SHORT STORY: A Bag of Rocks

I could see even from the other end of the street that the man’s gait was unsteady and slow. I imagined that he had been walking for some time. I thought I might help him get to his destination. Maybe get some karma points or whatever. I could probably use a few.

I had time. And I had seen him before. I pulled up next to him just as he reached the intersection. He was a smaller fellow, clad in a navy hoodie and cargo pants, worn backpack slung behind one shoulder. Older than me, but not old.

“Good morning,” I said as the passenger side window slid down.

He turned my way slowly and looked at me blankly, not slowing his gait a bit.

“‘Morning,” he said with a curt nod.

“Can I give you a lift somewhere?” I glanced down the street to see if any traffic was coming.

He stopped walking. “A lift?” It was as if the entire concept was foreign.

“Yeah, a lift,” I said as I came to a stop. “I can give you a ride. I can take you to wherever you’re going.”

Again with the blank look. “I… I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re walking,” I pointed out. “You must be going somewhere.”

“I’m just walking. That’s all.”

He slid the backpack off his shoulder. It hit the sidewalk with a resounding thump. The man massaged his shoulder. Whatever he was carrying was apparently quite heavy.

“So, um…” I looked in my rear-view mirror. Another SUV was approaching. “You… you don’t need a ride anywhere.”

The man shook his head. “Just out walking.”

“I see. Okay.”

The SUV pulled up behind. I heard the bleat of the horn. Time to move on.

“Alright, well…” I offered a perfunctory wave. “Have a good day, sir.”

I saw as I drove off that he offered his own wave.

I made it to the office early, about twenty minutes before my scheduled time. I made a pot of coffee. I poured my own cup, adding a dash of cream and more than a dash of sugar. I checked my email and perused Facebook. Upon punching in, I continued coding the mobile app that I had been working on. I was still struggling with how to integrate our database with e-commerce functionality so that customers could order parts directly from the app. Properly calculating shipping and handling, then adding that to the subtotal, was getting a bit messy.

I would probably figure it out, though. I usually did.

I chose to head straight home, rather than stop at the grocery store on the way. I had a couple of microwave meals in the freezer. I would just go tomorrow.

I turned down my street and saw a phalanx of emergency vehicles, lights flashing, as well as a group of onlookers nearby. I pulled into my driveway and as I got out of my vehicle saw a neighbor kid walk by, heading away from the crowd.

“Hey,” I called out. “What happened?”

“Some dude got hit by a car, I guess. They drove off. Cops are looking for witnesses.”

I nodded a curt thank you and headed towards the crowd. Patty, from two doors down, saw me approach.

“It’s terrible,” she said. “Just terrible. That poor man…”

“Was it someone from the neighborhood?” I asked her, but she was too overcome to speak.

I maneuvered my way into the center of the crowd. I saw a police officer and an EMS guy crouched over a still figure on the ground. A pool of blood issued from the left side of his head.

“I heard the car just tear down the street,” my next door neighbor, Albert, said to another officer, a younger guy who I imagined was a rookie. The Rookie hurriedly scribbled notes as Albert spoke. “I heard a screech and then a thump and that’s when I looked out my front window.”

“Did you see the vehicle?” the officer asked.

“I did,” Albert said. “A black Camaro. I think a 2016. I know my cars. I used to work in the service department at--”

“Did you get a plate number?”

“No,” Albert said softly. “Sorry.”

The EMS stood and I looked down to see the face of the walking man from this morning, the side of his head drenched in blood, his jaw askew.

Somehow I knew it would be him.

Yet another police officer, a big, beefy fellow with a booming voice, addressed the crowd. “Does anyone here know this man? Does he…” A pause. “Did he live in this neighborhood?”

His question was met only with murmured nos. I decided to speak up.

“I don’t know him,” I said. “Not really. I offered him a ride this morning. He said no. He said he was just walking around.”

Patty spoke up. “I’ve seen him, a couple times. Walking around. I never offered him a ride, though.” She took a deep breath. “That poor man. That poor, poor man.”

The Rookie stepped over and joined our circle.

“No ID on him,” he said to the other officer. “No wallet. Nothing. But I did find this.”

