(Story) The Box (About 5500 words)
Alaric
have to be honest and say this isn't your best. For one thing, given the
premise, it's overlong. It could be cut by more than half without suffering.
For another, the premise isn't gripping. The poor little rich guy idea needs
real bite to work - in "The Bonfire Of The Vanities" it does of course,
because the poor little rich guy is thrown into what he believes to be the
dregs of American society and isn't able either to relate or adjust. The
criminal and risk elements of the Nick Leeson story carry that.
Here, though, we only have a guy who realises he's wasted much of his life
being a greasy lawyer (spot on there, MK) when he could instead have been
concentrating on lurve. Well, okay. But it's gotta be a short short.
The entire first scene, where Richard (I think it's Richard the third, who
yelled "A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse" at Bosworth) who receives
an odd black box from his father (Richard the second, not to be confused
with Edward the second, who got a red hot poker up his bum) could be cut.
Father and son are attending the funeral of (I presume) Richard the first
(who was a pal of Robin Hood) - this isn't clear actually until halfway
through - but nothing much happens apart from our learning that two is
worried about three. There's some very confusing conversation about mum (or
grandmum) and Kramer (who he?) that I can't get a handle on at all. In my
view, the story doesn't start until we get into three's apartment ("It was a
box, or block more like") and the backstory can be quickly built in.
After that, there's a lot to go too. The fact that the box plays music which
hits Richard where he needs to be hit is cool, but the self-analysis which
follows seems interminable (sorry), relieved only by a cool scene where
Richard gets sacked (although how Crasner, an apparent junior, has the
authority to do that is obscure and the references to the unknown Willkie,
Dittmer, and Collins are confusing.) Apart from our narrator, none of the
characters (including Hannah, the object of his love) become three
dimensional, so Richard's epiphany doesn't strike with force.
You give a choice of endings. I prefer the last (they get together) because
we simply must have a conclusion here.) But it's more important to sort out
the beginning and the soft centre.
Nits:-
I haven't nitted it. It really needs a spellcheck. But I just pick out:-
> She jumped the hunting accident on the end of the leash barked.
to say I don't understand it.
Wind River
This story has potential, but I think it needs to be cut back some. The part which
intrigued me the most was when Richard met Hannah. There was some good dialogue in
that section.
How would I end it? There are tons of options, but I would include the music box
and the dog in the ending. Maybe, Richard shows the box to to Hannah and the dog
becomes disturbed and attacks. Or, the dog tries to follow Richard home and brings
him together with Hannah. Whatever you decide, I know you'll do it well.
I think with a lot of editing, this could be turned into challenge entry. I don't
know if you want to strip it down that much, but it would fun to see a tight
version with the music box becoming even more important to the story.
I hope these suggestions help, and you decide to rework it.
-Sue
MerryKat wrote:
> Ok, I'll fess up. It's a failed challenge, obviously. ;->
> I know I could cut it, but I don't want to, for several reasons.
> We'll see what you all think...
>
> The Box
>
> “I’m worried about you, Richard.”
>
> The pleasant sunny afternoon and conversational dinner passed in a
> blink. They had verbally fenced and parried in comic opera fashion all
> day. The night was late, and they had reached the end. The fat lady
> sang and there was nothing but darkness, a small fire, the burn of aged
> whisky, and cold honesty.
>
> Richard stared at his father, past the thick white hair at the utter
> black of no streetlights out the window. “Worry about yourself, old
> man.”
>
> The strong, deep chuckle was a memory from his childhood. He hadn’t
> heard his father laugh like that in years.
>
> “All my worries are settled.”
>
> “Mom thinks you’re crazy.”
>
> “Your mom thinks Neiman Marcus is a god.”
>
> They shared the laughter and a toast. Tippy Tillingsworth Compton
> Kramer’s universe lacked green acres.
>
> “How’s she doing with Kramer?”
>
> “Whipping him into shape.” Richard answered noncommittally. He’d
> determined to stay out of that whole affair.
>
> “If she gets her ass out of the stores and into the boardroom, she’ll
> be fine.” Richard Kenworth Compton II summed up his former life
> succinctly. Bitch-shrew wife, cheating business partner, and his
> contributions to the lofty realms of markets and venture capital would
> all take care of themselves in due time.
