writing snippet (James) - Taveston's

They sat across the table from each other in uncharacteristic silence. James fidgeted with his coaster, stroked the spine of the folded menu, drummed his fingers softly against the tabletop. Chayla’s arms were crossed and propped on the table and she was looking around, taking in Taveston’s familiar décor.

“So?...”

“Huh? Oh. I’m sorry – I just don’t have a lot to say today. It’s been a long day and I’m just feeling worn out, you know?”

“Well yeah, I figured that. Your job sucks, James. I don’t know how you keep going back every day.”

“Yeah…”

“But that’s why I called you. So you wouldn’t just finish work and then go home to that itty little apartment of yours and spend all your time alone on the Internet or something, and turn into one of those guys who spends all his time alone except when he’s at work.” Chayla paused a moment.

“What if you went crazy and started hallucinating or something? No one would know. You could be mauled to death by imaginary bears, and no one would pretend to know what happened.”

“Right, thank you. You came this close to saying something sweet and meaningful…and then imaginary bears happened.”

Chayla shot him a withering look and then looked around to flag down the bar man.

“Hey, Chay. What’s goin’ on, moonchild? What can I get ya?”

“Not a lot, Luke. And just the usual, please – Fat Tire and an apology from an asshole.” Luke was just weird enough for Chayla to forgive him for mostly being a stiff.

Luke gave her a slow grin and turned to James. “Little trouble in paradise, amigo?”

“Soon as I’m in paradise I’ll call the bar and let you know. And I could go for a Terrapin, I think.”

Luke bobbed his head in affirmation and shuffled off to the bar “Get those drinks right up for ya. Have to add the apology to your tab, though.”

Chayla watched him walk away, not turning back to look at James. “You’re an A-grade jerk, you know that?”

“…said the girl who used to stand outside the door with a wine bottle and swear in French whenever I tried to invite someone over,” James sighed. “Also, the topless thing.”

Chayla couldn’t keep up the act any longer. She almost snorted, broke into a grin at the memory. “You coulda done better than any three of them anyway, my darling little J-hole. So, what’s going on anyway? I know you’re usually Serious McBusinesspants right off of work, but you seem a little mopier than usual?”

“Thanks,” James nodded to Luke as he set the two beers down. “I don’t know, Chayla. I guess I’ve just been in a weird mood today. About halfway through the morning I got this picture of the mountains stuck in my mind, and after a while I just wanted to leave my desk and get in the car and go. Payday’s at the end of the week, so why not? I just got gas, so I could go a few hundred miles before I had to start walking. Go south and I might be able to get as far as Georgia. I’ve got some family down there, and I’ve always wanted to see Athens and Savannah. North and…well, I don’t know how far I could get, but as long as my car didn’t die on a turnpike I think I’d be okay. Maybe just take the tags off and abandon it when it does, and start a new life in the closest town I can walk to from there. You know? Even If I just go back to doing the same god-awful boring stuff that I’m doing now, at least I’ll know that I did something with my life for at least a few days.”

“James! Stop it.”

“Christ, what’s wrong with that?" Chayla's tone put him on the defensive. "You and I both know that I’m probably not actually going to do it. I’ve got too many responsibilities here. I’ll probably never leave this damn place.”

“No, I meant stop touching your face so much when you talk. It’s distracting.”

James stared at Chayla, expressionless for several moments, then sighed into his beer and took a long drink. This was probably why they never dated back in school.

writing snippet - phonecall (Chayla)

Chayla dialed the all the numbers but one, waited a dramatic moment, and then forcefully punched the 4.

Rr-ring. Rr-ring. Rr-ring.

“C’mon, J-hole, pick up already!” She rolled her eyes in exasperation and stretched, holding the phone out at arm’s length for the last two rings.

Hi, this is James. I’m not available right now but leave a message and I’ll get back to y….what the fuBEEP.

Chayla grinned, just like every time. She remembered what she’d been doing when he was recording that message. She started yelling at the phone, still arms-length away.

“James! James! Pick up your end of the goddam tin can, James!” He always called her phone a tin can, giving her a healthy dose of teasing for still using a landline when literally everyone else they knew had cell phones. In return, she would usually give him a healthy dose of middle finger.

“But seriously, though. Don’t call me back because I won’t be here when you get this message. I’m going to Taveston’s. Meet me there in, oh, 45 minutes or something. If you don’t, you better expect the worst. You know, like the time I stopped shaving and swore at you in French with an empty wine bottle whenever you had a girl over. Or the topless thing. Oh by the way, tell your uncle I said hi.” Chayla could barely suppress a giggle. “Anyway, see you soon!”

