, not one of them rooting for Paul.

“Shut up, I can’t concentrate!” He yells to their obvious delight.

            He advances toward me, catching me with a combination of hooks and body shots that make me back up several steps but he keeps coming. For a moment I’m overwhelmed by the flurry of punches rocking me side to side and hold my arms in front of my face trying to get my bearings. My lungs are burning, my arms tingly where his gloves hit my skin. I can feel his confidence build as his arms swing back and forth sloppily raining punches. But the problem with too much confidence is that it makes people forgetful. I tune out the chaos of voices, absorb the punishment, and step to the side. Paul is so focused on hitting me that I easily sneak a left jab to the body. Just as I thought, he brings his arms down to block it leaving his face open for me to throw everything I have into a right uppercut. My fist hits him squarely on the chin and sends him stumbling backwards.

            “Ding ding.” Rob can hardly be heard over the cacophony of laughing and applause for the little girl that just beat a dude. 

            I bite the Velcro straps, pull the gloves from my wrists and wrestle off my headgear, grinning in triumph.

Paul throws his arms out from his sides and shrugs, still red faced. “You told me to go easy!”

            “Little brother!” Rob laughs and slaps my back. The other guys give me playful shoves and high-fives, catching on to the nickname, saying “nice work, little brother,” as they slowly file out the door. Paul gives up on trying to get anyone to listen to him and shakes his head as he walks out. 

            My heart is still pounding and my cheeks are sore from grinning, I’m so elated I don’t even mind be called little brother. I did it, I didn’t chicken out. If only Rob hadn’t scared off Danny I could finally do the same thing to him and show him that I’m not going to let anyone mess with me anymore.

            “Told ya.” Rob finishes unraveling his hand wraps and stuffing the material unceremoniously into the opening of one of his gloves.

            “Yeah. Guess you did.” I grab a paper towel from the dispenser on the wall to dry off my sweaty face and feel a sudden pang of guilt for getting so angry with him. “Sorry.”

            “Don’t worry about it. I’m gonna catch up with the guys. Are you cool walking home by yourself?”

            “Yeah I’m good. Thanks.”  I dig through my book bag for my cell phone with weak arms and text Bailey, “Just beat up a BOY.” I hit the send button with trembling fingers and throw my bag over my shoulders.

Chapter Two of My Novel...(still deciding on the title)

(click here to read chapter one)

“Hey!” Joey drops my bike on the ground and starts toward Rob but stops short at his stare, daring Joey to come closer.

If I hadn’t known the minimum age of fifteen for boxing classes, it still would’ve been easy to see that Rob is at least a few years older than us by his solid squared shoulders and the assured jut of his chin. Instead of swarming the younger boys with his fists he stares down at them with as much authority as any adult I’ve ever seen. “Get outta here,” is all he says and Danny’s façade of cockiness, by way of trash talking and mouthing off, is betrayed by his immediate obedience.

The boys make a ruckus as they leave. They pick up a large stick and a chain and hit the side of the dumpster, trying to provoke Rob to come at them again but he doesn’t. He observes their little tantrum with a cool smile and says nothing, but waves while they walk backwards out of the alley taunting him all the while.

“That kid is an idiot.” Rob says when they’re gone.

“Yeah.” I agree.

“I’ll walk you home so they don’t bug you again.”

“Oh that’s ok, I’ll be fine.”

“I live right next to you. So I have to walk that way anyway.” He doesn’t wait for me to answer, just starts walking and says over his shoulder “Come on.”

 I pick up my bike and take a couple of quick steps to catch up, my admiration and elation dampened by embarrassment. Not only did I chicken out when it came to punching Danny, but Rob witnessed it and had to step in to save me. He unravels his right hand wrap as we walk, rolling it neatly.

            “How did you do that?”

            “Do what?”

            “Punch him that hard and that fast. I don’t think I could ever punch like that. It’s like you came out of nowhere.”

            “I don’t know. Practice I guess.”