>
> “Why’d you do it?” Richard Kenworth Compton III had never seen this
> old man before. His mother’s heavily edited line of news seemed to come
> out of an alien land. The long distance view was that his grandfather
> died and his father went insane, dissolved the company he’d given a
> small fortune and a lifetime to build. Like changing cars, the old man
> had gone from one of the fifty richest to prefabricated housing in the
> middle of nowhere.
>
> “I’m not crazy.”
>
> “I know.” Richard assured. The neat little barn, well-tended orchard,
> newly planted garden and tidily sewn up estate proved his father’s
> sanity. He’d been over the settlement papers himself. They were
> specific and tight. “Who drew up the papers for you?”
>
> “Goldthwaite.”
>
> The image of his grandfather’s ancient, proper New England solicitor
> tweaked tipsy mirth. “Didn’t think the old geezer had that in him.”
>
> “Why do you think your grandfather kept him around?”
>
> “Comic relief?”
>
> The calm silence that followed the laughter was a ticking clock for
> Richard. “I have to hit the road early in the morning.”
>
> He went to sleep without wondering why his father was worried about
> him.
>
> The next morning in the early rush of offers of breakfast and coffee,
> time bound refusals, showering, and packing, Richard II presented a
> package.
>
> “It was your grandfathers. I think you should have it.”
>
> “Dad, I-“ Richard III stared at the package and calculated time. If he
> got driving soon he could make the office by four in the afternoon. He
> could be home by midnight, maybe.
>
> “Promise you won’t open it till you get home?”
>
> “Are you sure about this?” Worries of piled work drove out curiosity.
>
> “I want you to have it.”
>
> He tucked the heavy package into the trunk, shook his father’s hand,
> and returned to his world without a backward look or a second thought.
> He’d completed the survey detailed. Richard Kenworth Compton II seemed
> fit and calm. His father laughed, the memory and its echoes made
> Richard smile. If anything, his father seemed to have regained his
> sanity, appeared to have recovered from the addiction of power that had
> consumed most of his life. They hadn’t more than scratched the years of
> neglect and thoughtless, casual abuse but Richard felt the sincerity of
> his father’s stumbling apology and that meant more to him than any
> stipend or lump sum.
>
> The erratic mix of lumbering, old farm trucks and lumbering, rambling
> suburban spot vehicles clogging the narrow blacktop roads soon drove all
> reflection from his head and filled it with a frustrated refrain of
> swearing. Time ticked and Richard repeated the refrain every time
> traffic slowed on the larger four-lane highway.
>
> “Shouldn’t you all be in church?” He growled at the ambling herd
> around him.
>
> The refrain worked to symphony while he sat, with the city in sight,
> four full lanes of super highway blocked by a collision of gas tanker
> and cattle truck. The radio jokes of massive cookouts worked him to a
> crescendo.
>
> It was seven o’clock when he reached the city. Coated with fatigue,
> goaded by desperate worry and anger; he was in no frame of mind to write
> nit-picky briefs. He resigned to the all-nighter and headed to his
> apartment to shower and change into a suit.
>
> II
>
> At the fifth floor, he was seriously questioning if trendy, antique
> charm was really worth the time of an inefficient elevator. The weight,
> cumbersome size, and shape of the package worked into his annoyance and
> through to his awareness as he climbed the last two flights. The
> feeling of pattern pressing through the paper weighed more than all
> other concerns by the time he turned on the light in his bedroom.
>
> “What the hell did you unload on me, old man?” Richard’s exasperation
> snapped as he settled the odd flat weight on the bed. Richard I had had
> an odd obsession for the strange, old, and useless, which is what was
> under the paper.
>
> It was a box, or block more like. There where no easily discernable
> lid or drawers or compartments. It was a carved oblong block of wood.
> The carving was uneven, rough and crude in spots, detailed, intricate,
> and masterful in others, vines, flowers, curves, indefinable shapes and
> suggestions crawling and covering the entire surface, smoothed and
> polished by age.
>
> “Is this some sort of Zen joke?” He asked his absent father.
