Don't get confused; my rant blog has the same title. This is the first section of a short story that's gonna be extended over the next couple weeks.
Peering through the Static (Fragment)
David J. Dunn
“DETROIT, Michigan (Reuters) – A troubled young man was arrested yesterday in a Detroit elementary school for constructing what his teachers called a “cheese whiz bomb”.
Eight-year old Guy Lydon, a Michigan native, says that he used techniques he learned in science class in creating the explosive device. “Miss Pulleyn said that Cheese Whiz is only one molecule away from being plastic,” the pre-pubescent chemist said, “so I fixed it.”
The child did more than fix the substance; he weaponized it. His target: the school bathroom.
Retired bomb squad captain Vic Lopez served for thirty years, dealing with high explosives every day. “I’ve never seen such a powerful plastic explosive made from household materials,” he told Reuters. “It’s really something.”
What’s next for the little Guy? Well, if presidential candidate Newt Gingrich gets his way, the tyke with the science skills will be doing experiments among prisoners. “Acts of anarchy like this should not be tolerated by the state,” Gingrich fumed at last night’s press conference. “If I had my way, he’d be in jail with the other parasites. The United States of America does not harbor future terrorists.”
Guy and his family are hopeful for a fair trial. The date for their hearing has not yet been set.”
Toby Grey, sitting at his clone PC, rubbed his eyes with vigor. It was the first news story of the day, and unlikely to be the last. He took a sip from his still-kind of-hot coffee and sighed. Another day, another dollar, another insane Yahoo! News story. Then again, it seemed everything he recently read was crazy. World news, American politics, Canadian politics, Hollywood news, Afghan politics, Syrian politics, The Kim Kardashian wedding, Egyptian politics, Iranian politics, Dancing with the Stars. Nothing was real anymore. It was all just static.
Elsa had just awoken at the sound of Toby’s phone bleeping. She rolled out of the lonely bed and pulled open the shutters to a sunny morning over St. John’s that would soon be enveloped by fog. On her way to the bathroom, she saw her husband, once again up at the crack of dawn, reading his news. “Morning.”
He paused for a second to finish reading a headline before he replied. “Morning.”
“Anything good?”
“Same shit, different day,” he replied. His eyes were weary and he had a ringing in his ears. “I’m getting sick of all this... fuckin’ lunacy.”
She pressed a few buttons on the coffeemaker. “Lunacy is you not remembering to change the water. Are you reading those Pro-Cain blogs again?”
He turned the computer monitor to face her. “Look at this. A kid in the states made a bottle rocket out of Cheese Whiz, and it’s the top news story of the day. Twelve million people made homeless by a monsoon in Pakistan on Tuesday, and it isn’t even on the front page.” He pushed the monitor back. “I mean, who reads these things?”
“You do.”
“I just like to be informed.”
“You just like to informed about the mal-informed.”
“Well, they are running the country, so…”
As Toby turned back to his reading of Daily Kos, Elsa knelt down beside him and unplugged the PC. A black screen was all that was left of the world. “I was going to read that.”
Elsa’s enticing smile always got him. “I know a better use of your time.”
She leaned in close and kissed him; calm at first, but passion overtook them both. They went back to the bedroom.
Out of breath with her head on Toby’s chest, Elsa closed her eyes and started to slip back into dreams.
“I’ve gotta go to work,” Toby muttered. He got a fulfilled sigh of acknowledgement and a kiss that went on for a few seconds longer than it needed to, then shambled out of bed to get a second shower. On his way out, he returned to his sleeping wife with a pretty yellow flower picked from her practical ledge-garden and slid it into her hair above her right ear. “You’re real,” he thought. “You make it all make sense.”
As soon as he stepped outside, the static flooded back. “I’ll persevere,” he thought. “World’s only mostly crazy.”
23 November 2011
16 November 2011
Short Story: Synchronicity
Synchronicity
David J. Dunn
Dave Browning, a somewhat talented bassist from Saskatoon, had been living in St. John’s for six years. In the first of those six years, he met Evan Settler, and from then on he was known as the flunky. Evan was Dave’s style icon; someone for him to emulate. Evan’s clothes were often garish and raw, as he took much of his inspiration from early-90s grunge, and loved to talk about it. Dave was new in town, and missing his best friend, so he latched onto Evan quickly. He started to incorporate parts of Evan’s style into his own, adorning himself with punk and new-wave iconography and patches.