He hefted a backpack. The heavy backpack from this morning.

“What’s in it?” the other officer said.

The Rookie pulled it open and they peered inside.

“The hell is this?” the officer said. He reached into the bag and pulled out a rock. Then another. He looked at the Rookie quizzically.

The Rookie shook his head. “I thought maybe… amateur geologist or something? But half of this is just gravel. Dude was carrying around a bag of rocks. A nutjob, I guess, huh?”

No immediate reply told the Rookie that perhaps he misspoke.

“Well, he has to have some family somewhere,” the officer finally said.

The Rookie nodded slightly and stood there, silent, holding a bag of rocks.

I went home after a few minutes and popped a spaghetti and meatballs frozen dinner into the microwave. I looked at Facebook on my phone while I waited the four minutes and thirty seconds it took to heat it up. I saw that Beth was in Cozumel-- AGAIN-- with that rich asshole. They had posted some pictures. She still looked good. He still looked like a rich asshole.

The next day, I didn’t get to work too early… just a couple of minutes before start time. Somebody had already made coffee. I told Keith about the guy and the bag of rocks.

“Weird,” he muttered and turned back to his screen. He was coding a new page for the company website. Easy work if you can get it, I thought.

I was still on the shipping and handling issue with the app. I could finally get it to show up on screen, but now the drop down for the different shipping options didn’t work.

I would probably figure it out, though.

I usually did.

Please enjoy this story I wrote

The one voice sounded like hundreds.

Some yelling in anger.

Some screaming in pain or fright.

Some with unbearable grief caught in their throats.

Some with a soft lilt.

you are well and truly fucked. you understand this, right?

I took a step back. Another. Another. I was against the wall.

you understand this, do you not?

The voice wanted an answer.

More insistent: do you understand me?

I drew a long, slow, and deep breath. I hesitated. I needed to sound strong, and not squeak out a reply.

“No,” I finally said. “No.”

no?

I crossed and uncrossed my arms. “No.”

YOU HAVE CHALLENGED ME

The voice surrounded me.

THAT WILL PROVE TO BE A MISTAKE

The voice enveloped me.

YOU WILL UNDERSTAND

And it rose, glowing in anger, casting a blood red glow about my living room. I slid right as his eyes tracked me. Perhaps I could make it to a window and make an escape.

STAY

A tendril, somehow glowing in a sleek obsidian, shot forth. I dodged. It struck the wall next to my head, missing by mere inches.

you will stay

Another black tendril. This one had apparently slid across the floor, unbeknownst to me, and slid up my back to wrap around my neck and lift me off the floor.
you will stay

My breath came only in short, ragged gasps. I grabbed the tendril with both hands and tried to pull it away from my neck.

you will STAY

My feet dangled a nearly a meter from the floor. I had no breath left. The world began to fade.

.

.

.

.

I held my daughter for the first time. Her eyes flickered open and locked with mine.

.

.

Her eyes locked with mine.

“You’re a hypocrite, Dad,” she shouted, her cheeks stained by cheers. “A hypocrite!”

I balled my fist and slammed it into

.

.

the mirror. I held the refracted, fractured gaze of my doppelganger. I glanced down at my bloodied fist and ever so gingerly pulled the shard of glass from my knuckle. I looked up again at the sad, broken face before me and

.

.

and said

.

.

.

“enough”

.

.

.

enough of this

.

With nothing left in me, I still managed to grab the tendril and

.

.

.

.

.

I pulled. I pulled

with one shrill voice it said: no stop

I pulled harder than I thought possible

NO STOP

I suddenly found myself a heap on the floor. The tendril haphazardly waved about above me.

.

Slowly, I managed to stand.

Though all I could muster was a hoarse whisper: “Enough.”

The red glow became purple then blue and finally began to fade back into the dark. I braced myself against the wall. I looked out the window, spotted with rain.

“Enough.”

Some Awesome Writing Books

I recently tore through one of those books that I probably should have read years ago. It’s The War of Art, and was written by man named Stephen Pressfield. You may not know his name, but you probably know his work… he is the author of (among many other books) The Legend of Bagger Vance, on which the popular movie was based.