>
> Richard gave the block one more exploratory grope. His finger hit the
> exquisitely carved rosebud hidden on the side just right. Tiny,
> tinkling, notes tickled the air. He strained to attach meaning to the
> tinny sound as it segued to a toy piano progression with a ticking
> counter pulse. Significance grew in the repetition. Phrase stripped to
> bare tone and timing; it was still the Canon in D. The fluttery counter
> ticking kept variation alive. As Richard recognized, he recalled.
>
> Marching across the grand lobby of the symphony hall clutching his
> father’s hand orders to behave ringing in his five-year-old head. Awe
> over the size of the place and the number of people kept him quiet and
> close to the towering presence of his father. The safety of his seat
> thawed the awe a bit and he was antsy trying to take it all in, seeing
> exciting possibility at every turn, straining at his rules, board with
> the moment. The music started and he had no intention of listening.
> But the simple progression that surrounded him was something he could
> internalize whole. The music captured and held him.
>
> As he listened, the tiny, tinny notes transformed to the true notes of
> an adult piano.
>
> Incised instances and events from his life rolled through his head;
> clearly recalled moments of failure that kept him awake some nights, odd
> instances of transcendent joy, many a pounding fear, constricting depths
> of grief that coalesced with his grandfather’s death. From childish to
> mature, like The Canon, the base elements remained the same. Changes
> were only variation on the theme. Anger remained the same, from his
> fiery, burning hatred for the changeable beast that was his father to
> the sad, befuddled anger over his grandpa’s absence. Like primary
> colors emotions mixed, mingled, separated, and shaded forming a tonal
> impression of his life.
>
> The strains of The Canon swelled to full and intricate orchestration.
>
> The same and ever changing. Richard settled into his seat and let the
> endless, infinite variation of repetition paint the windows of his
> perception with vivid and unreal colors.
>
> There was a pang; a deep, reverberant regret rippled the sound of
> music. He let it blend- a clear, brass echo of the theme that faded
> into the variations. The music drew him deeper and he lost himself.
>
> III
>
> His eyes jerked open.
>
> The box was silent.
>
> The ringing-- was the phone. Richard picked up the receiver and put it
> to his ear. The idea of speaking was still working along the circuit of
> impulse and action.
>
> “Richard,” Ms Crasner’s puckered voice pruned through his thoughts.
> “Where are you, Richard?”
>
> “Hello?” The word finally made it to his mouth.
>
> “It doesn’t really matter where you are, Richard. What matters is that
> you are not here.” Venom purred in her tones. She’d been openly
> gunning for him since he’d made associate.
>
> Or did it start after he’d passed dinner and drinks one too many times?
>
> “Dittmer’s brief’s were a mess-“
>
> Thought of the senior partner with a load in his pants made Richard
> snicker.
>
> Crasner paused. “You’ve inconvenienced the entire firm, Richard. Two
> days for bereavement were allowable but the time you’ve taken for this
> thing with your parents-“
>
> “It was a day and a half.”
>
> “I’m fully aware of the amount of time you’ve been taking for personal
> concerns, Richard. I know you weren’t here yesterday, I know you aren’t
> here now, and I’m telling you, you won’t be here tomorrow.”
>
> Her triumphant tone was as tinny as the music box had been, childish
> and false.
>
> Richard laughed. “That’s fine, Connie. It would be a great favor to
> us all if you could ask Skip to clean out my office.”
>
> She sputtered, “but…”
>
> “I’ll let you and ol’ Willkie, Dittmer, and Collins kick the severance
> package around for a couple of days before we talk wrongful termination,
> mental health, and harassment.”
>
> “This is…”
>
> “And Connie, dear, don’t bother tossing the office, I keep copies of
> everything here. Don’t forget, sweetness, there’s reasons I was fast
> tracking to partner.”
>
> Her inarticulate squeal hurt his head and he cut it off by hanging up.
>
> He stared at the sunlight pouring into the room, remembered why he’d
> opted for seven floors of frequent climbing. That’s where the turrets
> were. Jutting off the corners of the old building, the seventh floor
> turrets had high stained glass windows and big open spaces for color to
> play in. The sliding door to the living room was open and Richard
> stared at the colors bathing his space. Too many mornings had passed
> without that appreciation. He’d been too many months without perceiving
> the beauty of his world, ignoring it in favor of games and power plays.