            It’s strange talking to him after watching him all this time. Well, not watching him exactly but watching his boxing class. When he and his father first moved into the other side of our little two-family house three months ago I thought he was going to be like Danny. He walked with his head up and didn’t seem afraid of anything. Like the boys at school who think they’re so great and purposely trip poor Edwin Courtney because he knows all the answers in class. But if I wasn’t certain before, I’m sure now that Rob’s nothing like Danny. I recall him smiling and waving to the boys while they armed themselves and backed out of the alley as if they couldn’t afford to let him out of their sight. It’s no wonder that no one in our neighborhood picks on him, he can make anyone look stupid without trying.  I wish I could do that. 

            “Aren’t you supposed to be reading magazines and talking on the phone or something?” He interrupts my thoughts.

            “Huh?”

            “Why are you watching boxing classes instead of doing whatever it is girls do?” He spits to his left and sets to work on his left hand wrap.

            “Me and my friend Bailey always do girl stuff.” I dodge his question. How can I say that I was trying to learn to fight when he literally just watched me stare dumbly at Danny when I should’ve hit him?

            As if reading my thoughts, “You wanted to hit him didn’t you.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Is that why you’ve been watching our class? You want to fight?”

More like have to, I think. Just when my embarrassment was starting to recede it swells again. “No, no I couldn’t do that.” Then I realize that if I’m not watching the class because I want to fight then he’ll assume like Bailey that it’s because I like him and that’s even more embarrassing. “Well yes I wanted to learn to fight, but I don’t think I can. I’m not cut out for it.”

            “No one starts off cut out for it.”

            “They don’t?”

            “No way, it’s hard work. And you have a lot of time to build up your stamina. You’re only what, eleven?”

            “Twelve.” We step out into the street and a car has to swerve out of the way to avoid hitting us. The driver yells out their window and Rob replies by holding up his middle finger.

            “Only twelve. See? That’s tons of time to learn.” Something about the way he says only twelve makes me stand a little taller.

            “I guess. As long as I can avoid Danny.” I pull self consciously at the plastic bracelets on my wrist.

            Rob falls quiet and thinks about this. “True,” he says after awhile and by then we’re at the front stoop of the house. I walk into the door on the right and step back out, realizing my rudeness. “Hey Rob,” I call. His door is about to swing shut but stops though he doesn’t open it or poke his head around. “Thanks a lot.” I say to the door.

            “No problem.” It slowly shuts with a click.

            “How was your day?” Mom asks as she steps out of her car, her trusty brown leather purse slung over her shoulder.

            “Fine.” I answer.

            “How was the boxing class?” She detours from her path to the back door and sits beside me on the porch swing, examining my face. “What’s wrong?”

            “I went there but I’m never going again.” I fill her in on everything that happened, even my stupid shadow boxing in the alley and failure to hit Danny. Mom tightens her brightly painted lips and they disappear as they always do when I mention his name. She hates him as much as I do, even though she doesn’t say it. And what’s worse is that his cow of a mother never answers the door when my mother knocks. Maybe mom should come watch the boxing classes too. She might like to use those moves when Mrs. Cow finally comes to the door. I tell her all about Rob and she fights a smile when I get to the part about him decking Danny.

            “I’m sorry honey,” She sighs when I finish. “You did the right thing by trying to walk away from Danny. Punching him wasn’t the answer.”

            “Of course it was the answer. I’ve walked away from him a million times, it’s never helped. At least this time he was the one to walk away.”

            “Violence shouldn’t be an option. That’s not how I raised you.” The absence of conviction in her voice and glint in her eye tells me all I need to know.

            “Maybe that’s not how you raised me but you’re glad someone hit him.”

            “Of course not!”

            “Admit it. See? You’re laughing!”

            “Fine!” She throws her arm around me and kisses the top of my head. “I’m glad our new neighbor punched the snot out of that boy.”

            “Me too.”

She grabs my hand and pulls me from the swing. “Get up. Help me make some burgers and hotdogs on the grill. Better yet, go invite Rob and his father over for dinner. It’s the least we can do.”

            “No one does that stuff anymore mom. People don’t welcome other people to the neighborhood with plates of cookies or invite them over for dinner when they beat up their daughter’s arch enemy.”

            “Would you rather I friend them on the Facebook?” She smirks and knows she’s won.

            “NO!”

            “Then go. I’ll get the grill lit.” I skip down the back steps. “And for your information they loved my cookies!” She yells after me.

            I thank God that Rob’s father answers the door when I knock. He accepts the invitation with a smile and shows up fifteen minutes later in a different shirt, clean shaven, with Rob trailing behind him.