The book is about Resistance (always capitalized, as if it were a pronoun). Resistance is one of those odd forces of nature that we never talk about but always experience. It pulls you down with the weight of an anvil and inhibits writing, art, and all manner of goals and dreams. The first part of The War of Art puts you face-to-face with Resistance and helps you understand this mystery. The second half of the book gives you some guidance on how to face it down and (ideally) overcome it.

This book is not for everyone. It takes a deep dive into some Jungian philosophy (a far cry from the pop-psych insights one typically sees today). There is no bullet-pointed “action plan” or “Seven Splendiforous Ways to Overcome Your Creative Blocks”. The War of Art is philosophy, psychology, and memoir (and it’s heartening that such a well-regarded author has faced the very same demons and struggles that I have), a hearty buffet of food for thought.

It’s not a long book. It is certainly worth a read for any writer, artist, or entrepreneur.

Now onto the kinda/ sorta similarly titled (but very different) book, The Art of War for Writers. James Scott Bell is one of my very favorite writers that writes about writing. He takes the concepts that Chinese general Sun Tzu put forth in his perennial masterpiece, The Art of War, and applies them to the writing game.

This book is divided into three parts… Reconnaissance, Tactics, and Strategy. The Reconnaissance section concerns itself with an overarching view of one’s writing career and mentality. Tactics covers the particulars of writing good fiction, while Strategy tackles the business aspects of one’s writing career. The individual chapters are short and to the point.

The Art of War for Writers is well worth a read and ideal for keeping within reach of your writing space.

The Nighttime Novelist is an excellent, comprehensive book on the fiction writer’s craft. It is detailed, covering most of what you need to know to start and complete that novel you have been thinking about writing for years. There are sections on structure, characters, beginning, ending, and much more. The Nighttime Novelist is eminently readable, yet is organized enough that it can be used as a handy reference.

Speaking of “a handy reference”, The Creative Writer’s Style Guide has consistently served me well. It has been my go-to guide for years when it comes to those nitpicky questions with regards to comma placement within dialog or conditional verbs and what-not.

Born to Run is the autobiography of rock icon Bruce Springsteen. Reportedly, he wrote it entirely himself, completely without the help of a ghostwriter. It turns out that he is a damn good prose writer… there are some very vivid passages that are nearly as poetic as his lyrics. I am a long-time fan, but there is much to Bruce’s story that I didn’t know.

Why include Born to Run in a blog post about books for writers? The book is about, more than anything, the evolution of an artist and how his early life informed and resounded in his music and lyrics.

These are just a few of the many worthy writing books to be had. Here are some more just to round out the list.

• Writer With a Day Job
• The Productive Writer
• Time to Write
• Write Is a Verb
• The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Creative Writing
• The Everything Guide to Writing Your First Novel

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to actually go write some words now. Please don’t hesitate to chime in should you have a favorite book of your own to feature. I may write another, similar blog post (and I might even cover another medium, such as podcasts about writing). Keep your eyes peeled.

Homework: a short story

Justin had everything he needed laid out in front of him.

Geography book.

Notebook.

Pencil.  Actually multiple pencils.  The leads sometimes broke or just as often the pencils rolled away, as if by their own will, to hide under the desk. Justin included colored pencils too, just to make things interesting.

There was, of course, the homework sheet itself.  It was a fill in the blanks sheet all about cartography, otherwise known as map-reading.  Kinda boring, but okay.  Time to focus, Justin thought.  He looked to the left and saw his reading book and underneath that, a math worksheet.  More work.

Focus.

Justin looked at the first part of the worksheet.  He had to label the different parts of maps.  Should be easy.  First were a series of little triangles, all bunched together.

FOCUS.

“Psst,” came a voice from below.

Ignore.  What were the little triangles supposed to be?

Then the voice again.  “Hey Justin.”

Justin looked down to the floor.  It was Rex, Knight of the Realm.  Like usual.  Being an action figure, he stared up at the giant Justin above.  His four inch stature made him no less a warrior...  he had shiny armor and a long silver sword.  Rex had defended Justin's kingdom from many a threat, typically from Lord Tyranno, the Evil Knight, and Tyranno's menagerie of plastic dragons and assorted super villains.