> He stared at the light, he stared at the box, he stared at the date on
> the clock radio.
>
> He was still sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in the clothes
> he’d worn home from his father’s house. He still had his jacket on.
> Sunday night he’d groped the music box. It was Tuesday morning; he was
> still wearing the same cloths and had just lost his job.
>
> All he could think about was a shower. In the shower, he thought about
> nothing. Hot water and soap obsessed him. Deep relaxing, steam
> permeated every pour. He gloried in the physical pleasure of cleansing.
>
> The array of, now extraneous, choices in his closet touched the deep
> tone of regret. Putting them out of mind he searched for something to
> match his mood and ended up with his oldest pair of jeans and a loose
> Rugby shirt. His choices in the range of comfortable were slim and that
> touched a deeper regret that resonated in his space. Richard stared at
> his rooms and realized how cluttered they were.
>
> The four-note phrase of his doorbell repeated.
>
> Skip was still leaning on the bell, eyes locked on the backside of
> Richard’s far distant corner neighbor as she and the dog returned to
> their walled little world.
>
> “Skip?”
>
> “Is she attached or not?”
>
> Skip’s primary concern in life would always be female.
>
> “You still don’t know, do you?” Skip slung a box onto the kitchen
> counter. “Two and a half months and you still haven’t managed to bump
> into her on the stairs? Find her bra in the dryer? Scope out her
> mail? Anything?”
>
> “Hi Skip,”
>
> Dark eyes narrowed, looked him over closely. “You don’t look whacked
> on crack.”
>
> “Crack?”
>
> “You know old crab pants. Was only supposed to be a warning, couple of
> days off with pay, she comes back babbling about drugs and sneering and
> threatening lawsuits. What’s up with that?”
>
> “I gave her what she wanted.”
>
> "Yeah, well it’s sitting more like a cannon ball in her colon than a
> multiple orgasm. Congratulations.” Skip smiled. “What are you angling
> for?”
>
> “Nothing.”
>
> “Oh, come on, what’s the opening solvo for? You know Willkie and
> Dittmer have about had it with Collins and Crasner. This little event
> is running like a fault line.”
>
> “I’ve had enough up heaveal for now.”
>
> “Then why’d you quite your job?”
>
> Richard thought about that and the answer didn’t scare him. “I don’t
> know.” He stared at the box, at the clutter in his home. It all felt
> so constraining. “You still want the X-box?”
>
> “Yeah.” Skip swung from a pass at the refrigerator and looked at him
> long and hard. “You’re not thinking suicide are you?”
>
> Richard laughed a deep guffaw that was difficult to control and
> infectious. “No.”
>
> “Good.” Skip completed the pass through the fridge and snagged a
> beer. “So, you wanting to get rid of the PS-2 and the flat screen too?”
>
> IV
>
> Skip left with the X-box and promises to come back with his cousin’s
> van. For the opportunity to scavenge he’d cart the rest off to
> Goodwill, and return with a tax receipt.
>
> Richard wasn’t crazy.
>
> He busied himself cleaning the closet; tossing a couple thousand
> dollars worth of shoes into a garbage bag, sorting the vast array of
> suits down to three that would fill any bill, ties followed shoes. He
> set three garment bags and the garbage bag of shoes to one side of his
> bedroom. That would all go to the rehab center two blocks over. He
> faced the boxes resting on shelves and wanted no more of the wasted
> years. He had plenty of time, now.
>
> Restless attention wandering, he pulled on a pair of running shoes,
> pocketed his keys, and opened the door.
>
> She jumped the hunting accident on the end of the leash barked.
>
> “It’s all right, Dingy,” he soothed the dog, holding his hand out so
> the odd form of canine could give it a through sniffing. Dingy, he
> knew, was an unfortunate meeting of Irish Setter and Black Lab. An
> exuberant, friendly pup with long, floppy ears and curling wirery hair,
> she looked like a bad die job. Dingy was the spark and subject of their
> one conversation.
>
> “Wow.” She laughed.
>
> And Richard understood Skip’s fascination. She was cute. He’d have to
> stoop to kiss her. The idea of turning into a question mark over the
> years of kissing her made him smile.
>
> “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you.”