Now she just needed to get dressed and head over to the bar. James would be there, almost exactly on time, and she’d get huffy about how she’d waited so long for him to arrive, and he’s apologize profusely, and she’d act like she had been snubbed but would still allow him to escort her inside. She didn’t want to call it a tradition, because she wasn’t sure he’d caught on yet that the same thing happened every time, or that it was just a game.

Actually, James was a great guy, and Chayla considered herself really lucky to have a man like him in her life. As she picked through the pile of clothes on her floor for underwear and a tank top that wasn’t too wrinkled, she tried not to dwell on her secret fear that he’d get tired of her fond abuse and stop spending time with her. James was a really good friend and didn’t deserve to be treated so shitty; she didn’t know why she couldn’t stop.

A quick look in the mirror to see if she should put on a shorter skirt (nah, I haven’t shaved in days), the she pulled her hair back, tied a bandana like a headband, and drew the top card of her tarot deck to tuck in it for accent. Empress reversed? Damn, that means something but I left my stupid book upstairs.

Anywhere else, her exploded-new-age-shop couture would probably get a load of nonplussed stares, but she’d been so many times to Taveston’s, with groups or with James, that they were used to her stylistic affectations. She was pretty sure at least one of the bartenders knew her by name. Oh well, that just meant that sometime soon she’d have to shake things up by going in wearing a regular jeans-and-t-shirt outfit. That might raise a few eyebrows.

writing snippet - driving (Rob)

Those who knew him would probably say that Rob had no imagination. Those who knew him best would probably tease him about how boring he was, and he needed to start playing video games or something. Rob was simply a practical-minded man, and preoccupied himself with the things around him, rather than engaging in flights of fancy. Elizabet kept telling him he needed to lighten up a little bit, encouraging him to “exercise those mind muscles.” In return, he’d just chuckle and make sure that the equipment at the station was in good working order. 

He had a soft spot for Elizabet. He wasn’t secretly in love with her or anything, at least he didn’t think he was, but he felt a definite fondness for the dark-haired woman.  He’d noticed that she seemed a lot less of herself recently, almost seeming harrowed, and had made an effort to pick up more late work at the station so that he could be around if something happened to her. That’s where he’d been tonight, why he was driving home at 2 in the morning. He hadn’t wanted to leave, but he’d done all the regular maintenance and Elizabet had shooed him home, insisting she’d be alright. He’d still been reluctant to go, but she was very persuasive. Or maybe he’d just been very good at letting her persuade him. He didn’t think their friendship was different from any other, but he felt obliged to admit the possibility that he might let her influence him more than he let other people.

It was too late to hit up Taveston’s and he wasn’t really in the mood anyway – his work and Elizabet’s health had put him into a more somber mood. Rob guessed he’d just go home. Late spring warmth had given way to late night chill, but for some reason he felt stifled in the car so he rolled down the windows and switched on the heat. The mingling sensation of warm air from the vents and pre-dew coolness from the windows played across his skin, raising the hair on his arms. The radio was tuned low, so that he could just make out guitars and drumbeats above the noise of the wind. God, I don’t think I’ve done this since college.

Rob turned onto Old Orchard Road and his mind began to wander. He may not have much imagination, but he had plenty of memories.  Sometimes he felt like maybe his life was a sequence of memories that got replayed, over and over again. He’d certainly lived this one before, driving down Old Orchard with the windows and the heat, the radio playing low, head all wrapped up about a girl. It hadn’t been Elizabet back then of course. Her name was Erin, and she was an old sweetheart – not the first girl he’d ever slept with, but the one before.

“…Widening the corridors, and adding more lanes…” a stray lyric made itself audible above the road noises. Damn it, Cake. That was a weird coincidence. Maybe I’ll tell Elizabet about it tomorrow. In the years since the night he had driven home from Erin's, Old Orchard had been widened. Now there were extra lanes where the honeysuckle used to grow wild.