Evan Settler, real name Evan Keen, was a guitarist, but he played keyboard in a Talking Heads cover band. He was always pretty good on the keys, even if he thought that his real strength was on the strings. He was well-liked by the fans of the group, being the bombastic frontman, but always wished that he’d played folk guitar like his heroes. Amid the patches and iron-ons on his denim vest, he wore political slogans, praising whatever movement was popular that week. Evan’s career was well on its way, but he always wished he could be in the Neil Young cover band with Jeff Jones.
Jeff Jones was a tall, lanky individual with long, shaggy black hair. His style was worlds away from Evan’s; he wore earthy tones and Dylan sunglasses, and played laid-back folk guitar. He was at a point in his life where he was finally starting to get noticed. In fact, he had been shipped up to Toronto to perform for a record exec and won a contract. His supporters back home cried foul, including Evan Settler, but Jones had learned from the best on the mainland, and was looking up to his new mentor, Simon Genial.
Simon Genial, real name Simon Couchepain, was a studio producer from Montreal. He’d been in a few bands in his youth, none of which ever got any further than playing the side stage at the festivals. So, like many other failed musicians, he turned to the studio where he started to churn out hits for young artists. He knew how to tweak a guitar to really capture that live sound, and the album he mastered for Jeff Jones was already starting to hear major play on college radio stations. However, he was still in the shadow of the master, the mega-star producer, the millionaire, Jim Shaw.
Jim Shaw was a star, especially to himself. He thought of himself as a “hit-maker”, and would often walk around his company’s studio giving advice to budding artists. He had a wife, a house and two adorable little toddlers running about his mansion. He would work long hours at the studio where he would occasionally see his personnel manager, and they’d fuck on the mixer. He always regretted it. He sometimes wished it could be easier, wished that he could go back to living in the woods and being able to see the stars. One day, when coming in for a landing on his private jet, he saw some farmland being tended by a 20-something young man named George Peterson, and for a moment, wished he was him.
George Peterson, birth name George Naethaniel Washington, was a young man drafted into farmwork by his father, Pete. He was a smart boy despite his upbringing and he loved to take the train into the city to watch films, get drunk, and listen to music. Often he frequented a dingy bar downtown where no one would give him trouble, and where he could listen to the music that his father hated; George was really tired of his father repeating that Jeff Jones EP. One night he was excited to see that there was someone new, a Talking Heads cover band, so he stayed and listened. He noticed the large revolver-shaped belt buckle on the bassist. He liked it, so he bought one the next day.
David J. Dunn
Dave Browning, a somewhat talented bassist from Saskatoon, had been living in St. John’s for six years. In the first of those six years, he met Evan Settler, and from then on he was known as the flunky. Evan was Dave’s style icon; someone for him to emulate. Evan’s clothes were often garish and raw, as he took much of his inspiration from early-90s grunge, and loved to talk about it. Dave was new in town, and missing his best friend, so he latched onto Evan quickly. He started to incorporate parts of Evan’s style into his own, adorning himself with punk and new-wave iconography and patches.
Evan Settler, real name Evan Keen, was a guitarist, but he played keyboard in a Talking Heads cover band. He was always pretty good on the keys, even if he thought that his real strength was on the strings. He was well-liked by the fans of the group, being the bombastic frontman, but always wished that he’d played folk guitar like his heroes. Amid the patches and iron-ons on his denim vest, he wore political slogans, praising whatever movement was popular that week. Evan’s career was well on its way, but he always wished he could be in the Neil Young cover band with Jeff Jones.
Jeff Jones was a tall, lanky individual with long, shaggy black hair. His style was worlds away from Evan’s; he wore earthy tones and Dylan sunglasses, and played laid-back folk guitar. He was at a point in his life where he was finally starting to get noticed. In fact, he had been shipped up to Toronto to perform for a record exec and won a contract. His supporters back home cried foul, including Evan Settler, but Jones had learned from the best on the mainland, and was looking up to his new mentor, Simon Genial.