            “Hi Maryanne.”

“Charles, so glad you came.” Mom smiles and he extends half a gallon of mint chocolate chip ice cream. “Perfect! I forgot about dessert.” Mom takes the ice cream and sweeps back into the house to put it in the freezer.  It’s the first time I get the hint of a feeling that one day her consistent cheerfulness might annoy me, but for now I can deal.

Charles smoothes his shirt absently and looks a little lost so I gesture to the set of white plastic chairs opposite the porch swing and tell him that he and Rob can sit there. Rob nods at me and sits and I wonder if his dad forced him to come or if he came willingly. We regard each other quietly, I can’t think of much to say so it’s a relief when mom comes back out onto the porch with a plate of hotdogs in one hand, a plate of burger patties balancing on her forearm, her other arm loaded with spices and cups of lemonade for our guests.

The spill happens in slow motion. The plate of burgers teeters to one side, she overcompensates by leaning to the left and two of the dogs roll off the side of their plate. Reflexively, she tries to catch the dogs and drops the spices along with one of the cups of lemonade while the plate of burgers tumbles to the floor of the porch. The remaining hotdogs land beside the hamburger meat with two light thuds before Charles can reach them. He stands there, half out of his chair staring at my mom who still holds an empty plate in her right hand with one salvaged glass of lemonade pressed securely between her left arm and ribs but the liquid has sloshed all over her shirt.

I would die. I would just die. But since it’s not me, I do what anyone else would do and shriek with laughter until my mom looks at me and dissolves into one of her giggle fits that could last indefinitely. Charles and Rob look from my mother to me and back again before they too can’t hold it in and the four of us are howling loud enough for the nosy old lady in the house next door to peek through her blinds at all the fuss. When we’ve caught our breaths Charles and my mom both bend down to pick up the damaged food.

“Pizza?” Charles suggests and the giggles start again. “No really, I’m hungry.”

Mom stands, her cheeks rosy, lifts her chin and turns toward the house with the plates of dirty meat in her hands. “Only if you’re buying.” She says over her shoulder with a smirk.

            “I’d be glad to.” He says almost to himself.

Excerpt from the first chapter of my novel...

          The synchronized punches against the bags are like a tribal drumbeat echoing into the alleyway. Thwack, thwack, boom, boom. The rhythm keeps its pace as the instructor calls out to his students, each stationed at his own heavy bag, “Jab, straight, hook, hook!” For three full minutes the four boys swing their gloved fists obediently, finding their groove with not one of them falling behind. Thwack, thwack, boom, boom. Lulled into a daze by the repetitious sound I don’t notice the instructor, who usually takes no notice of me, waving a five dollar bill in my face.

            “Get us some water, will ya?” I jump at the sound of his voice, grab the five dollars without a word and run two doors down to the dark, shabby store with neon letters that spell “Convenience” hanging in the window. I make a beeline for the fridge in the back and hip check a stand of Hostess cupcakes because my eyes haven’t adjusted to the dark store. Good thing nothing falls because I probably wouldn’t have stopped to pick it up. Five waters loaded into my arms, I zoom past my favorite aisle, the magazines, and almost forget to pay the sleepy cashier before running out the door.

            Panting, I return to the smell of dirty socks and beam when the instructor tells me to drop the waters on the floor. When he says nothing more I take my seat back on the wide windowsill next to a wobbling fan with a folded piece of cardboard underneath it failing to keep it stable. There’s a steady tap, tap, tap where the side of the fan grazes the wall. It’s annoying but it’s better than the sound that the air conditioner made just before it broke two weeks ago. Not that it worked well to begin with.

            It’s a small group today. Sometimes there are almost a dozen boys lined up for the Thursday afternoon boxing class with their hands wrapped and headgear ready to go. On those days there aren’t enough heavy bags so they spar with each other or get stuck doing push ups and kickbacks while they wait their turn to step into the “ring” which is really just the middle of the floor. The four boys here now are the real talent. No one else would be here on such a hot day, especially the fat kid who kind of looks like a buck-toothed donkey and only shows up when his friends make him go. Or the senior who comes every other Tuesday who is so tall he doesn’t know what to do with his ridiculous limbs. No, this class is the real thing. They don’t mess around, they’re quick and twitchy like the boxers on TV and they’re never late. I know this because I’m never late either. Not that I get any credit for being here, seeing how I’m still three years too young to take the class. Oh and I’m a girl, there’s that too - the instructor doesn’t teach girls.