>
> Dingy dropped and rolled, begging for a belly rub.
>
> “Good god, dog, show some restraint.” She tugged the leash.
>
> Dingy sprang to her feet and licked his hand.
>
> “I’m sorry.” She tried to urge the dog on.
>
> Blushing blonde wasn’t really his type, but…
>
> “She’s just a puppy.” He scratched behind the long ears and Dingy was
> still.
>
> “Dingy, come on. I’m sorry… I know you don’t have time for silly
> dogs.”
>
> “Richard.” He continued scratching and Dingy was content to make puppy
> eyes at him.
>
> “Richard?”
>
> “My name it’s Richard.”
>
> “Oh, right, Richard.” She backed towards the elevator. “I’m sorry,
> Richard. We don’t mean to hold you up or anything.”
>
> The situation edged over to awkward and Richard wondered why. The dog
> seemed enchanted. He continued to scratch the soft fur behind her ear.
> “What makes you think you’re holding me up?”
>
> “You never wait for the elevator. The suits, expensive shoes, all
> seems so... important.”
>
> “What’s important?”
>
> She laughed nervously. “Three minutes ago going out was.” She tugged
> the leash.
>
> Richard laughed. “I seem to be the one holding you up... what’s your
> name?”
>
> “Hannah.”
>
> “I’m sorry, Hannah, Dingy, I didn’t mean to keep you from your rounds.”
>
> “She doesn’t seem to mind all that much.”
>
> She had a cute laugh.
>
> Richard stopped scratching and Dingy bounced like a wind-up toy towards
> the elevator.
>
> “Seems like going out is the important thing again.”
>
> “The most important thing,” Richard agreed as they boarded the
> elevator.
>
> “So, where are you going in no hurry?” Hannah asked.
>
> Richard shrugged. “For a walk?”
>
> “We’re headed for the park.”
>
> “The park sounds good.”
>
> They walked to the park, spent an hour with a racket ball trying to
> wear Dingy down to hyper, they walked back, and they talked. They
> talked about anything and everything. He found out that Hannah was the
> only child of an academic couple. She was an artist, made a steady buck
> sketching portraits on the peer, supplemented that income with the
> occasional commission or sale, she was more liberal than Democrat, both
> her parents were dead, and she absolutely detested tuna fish. Hannah
> was easy to talk to and Richard told her everything about his family and
> his job, omitting only the music box.
>
> Outside his door, things were awkward again. He wanted to ask her to
> stay, couldn’t find the words. Dingy was pulling for home. Hannah was
> casual about the parting and he didn’t want to seem needy. Reluctantly
> he watched Hannah and the puppy withdraw to their distant world, fumbled
> with his keys to cover his lingering. When she was gone he went in,
> leaned against the door feeling like; his grand father had just died,
> his parents had just divorced, his father was insane, and he had just
> lost his job.
>
> The rooms were strange the colors had blackened and grayed, the walls
> pressed in constricting the clutter. The pervasive rightness of
> acceptance faded. He went into the kitchen with an idea of food,
> cooking relaxed him. He snapped on the lights. The florescent glare
> hut his eyes, the cold, white surfaces had a dead-fish gray undertone,
> everything smelled of disinfectant and mildew, there was a low droning,
> like a dentist’s drill, in his head.
>
> He backed slowly out of the room. The buzzing ceased when he turned
> off the kitchen lights, but the smell persisted. Everything around him
> smelled like disinfected decay. He tried to ignore the perceptions,
> went to the bedroom, and sat on the bed trying to convince himself that
> he hadn’t gone crazy.
>
> But, he had lost an entire day, quite his job, was happily going about
> giving his stuff away, to drug addicts and derelicts, no less, had spent
> the day in the park spewing his personal life at a strange woman’s
> feet. Clearly reviewing his actions, he couldn’t support his
> statement.
>
> His life was disintegrating.
>
> Reasoning the impressions, sensations, emotions into words made it more
> so. The smell of decomposition wafted around him and Richard heard the
> sounds of things plopping into dust, a far away sharp Rice Krispie’s
> crackling. A quaking, like worms squiggling in his guts, rose from deep
> inside him. Unreasoned terror filled him with impulse. Impulse hit the
> wall of reason and everything was frozen. What could he do? What had
> he done? How had this happened?