Simon Genial, real name Simon Couchepain, was a studio producer from Montreal. He’d been in a few bands in his youth, none of which ever got any further than playing the side stage at the festivals. So, like many other failed musicians, he turned to the studio where he started to churn out hits for young artists. He knew how to tweak a guitar to really capture that live sound, and the album he mastered for Jeff Jones was already starting to hear major play on college radio stations. However, he was still in the shadow of the master, the mega-star producer, the millionaire, Jim Shaw.
Jim Shaw was a star, especially to himself. He thought of himself as a “hit-maker”, and would often walk around his company’s studio giving advice to budding artists. He had a wife, a house and two adorable little toddlers running about his mansion. He would work long hours at the studio where he would occasionally see his personnel manager, and they’d fuck on the mixer. He always regretted it. He sometimes wished it could be easier, wished that he could go back to living in the woods and being able to see the stars. One day, when coming in for a landing on his private jet, he saw some farmland being tended by a 20-something young man named George Peterson, and for a moment, wished he was him.
George Peterson, birth name George Naethaniel Washington, was a young man drafted into farmwork by his father, Pete. He was a smart boy despite his upbringing and he loved to take the train into the city to watch films, get drunk, and listen to music. Often he frequented a dingy bar downtown where no one would give him trouble, and where he could listen to the music that his father hated; George was really tired of his father repeating that Jeff Jones EP. One night he was excited to see that there was someone new, a Talking Heads cover band, so he stayed and listened. He noticed the large revolver-shaped belt buckle on the bassist. He liked it, so he bought one the next day.
Short Story: The First Cut Is The Deepest
The First Cut Is The Deepest
David J. Dunn
She comes on at one in the morning. Usually on Thursdays; they don’t have anyone else to fill the time. She deserves better. The bartenders and the promoters love her, but they don’t think she’s a star. So they stick her on stage on a night when no one’s around to see her. It’s a shame. A damn shame.
The bar is half-empty at this point, so I find a chair and a double whiskey coke pretty quickly. I get a good view of the stage from my seat in the back. She comes onstage dressed in a satin gown. Her long brown hair flows down to her waist. She’s stunning. The way she moves mesmerizes me. I fall in love every time. Maybe tonight’ll be the night. Maybe I’ll finally talk to her. No, I’m not shaven. She’d rather me shaven. She shimmies towards the microphone hovering over the grand piano. She starts playing and I completely lose myself in the feeling. No one else can make me feel like that. Only her.
Her last song is a tear-jerking rendition of a Cheryl Crow song. She stands to raucous, scattered applause from those willing or fucked up enough to listen. She does a little bow and walks to stage right. The house lights come on. She starts to fix up her things in the corner. Her purse, a couple shopping bags from Fred’s and one from that new boutique, her jacket. A few like-minded but untalented musicians start to speak to her. None of them are as good as she is. She’s the best. I sit and watch her talk for a few more minutes before I down my warm drink and leave.
On my walk home, I cross through several backstreets. I’m content to not see anything, ignoring any voices that cry out from the alleys. It’s easier that way. But on this night, I hear a different kind of voice. A voice I recognize. The voice of an angel.
Immediately I run towards the voice. It takes me into an alley, still visible from the street. Some asshole in a black coat. He stands with one hand on my goddess’ shoulder, grabbing. His other hand is trying in vain to yank her purse away from her. He lets go of her shoulder and slaps her across the face as I turn the corner. He sees me before his hand has even left her cheek. He lets go and runs deep into the alley. Neither of us are willing to give chase.
We stand silent for a minute. When she finally stands up, she thanks me. Even with tears streaming from her eyes and her makeup smudged, she looks beautiful. Her leather jacket hugs her frame. I want herShe’s still wearing the gown from the bar. Before I realize, she leans in and puts her arms around me. I’m her heroI can feel her breasts push against my chest. I smell her perfume. I want herShe’s right here, and she’s beautiful and sexy and amazing and she’s mine
She pushes me away when I kiss her. I hold her tight between the wall and myself. She’s much smaller than me. It’s easy. After a little while someone calls for her and I let her go off with her friends. I turn back into the alley and continue my walk home. I’ll be back to see her on Thursday.
David J. Dunn
She comes on at one in the morning. Usually on Thursdays; they don’t have anyone else to fill the time. She deserves better. The bartenders and the promoters love her, but they don’t think she’s a star. So they stick her on stage on a night when no one’s around to see her. It’s a shame. A damn shame.