            But Rob. He’s the one who is something special. He tries more, catches on just a touch faster and hits just a little harder than the others. Sometimes he stays late asking the instructor questions or practicing whatever they learned that day. He’s not even super tall or muscular like some of the boys who come in and think they’re already boxers. When those types of boys step into the ring for their first sparring match the instructor nods at Rob to be their partner. Not many come back when that happens. Best of all, he lives right next to me.

            Bailey came here with me once and thought it was boring. I pointed out Rob to her, “Look there’s my neighbor. He’s the best in the class”.

            “Is that the one you have a crush on?” She had asked.

            “No. I don’t like him like that, he’s way older than me and he has a big nose.” I answered.

            “So you like the skinny one?”

            “No.”

            “The blond one? He’s cute.”

            “No”.

            “Then why do you come here? Are you going to be a boxer or something?”

            “No. I just like to watch.” She didn’t get it. Not that I was helping her get it. I didn’t want to tell her that the reason I come here is Danny and not because I like him. Actually I want to learn how to punch him. He’s the boy who told the whole neighborhood that my mom is on welfare, the boy that kept running over the poor dying mouse in my driveway with his bike until its guts were everywhere no matter how I cried for him to stop. He’s the jerk who threw his sandwich at the ground by my feet last Saturday and told me to pick up my food stamps.

            The boys break for a drink of water and go through one more grueling round of combinations. Droplets of sweat bead at the end of Rob’s dark hair, dripping down his glowing red cheeks and fall onto his shirt, which is already soaked to the skin. Boom, boom, thwack. Tap, tap, tap the fan punctuates the rhythm like a hyper metronome. During the last minute two of the boys slow their pace and one stops to lean his gloves on his knees and catch his breath while Rob pushes on.

            “Nice work Red, finish strong!” The instructor calls no one by their first name. He has a nickname for everyone and if he has a new student he just calls him New Guy.  The other boys see they’re being showed up by Rob yet again and throw some half hearted hits to the bag for the rest of the round. “Keep going, keep going. Ten seconds left.” Rob’s bag jerks back and forth with every punch. “Don’t lose it, that’s it. And…done!”

              The boys drop to the floor, arms and legs splayed, making sweat angels on the mat.

“Your face is as red as a cherry.” one of the boys needles Rob between gasps.

“Shut up.”

I slip from the windowsill back into the alley and retrieve my bike from where I hid it behind a dumpster. Taking a quick glance around and confirming the alley is empty, I throw a few punches at the air and hear the sounds in my mind as I hit the imaginary bag. I pause to check my stance and posture and throw more straight rights toward the wall, sure to turn my hand just so before my arm is fully extended and tucking my left hand by my chin. I could do it, I think. I could hit him. Next time he thinks he can—

Clunk. Something small hits me in the head. No sooner do I see a pebble bouncing onto the ground when a larger one pelts me again. It must be Danny and he’s not alone. He never bothers me when he’s alone.

His laugh bounces along the concrete of the alley as he leans down to grab at another piece of gravel. “Let’s see some of those moves again, Marie.” He throws the gravel at my bike.

“Quit it.”

“Come on, you were really good.” His friend chimes in behind him, the left side of his mouth curling up when he speaks.

I know better than to think they’ll let me get away but I turn my back to them and start toward the street.

“What’s wrong, don’t you want to show off your moves? You can try them on me if you want.” Danny catches up and walks along my right, his friend on my left.

Do it, I urge myself. I know how, all I have to do is punch him like I’ve seen the boys do a million times. I imagine his surprise if I actually popped him in the eye. He would leave me alone after that, I’m sure. His face is so close, there’s nothing to stop me from swinging at him. I hadn’t expected to be caught off guard like this though; I thought I could prepare myself a little more. Before I have a chance to work up my courage, he grabs at my handlebars and yanks the bike out of my grasp.

“Give it back!” I demand.

“What are you gonna do, punch me?” He gets on my bike and rides slow circles around me while the other boy cracks up.