“Justin,” Rex continued. “I really need your help.”

Justin put down his pencil. “Rex, I really need to do my homework.  Okay?”

“But Justin, Lord Tyranno is planning an attack.  Tonight.”

Justin sighed and picked his pencil up.  He began tapping it slowly on the desk.  Tap.  Tap.  Tap.

Rex spread his arms pleadingly. “We need you.”

Tap tap tap tap tap.

Justin had an idea.

“What do you need me to do?” he asked Rex.

“Fight with us,” Rex replied, raising his sword to the ceiling.

“Maybe,” Justin said, “Just maybe I could help you plan your attack.”

“Really?”  Rex lowered his sword.  This wasn't what he expected. “How do you mean?”

“I could make you a map,” Justin offered.

“A map?”  Rex considered the idea for a moment.  “I like that,” he said.

Justin smiled.  “Okay, so give me a minute.  I'm learning all about map making.”

Rex took a step back and waited, as patiently as any knight ready for battle could.  Fortunately, Justin finished his worksheet in mere minutes.  Rex saw him put the sheet aside.

“Are we ready?” Rex said eagerly.

Justin looked at his reading assignment.  He was to read the short tale of a young boy, a squire to a heroic knight in medieval times, and answer a few questions about the story.

“I think this might help too,” Justin said. “I can learn all about knights and swords and jousting.”

Rex nodded. “Sounds like my kind of story,” the tiny warrior said.

Justin read through the story, about how the boy inspired the knight to victory over a much stronger foe.  He was almost done with the questions when he heard a voice from the living room.

“Justin?”

“Yeah?”

“How are you doing on homework?”

“Almost done, mama,” Justin said.

Rex stiffened.  “W- was that--”  he stammered, “was that the Queen?”

Justin smiled. “Yes,” he said.  “That was the Queen.”

Rex dropped to one knee and held his sword in front of him. “I am at your service, my Queen.”

“I don't think she can hear you,” Justin said.

Rex stood. “We must defend her kingdom,” he said.

“I know,” Justin said.  He thought for a second.  “I have a duty to the Queen too, you know.”

“You do?”

“Of course,” Justin said.  “My duty...”  He thought for a second.  “My duty is to be the best kid I can for her.  Do my homework, clean my room, all that stuff.”

Rex nodded slowly.

“Do you understand, Rex?”

The tiny warrior bowed.  “I do, sir.  A Prince's first duty is always to his Queen.”

“I just have to do my math.  So keep an eye out for Lord Tyranno until I'm done.”

“I shall.”  Rex turned and began scanning the horizon (in this case, the toy chest next to Justin's closet) for approaching villainy.

Justin finished his math worksheet just a few minutes later, far more quickly than he thought he would.

“Mama,”  Justin shouted, “I'm done!”

Justin's mom entered his room and stood behind him.  She gave his shoulder a quick squeeze.

“Math and everything?”  she said.

“Math and everything,” Justin replied.

She stooped down and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

“You're the best kid ever,”  she said.  “You know that?”

“I know,” Justin said with a giggle.  “Can I play now?”

“Just for a little bit,”  she said.  “Then it's time for your shower and bed.  Okay?”

“Mama?”  Justin said as she exited his room.

“Yeah, honey?”

“I love you.”

A bright smile spread across her face.  “I love you too,”  she said.

Justin went for his foam sword as soon as his mother stepped out of the room.  He kept it next to his desk, so he would always be ready to do battle.  He hefted it, and suddenly it became gleaming silver, forged by the finest blacksmith in the land.

“Rex,” Justin cried out, “I'm ready!”

Justin heard a voice from the far corner of his room.  It was Rex, of course.

“I need your help, Justin,” the knight said.  “Lord Tyranno has locked me in his dungeon!”

“I'm on my way!”  Justin cried out as he charged forward.

So Justin managed to rescue Rex and the two of them fought the good fight against the nefarious Lord Tyranno.  Just until bedtime, of course.

THE END