The bar is half-empty at this point, so I find a chair and a double whiskey coke pretty quickly. I get a good view of the stage from my seat in the back. She comes onstage dressed in a satin gown. Her long brown hair flows down to her waist. She’s stunning. The way she moves mesmerizes me. I fall in love every time. Maybe tonight’ll be the night. Maybe I’ll finally talk to her. No, I’m not shaven. She’d rather me shaven. She shimmies towards the microphone hovering over the grand piano. She starts playing and I completely lose myself in the feeling. No one else can make me feel like that. Only her.
Her last song is a tear-jerking rendition of a Cheryl Crow song. She stands to raucous, scattered applause from those willing or fucked up enough to listen. She does a little bow and walks to stage right. The house lights come on. She starts to fix up her things in the corner. Her purse, a couple shopping bags from Fred’s and one from that new boutique, her jacket. A few like-minded but untalented musicians start to speak to her. None of them are as good as she is. She’s the best. I sit and watch her talk for a few more minutes before I down my warm drink and leave.
On my walk home, I cross through several backstreets. I’m content to not see anything, ignoring any voices that cry out from the alleys. It’s easier that way. But on this night, I hear a different kind of voice. A voice I recognize. The voice of an angel.
Immediately I run towards the voice. It takes me into an alley, still visible from the street. Some asshole in a black coat. He stands with one hand on my goddess’ shoulder, grabbing. His other hand is trying in vain to yank her purse away from her. He lets go of her shoulder and slaps her across the face as I turn the corner. He sees me before his hand has even left her cheek. He lets go and runs deep into the alley. Neither of us are willing to give chase.
We stand silent for a minute. When she finally stands up, she thanks me. Even with tears streaming from her eyes and her makeup smudged, she looks beautiful. Her leather jacket hugs her frame. I want herShe’s still wearing the gown from the bar. Before I realize, she leans in and puts her arms around me. I’m her heroI can feel her breasts push against my chest. I smell her perfume. I want herShe’s right here, and she’s beautiful and sexy and amazing and she’s mine
She pushes me away when I kiss her. I hold her tight between the wall and myself. She’s much smaller than me. It’s easy. After a little while someone calls for her and I let her go off with her friends. I turn back into the alley and continue my walk home. I’ll be back to see her on Thursday.
09 November 2011
Short Story: The Real Planet Earth
The Real Planet Earth
David J. Dunn
Whenever the whole process would come to a close, the church on Gower Street would be in disrepair. The elated families of the recently-wed would promptly leave, content to forget what they’d left behind. After they departed into the world, it became the task of one woman to restore the chapel to its former pristine glory. She was a conventional-looking 20-something: a brunette with a hint of red, with wide shoulders and thick-rimmed glasses clinging to her narrow face. She often called herself the undertaker, as after she finished sweeping up the rice in the aisles, she would erase the couple’s names from the bulletin board outside, leaving it empty until the next morning.
She worked alone. On the night of such a wedding reception, the clergy would slink off to the party, intending to instill a sense of religious duty, leaving the one-woman cleaning-crew to her job. When she first started working at the church she loved it: she looked forward to experiencing the joy of weddings, seeing the way that the couples interact, learning. She thought that if she watched enough connections being forged, maybe she could eventually have one for herself; but more often than not she missed them. She had to stay behind. Someone had to clean up after everyone else.
She had never really had a boyfriend. Sometimes she wondered if she really ever had friends. Most of her school chums had up and left for the mainland long ago, seeking luxuries. She stayed, not because of any personal connection, but because she couldn’t leave the city and the church behind; she’d become too accustomed to their charms. Toronto and Vancouver were attractive options, but her apathy towards life and her love for her sanctuary made her stay. Once a month she received a card from her friend Pam, who moved to Edmonton with her sisters just after high school. She married a handsome musician and would often travel around the globe, meeting people and re-discovering the world. They sent postcards to Pam’s acquaintances in St. John’s, copied en-masse, recalling their adventures out in the real planet earth. She always dreaded reading them, but did anyway. All she’d ever had was Gower Street.