My heart pounds and my mouth goes dry. “Give it back.” I say again but my voice catches in my throat and cracks.

“Ok, ok, I can see you’re getting upset. I’ll stop.” Danny slows and swings his leg from around the seat. It doesn’t feel right when he leans the bike toward me and invites me to take the handlebars. It’s a good thing I don’t bother to reach for them because he retracts them right away and says “Joey, you want a turn?”

“Sure!” The black haired boy hops onto the seat and rides toward the other end of the alley.

Dread twists in my stomach as Danny steps closer to me and with a mocking tone once again invites me to hit him. I eye the freckle below his left eye and form my hands into sweaty fists but they remain locked by my sides. This is not how fights are supposed to go. They don’t begin with one person practicing by themselves and the opponent they were imagining suddenly stepping in. No, this isn’t right at all. I know I look stupid. I know my reaction, which is to stand and stare at him and try not to cry, is only going make him pick on me more. It’s hard to stop the tears forming in my eyes when he starts laughing and putting his fists up, making fun of my stance. I blink them back, tighten my fists and steady my shaking legs. He dances back and forth in front of me like a drunken boxer.

“Hit me!” He taunts and steps forward.

For every step he takes forward I back up until I can feel the wall of the gym behind me.

He whoops and laughs, dodging the punches I haven’t thrown while his friend still sits on my bike urging him on. “Hit me!” He yells again.

The fist comes from my left and lands so hard against that freckle that Danny is on the ground before he figures out that his legs aren't underneath him anymore. It happens so fast that for a fraction of a second I wonder if I hit him myself. He cups his eye and rolls around squinting up into the sun until Rob's shadow falls across him.

                  

Lost

"Excuse me…I'm a little lost. Could you help me?" Ted dug his hands deep in his pockets and looked up at the barely dressed woman in four inch red stilettos.

She took a long drag on her cigarette. "No."

"Oh, um. Are you sure 'cause I'm just looking for—"

"Move on!" She bellowed and blew the smoke in his face.

"Gotcha!" He hurried along. This is ridiculous, he grumbled. How could I have taken a wrong turn? Is it supposed to be this hard?   

The hallways were white and clean, which he liked, and lined with numbered doors. He stared at the numbers, wondering what they meant and praying that he would find directions before he got desperate enough to knock on one of them. Every so often there was a clock hanging on the wall and much to Ted's confusion each one read 4:59. After what felt like a half hour of walking he came upon a man in steel toed boots and a leather jacket with a skull on the back. He was fumbling with a key, trying to get into door number 1325 and swearing under his breath.

"Excuse me?"

The man didn't answer but took the key out and shoved it in the lock again angrily.

"Excuse me?" Ted tried again.

"WHAT?! Can't ya see I'm busy here?"

"Sorry."

Ted was about to walk away and try his luck on someone else when the man narrowed his eyes and asked, "What's with your face?"

"My face?" Ted touched the sticky film on his cheek and followed it up to the gaping wound in his head. He felt the spongy, slippery matter of his brain as it oozed out from his skull. "Oh that," he laughed sheepishly. "Bicycle accident."

The man grunted.

"See, I was riding my bike and I didn't see the bus coming. I don't remember anything after the impact except for a bright white light. So, well, I went towards it of course. The problem is I think I took a wrong turn somewhere and—"

"You got LOST on the way to the LIGHT? BWAHAHAHAHAHAH!" The man laughed until he hacked and coughed, then laughed some more. "How stupid do you have to be to get lost on the way to the light?" Once again he roared with laughter and slapped his knee. "Ya know, I don't usually help sorry lookin' types like yourself but now that you say that-I think you need all the help you can get!" He slapped Ted's back playfully, a small wad of brain landing on the man's shoe. "Damnit!"

"Sorry about that." Ted reached self consciously toward his head.

"No worries. Nothin these shoes ain't seen before! Anyway, you wanna make your way down this hallway here until you see a door labeled waiting room. They oughtta be able to help you there."

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

"No prob, bro. Take care of yourself."

Ted walked on for what seemed like another hour. With each step he was increasingly worried that he missed his only shot of getting into the white light. Finally, when he doubted that the burly man had helped him at all, he saw a door with a sign that read Waiting Room.