>
> Richard stared into the darkness waiting for answers, waiting for the
> spell to pass and his world to right itself.
>
> The sense of dissolution crept closer. The smell of decay grew
> stronger.
>
> He wanted to run, out of the apartment, out into the streets, back to
> the park, but he was afraid the floor would dissolve under his feet.
>
> And he knew running would only spread the occurrence.
>
> Richard stared into the darkness seeing clearly the slow decay of his
> life. Something had withered and died. Only now did he perceive the
> after death. Wordless impulses stirred through him. Restlessly his
> eyes roved the shadows seeking a clue, a glimmer, a lighter shade of
> gray, something to lead him out of the dusty hell of his head.
>
> The music box sat on the floor, undisturbed and unchanged.
>
> The dammed box had started this; the box could end it. Gingerly he
> slid to the floor. With a sure sense of muscle memory he touched the
> rosebud just so and settled cross-legged in front of the box.
>
> It started just as before, a tinny tone progression resolved into the
> Canon, the ticking counter essayed variation. Toy piano grew to deeper
> adult tones with a suggested variation of violins.
>
> There was no magic in it. Only an interesting oddity, the music box
> wound down.
>
> Richard raised his eyes and was relieved to see that the vision of
> decay had passed. His bedroom was as it always had been, neat, except
> for the unmade bed and the contents of the closet, and clean. It was
> dim and shadowy, as it always was at sunset. Slowly he rose and paced
> the length of his space. Everything was where it should be; solid and
> undamaged, as dust free as the house service always kept it. The lights
> in the kitchen were silent and no brighter than normal, everything was
> clean and white and shiny.
>
> Clean and safe and sterile, Richard paced back through his rooms.
> Clean, safe, sterile, and dead, almost everything around him was store
> bought for a specific, utilitarian, practical reason. If he lost it all
> tomorrow he’d miss the big screen and the PS-2, but they were both
> replaceable. He’d mourn the loss of his collection of movies and music
> that would take time to rebuild. The books, a lot of those he couldn’t
> replace, the comic books… the list of important things grew a little
> longer and it brought him a little comfort. Slim, cold comfort in the
> fact of things. His father was on the list and Skip. It depressed him
> deeper to realize that out of all the people in the world there were
> only two on his list. He resisted the urge to add Hannah. How could
> you really care about or miss someone you didn’t even know?
>
> It just wasn’t right.
>
> His entire day hadn’t been right; so far, his whole week was pretty
> fucked up. Monday was a total blank. He’d screwed up, should have
> realized that first thing this morning. He should have let Crasner have
> her puckered, petty, personal victory, kept his mouth shut and let it
> roll off his back, should have showered, shaved, suited up and gotten
> back into the game, gone into the office and groveled. Dittmer would
> have waved it all away and he’d be right back in the thick of things, in
> a better position.
>
> He could still have it all. Dittmer could, would still wave the magic
> wand. The consideration left the taste of disinfected decay in his
> mouth. Honest intent paved the path to Willkie, Dittmer, Collins, and
> Crasner. He liked debate, was good at it, won national championships.
> Tides of money and power had pulled him to law. He’d majored in
> mathematics and logic undergrad, graduated to law school at his mother’s
> insistence, stumbled into one of Dittmer’s seminars. The rest was
> natural progression, a smooth endless flow into repetition.
>
> He had never really wanted it.
>
> Sitting on the edge of his bed Richard couldn’t think of any
> occupation, he wanted more. At five, he’d wanted to be an astronaught.
> He couldn’t recall if anything had ever followed that aspiration. His
> life had been so well mapped out before he got it that it never really
> seemed to matter. He went to the best schools, got good grades, and got
> a good job.
>
> The sun set, the shadows darkened, and Richard knew that the visions of
> his dead life were true. The only thing that had changed was his
> perception of it all. He got up and stared out the window. The little
> cul-de-sac was empty and for him it was just a fancy dead end. Cold
> worms worked up his spine. He was afraid, staring at the dark city he
> could see no way out of the maze. The worms writhed and churned the
> fear with anger and grief, hollowing a deep, undefinable pain. Richard
> laid his head against the window frame. Tears came and he let them
> run. There was nothing to be ashamed of now. He let the sobs rattle
> out of his chest and echo in the darkness let the aching fill him and
> rise and run out.