The only person that she’d ever gotten close to was a venerable regular at the church, Martha the Baptist. Martha was one of the few who would even acknowledge the girl’s presence, as she usually tried to avoid eye contact and conversations. A charismatic old woman, Martha would stay with the girl for a few minutes and chat after sermons. The wise old woman started calling her Saint Eleanor, the patron of spotless chapels. She thought it somewhat blasphemous at first, but started to like it; the title was something bestowed upon her, a gift. However, two months after they had started to bond, Martha died of old age, leaving her alone again. The funeral was attended by a few elderly women, none of whom had even heard her speak the girl’s name. The priest spoke of fire and brimstone, and then they all withdrew. No one was saved.
From then on she was a fixture at the church. The clergy joked that she lived there. In reality she kind of did: she would only go home once a week, around the corner to her run-down apartment, to make dinner and stare out her window into the vastness of the city. Martha had always told her that there was someone out there for her; she just needed to find him. There just had to be someone to take her by the arm and show her the way life was supposed to be.
As time passed, she grew older and paler, and she started to wear heavy makeup to hide her aging features. Still, no one noticed. She soon gave up. She would rarely speak to anyone else, even to the clergy. Years later, she sold her home and moved into the church’s dormitory, never again leaving the building. Forty-five years later, she died in the church and was buried along with her name. Nobody came.
David J. Dunn
Whenever the whole process would come to a close, the church on Gower Street would be in disrepair. The elated families of the recently-wed would promptly leave, content to forget what they’d left behind. After they departed into the world, it became the task of one woman to restore the chapel to its former pristine glory. She was a conventional-looking 20-something: a brunette with a hint of red, with wide shoulders and thick-rimmed glasses clinging to her narrow face. She often called herself the undertaker, as after she finished sweeping up the rice in the aisles, she would erase the couple’s names from the bulletin board outside, leaving it empty until the next morning.
She worked alone. On the night of such a wedding reception, the clergy would slink off to the party, intending to instill a sense of religious duty, leaving the one-woman cleaning-crew to her job. When she first started working at the church she loved it: she looked forward to experiencing the joy of weddings, seeing the way that the couples interact, learning. She thought that if she watched enough connections being forged, maybe she could eventually have one for herself; but more often than not she missed them. She had to stay behind. Someone had to clean up after everyone else.
She had never really had a boyfriend. Sometimes she wondered if she really ever had friends. Most of her school chums had up and left for the mainland long ago, seeking luxuries. She stayed, not because of any personal connection, but because she couldn’t leave the city and the church behind; she’d become too accustomed to their charms. Toronto and Vancouver were attractive options, but her apathy towards life and her love for her sanctuary made her stay. Once a month she received a card from her friend Pam, who moved to Edmonton with her sisters just after high school. She married a handsome musician and would often travel around the globe, meeting people and re-discovering the world. They sent postcards to Pam’s acquaintances in St. John’s, copied en-masse, recalling their adventures out in the real planet earth. She always dreaded reading them, but did anyway. All she’d ever had was Gower Street.
The only person that she’d ever gotten close to was a venerable regular at the church, Martha the Baptist. Martha was one of the few who would even acknowledge the girl’s presence, as she usually tried to avoid eye contact and conversations. A charismatic old woman, Martha would stay with the girl for a few minutes and chat after sermons. The wise old woman started calling her Saint Eleanor, the patron of spotless chapels. She thought it somewhat blasphemous at first, but started to like it; the title was something bestowed upon her, a gift. However, two months after they had started to bond, Martha died of old age, leaving her alone again. The funeral was attended by a few elderly women, none of whom had even heard her speak the girl’s name. The priest spoke of fire and brimstone, and then they all withdrew. No one was saved.
From then on she was a fixture at the church. The clergy joked that she lived there. In reality she kind of did: she would only go home once a week, around the corner to her run-down apartment, to make dinner and stare out her window into the vastness of the city. Martha had always told her that there was someone out there for her; she just needed to find him. There just had to be someone to take her by the arm and show her the way life was supposed to be.
As time passed, she grew older and paler, and she started to wear heavy makeup to hide her aging features. Still, no one noticed. She soon gave up. She would rarely speak to anyone else, even to the clergy. Years later, she sold her home and moved into the church’s dormitory, never again leaving the building. Forty-five years later, she died in the church and was buried along with her name. Nobody came.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)