The room was filled with cubicles and inside each cubicle was nothing but a phone. Now what?! Ted walked around the room searching for an unoccupied cubicle although when he got one he had no idea what he'd do. A clock larger than he had ever seen hung on the far wall. Like the others, it still read 4:59.

"Tell her I think of her all the time…" An old woman rasped into a phone and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.

"Tell her if she marries that low-life I will roll over in my grave!" A man a few rows over yelled. "Of course you can tell her that! I didn't raise her to settle down with an unemployed, useless fool. Tell her that too! Yes you can! What kind of medium are you? Well then give her money back because I didn't raise to her to be- HEY! Hello? Hello?" The man slammed the phone down and stormed from the waiting room.

Ted took the seat and looked around helplessly before spotting a laminated sign tacked to the cubicle wall. It read:

Priest: Dial 1

Medium: Dial 2

Still not clear on how this was supposed to help him, he dialed zero.

"Thank you for using AT&T, how may I direct your call?"

"Um..." Ted looked around still searching for an answer but no other signs were posted. "Heaven please?"

"Please hold."

The line clicked and there was a moment of silence followed by a long series of Beethoven scores.

"Heaven, how may I help you?"

Ted, who had been dozing to the music jumped at the sound of someone's voice. "Yes! Hi! Um, I was on my way towards the light and I think I took a wrong turn or something…"

"You what?" The receptionist suppressed a giggle. "You got lost on the way toward the light?" At this she couldn't control herself anymore. She cupped her hand over the mouth piece and spoke to someone in the background. "Hey Mary, get a load of this: a guy thinks he took a wrong turn on the way to the light. I know, I know. Seriously. You still there?" She returned to the phone.

"Well I have no where else to go now do I." He checks himself for using a smart tone with who could possibly be the only person that can help him. "Yes, I'm still here."

"Well I'm not sure you what you want me to do…" She started to laugh again.

"This isn't funny. It's actually quite frustrating. I need to get to the light, I'm stuck in….in…"

"Purgatory?"

"I think so."

"Well there's no such thing."

"There has to be such thing, I'm there."

"No, you can't be there."

"I am telling you I'm there."

"Sorry, but I wasn't raised Catholic."

"Whatever!" Ted yelled. "Just get me to the light!"

"There is no need to yell!" She snapped.

"Can't you transfer me to Peter or Paul or something?" More stressed than ever, Ted tried to run his fingers through his hair but dug them into a mess of viscous goop. "This is bullsh-."

"Profanity is not tolerated on this line sir."

"Sorry."

"Look, Peter is on break and Paul never answers his pages. Let me see if David can help you."

"Fine. David. That's fine."

The classical music returned for another long while before an ancient sounding man with a raspy, tired voice picked up the phone. "Moses speaking." The man spoke slowly.

"Oh I was waiting for...uh...never mind. Hello Moses." Ted explained his dilemma, detailing the bicycle accident, his vision of the light and the hallways through which he journeyed and finally his conversation with the receptionist. He waited for an answer. "Hello?" he said into the phone when he was met with silence. "Hello?"

Snoring.

No way. That's not fair! "Heeellllooo!!" He screamed trying to wake Moses but the man continued to snore. The woman in the cubicle next to him shushed him. "Moses! Wake up! Please!" He pressed all the buttons and yelled more to no avail. The room shook with the thunderous sound of a gong as the clock struck five. He slammed the phone down, picked it up again and dialed zero.

"Thank for using AT&T, how may I direct your call?"

"Heaven. Connect me to Heaven." 

"Please hold."

The line clicked just like before however Beethoven did not come back on. Instead, Ted was met by an automated message. "Thank you for calling heaven. Our business hours are between 8am and 5pm. If you are receiving this message please hang up and try your call again during our hours of operation."

Ted hung up the phone with a shaking hand. Calm down, he told himself. Calm down. I'll get some shut eye and in the morning I'll just try again. He stood, still staring at the phone.

"You ok, dude?" A young man with a bandana around his head and large, gaping hole in his chest was standing by the cubicle, apparently waiting to use the phone.

"Yeah." Ted answered, dazed. "Heaven's closed…gotta call back tomorrow…"

"Boy! Sucks to be you!" The man pushed him aside and laughed as he picked up the phone. "Days around here last ten thousand years ya know…"