>
> V
>
> Spent, on the floor, back to the wall Richard found himself staring at
> the box. This morning everything had seemed so different.
>
> Was it just the light? Would the sun revive his world? Could it be
> that easy?
>
> And did it really matter if all his nights were hell?
>
> “And what the hell am I so afraid of?” Richard growled at the box.
>
> He stood with a purpose, snapped on a light. “So what if it’s all
> empty?” He asked the shadows. “What am I going to do about it?” He
> started back towards the kitchen, only got three steps into the living
> room. It just seemed pointless to cook. There would be no pleasure in
> the food. He wasn’t hungry. He turned on the living room light and he
> paced. Wanting to find some glimmer of the rightness that had been his
> that morning. Surely, it couldn’t all just be gone.
>
> Richard paced and wrestled with reason, clearly realizing what he truly
> wanted was the delusional state that had started his problems this
> morning.
>
> But that morning it hadn’t seemed like a problem. That morning it had
> felt natural, right, logical, fitting, proper, and gratifying. It had
> all been so clear in the sunlight. He would quite his job, give away
> his stuff, and...
>
> What? What had he done that day?
>
> Emptied his closet and loafed in the park.
>
> A bit of his thoughts closer to the surface shuddered at the thought.
> So much time wasted. He could have been...
>
> And the problem came round again. He didn’t want to do what he had
> been doing and had no idea what he wanted to do. The circular logic was
> making his head hurt and the worms crawl. Richard closed his eyes and
> thought hard. What had he done? What should he do?
>
> There were no answers. He froze in indecision. He paced back to the
> edge of the bed; it was the only place in the apartment that seemed real
> to him at that moment. Again, his eyes sought the box studied the
> carving seeking some order and meaning in the random scratching and
> scrapings. Again, his finger touched the rosebud just so. Again, the
> box played its piano role of Pachobell’s Canon in D. He stared at the
> box and wondered how it came about, how it worked.
> Studying it closely with nothing but time in his future he figured it
> was someone’s practice piece. The carving was layered and sectioned.
> The crude, beginner’s cuts were on the bottom. As the work spread round
> to the sides, it was controlled and repetitious, the same cuts and
> designs repeated, refined and honed. More intricate, adventurous motifs
> repeated around the edges of the top. Over all lay the hand of the
> craftsmen in a final delicate working, smoothing the divisions into a
> whole, integrating beginning and end with an added flourish here and a
> well chosen careless gash there.
>
> Someone had given the box a lifetime of attention. It glowed with a
> faint Inner Light of its own.
>
> “What the fuck?” Richard demanded of the box. The perception of the
> suggested shimmer made him angry. If someone could impart a life to
> block of wood, why couldn’t he breathe life back into his life?
>
> He walked away from the urge to jump on the mocking box and smash it.
>
> The problems in his life were of his making, weather they were made
> through inaction and inattention or not, smashing the box would solve
> nothing. That was not his answer. Richard knew well enough that
> destroying the box would only be another bead in the rosary of his
> regret. It had been his grandfather’s his father had given it to him.
> It was his only connection to a world of meaning. It was the only thing
> in the apartment that had any real life in it.
>
> “Shit.” The anger leaked. “There’s got to be something,” he demanded
> of himself. Everybody wanted something. If he knew what he wanted...
>
> The epiphany struck like lightening and cracked his head asunder. He
> knew full well what he wanted. He’d been avoiding the thought all
> evening, had run from the realization in fear. In blazing clarity, he
> saw what he’d done.
>
> He wanted Hannah. But fear had pushed him away from that desire,
> blocked him from the flow his life had chosen.
>
> Worms ate deep into his insides. In a passing, self-conscious moment
> he had tossed aside his future, and now it was too late. He could never
> get that moment back.
>
> “That’s it?” For the first time, Richard questioned his fate. “Bet it
> all on one shot, and you don’t even know where you’re shooting? It’s
> not fair.”
>
> Year’s worth of a repeated refrain answered in his head. “Life’s not
> fair…” the chorus of memory fractured into its various following
> lines...
>
> His mother’s, “that’s just the way it is.”
>
> His grandfather’s, “that’s why you have to fight.”
>
> Some coach’s, “walk it off ya big baby.”
>
> His father’s, “suck it up.”
>
> Skip’s, “Those are the breaks.”
>
> Some girl’s, “welcome to reality.”
>
> Dittmer’s, “that’s why you have to have bigger teeth.”
>
> Witherspoon’s, “but God favors the righteous.”
>
> All variation on the theme ‘tough titty’, building to a psychotic
> litany of blind violation and shrieking self-justification.
>
> “Life’s not fair,” Hannah’s voice speaking to him from a far away and
> forgotten sunny bench. Talking about her parents, dead in a car wreck
> when she was fifteen, green eyes distant and sad. “So, I play by my own
> rules.” Her smile broke the movement in his head.
>
> And Richard knew he wanted to try a different game.
>
> Putting the thoughts out of mind and embracing a small flicker of hope,
> he sprang for the front door. He expected to see the hallway bright and
> welcoming an affirmation of his right choice. The shadowed, dingy
> stretch that met his eyes drenched hope.
>
> Was it just coincidence that two of the three lights in the hall were
> burned out now? The hall had never seemed so long and void before. He
> stared at the far away darkened corner. Was this the denouncement? His
> damnation? Would he shuffle pathetically down this cold tube, slide
> into the shadow, and cringe before the confirmation of his fears?
>
> Richard fully realized the strength and depth of his fear.
>
> Fear, unknown and unnamed, had unmade his life. Fear had kept him out
> of dark corners, away from sharp things, safe from discomfort, clear of
> embarrassment. In blind cow contentment Richard Kenworth Compton III
> had traveled the narrow shoots of his life.
>
> Facing the unknown, Richard expected the sledgehammer.
>
> And he faced the fear. He stepped into the hallway and let the door
> swing shut at his back.
>
> If he didn’t try, he’d never know.
>
> The End.
> Well, maybe. This is my first impulse to end it. But then there's...
>
>
> And he faced the fear. He stepped into the hallway and let the door
> swing shut at his back. If he didn’t try, he’d never know.
> Richard didn’t shuffle. That he could change. Resolve starching his
> spine he marched into the shadows and knocked before he could think
> better of it. Then he stood in the shadow, waiting.
> And waiting.
> He heard music. Heard it clearly, throbbing drums and ‘I want you to
> want me, I need you to need me, I’d love you to love me…’ a classic rock
> Canon. The relentless repetition of the drumbeat changed the throb of
> his pulse.
> ‘I’ll come home early from work, If you say you love me.’ Music
> swirled into his shadowed void and he affirmed the unfocused promise.
> For the warmth of love, he would gladly surrender his job.
> ‘Feeling all alone without a friend you know you feel like dying,’ the
> line flared in his head a rephrasing of his truth.
> ‘I want you to want me, I need you to need me, I’d love you to love me,
> I’m begging you to beg me.’ All he wanted was just beyond that door.
> He knocked harder.
>
> The end.
> Or is it? I'm leaning towards ending it here.
> But...
> And I'm hesistant to include this cause it seems trite to me, and I
> don't do happy endings often.
> But...
>
> ‘I want you to want me, I want you to want me,’ the drum slowed. ‘I
> want you to want me.’
> Richard prayed for reprieve and knocked again.
> Dingy barked the music stopped. She opened the door. Breathless,
> clutching the manic mutt by a slipping collar, bright green eyes
> inquired wordlessly. “Hi.”
> He fumbled, “hi…” felt the cringing. “I was... you want to get
> something to eat?” He plowed through.
> She frowned. “I just stated dinner prep. Channel thirty-four’s
> showing ‘Lawrence of Arabia’ tonight and I really just want to stay
> home.”
> “Oh,” he turned away to absorb the defeat. “Sure…”
> “But, if you don’t mind just hanging out and watching TV, you could
> join me.”
> Richard didn’t question the resolution. He accepted his reprieve
> joyfully.
>
> Guess this turns out to be choose your own ending. ;->
> My inclination is to leave it ambiguous. What do you guys think?
> MerryKat