He felt a sudden pang of sadness. It had been a couple years now since any part of this road smelled like honeysuckle. He missed it, and he didn’t know why. Rob took a deep breath, entertaining the absurd notion that maybe some of the scent was left. He knew there wouldn’t be, and there wasn’t, but he was still a little disappointed that there was nothing flavoring the night air. He pulled up to a stoplight with a sigh. This one was always red, no matter what time of day he came to it. What was the deal with that?

writing snippet - radio (Elizabet)

"It is now 12:14, and you're listening to the Witching Hour with Elizabet—the witchy woman herself—right here on WDTZ; music so good, it's spooky. That was Bjork you just heard, Regina Spektor just before it, and Lach before that. I'll start the music back after this PSA from the Center for Disease Control, and we'll see what kind of magic we can make with the next set, starting with...well, we'll just find out won't we?"

Elizabet cued up the CDC bit that Cindy and Shawn had given her earlier, and collapsed back into her chair. She'd been the "Witchy Woman" for almost a year now. She'd been delighted to take the spot, in fact, because she'd just gotten out of grad school and couldn't fathom what a normal person's sleep schedule was like, or how it could possibly apply to her. Play whatever seemed like a good idea, take requests (there were a few, but not usually too many), and make sure the studio didn't burn down. Not a bad gig at all.

A few weeks ago, she'd started getting headaches, some of them bad. Maybe they were migraines, but they never lingered like her mom's had. Just here, there, and gone all in the course of a night. Still, sound hurt. Lights hurt. No one else could take her spot for more than a night or two, though, and she was too damn stubborn to let the WDTZ go off the air during her shift. So rather than admit something was wrong, she started "flying blind" in the studio. Eyes shut unless she absolutely needed them, and blocking out as much of the music as she could. The "Witchy Woman" had always been secretive about her playlists, and that worked in Elizabet's favor now; she really had no idea what songs she was queueing until she worked up the gus to open her eyes and sneak a glance.

She'd never thought she knew the studio like the back of her hand, but she made out with minimal screw-ups (somehow), and no one had called to bless her out about her show sucking. Either she was doing alright, or no one was bothering to listen to her any more. At this point, either one of those seemed like they could be okay. Maybe she'd offer to pick up Rob's tab at Taveston's—the bar down the road—if he'd record her show one night so she could actually hear how the "blind" Witching Hour sounded.

Or maybe she didn't want to know.

Ugh, the PSA was ending. Time to get back to work. She dared a quick peek around, trying not to wince. "This is Elizabet wishing a happy Witching Hour to all you boys and girls out there, and we are back to cast a spell on you with this classic track from Beck."

writing snippet - radio (Chayla)

Chayla grinned wolfishly as the last haunting strains of music faded into the air. The DJ's voice crackled across the speakers of the 30-year old transistor radio, announcing the time. "It is now 12:14, and you're listening to the Witching Hour with Elizabet—the witchy woman herself—right here on WDTZ; music so good, it's spooky. That was Bjork you just heard, Regina Spektor just before it, and Lach before that. I'll start the music back after this PSA from the Center for Disease Control, and we'll see what kind of magic we can make with the next set, starting with...well, we'll just find out won't we?"

Chayla hated the breaks. Not that she particularly cared for the music, but the breaks were worse. The Witchy Woman put together incredible playlists, and played it like she thought of them off the top of her head. Chayla had never heard a disc jockey pull that off as well as she did, and she had listened to a lot of radio shows over the past few years. Elizabet never really played music that Chayla liked, but that was beside the point. Chayla didn't even want to try to imagine the hours she must spend going through the station's catalog. It was rarely the kind of music she liked, but it always worked. And more importantly, it always read.

The temptation to fidget with the radio dial was more and more powerful, but Chayla didn't dare - on this old junker, she'd never be able to get the station back. It was an accident she'd found this station in the first place, while looking for a local classic rock station James had told her about. One that didn't suck, he'd said. Besides, by then the PSA was almost over. That was the great thing about these little stations; they played commercials about as often as ska bands played sonatas.

The Witchy Woman's voice came back on the air, and she started to talk in the next song. Something she'd never heard of by Beck. Chayla huddled even closer over the card table, her ear trained intently to hear the opening riff while she unconsciously fidgeted with the ballpoint pen in her hand. The table was littered with scraps of scribbled paper, snack food wrappers, an torn-up cigarette pack, empty cans of diet Pepsi, and a deck of tarot cards carefully divided into seven different stacks.

Those were just for double-checking, though, and Chayla hardly ever used them any more. Somehow, Elizabet's playlists always gave good readings.

writing snippet - becoming the game (unrevised)

Buzzers and chimes formed a raucus chorus and small lights blinked smugly as the pinball fell into the gutter. Again. Angel's look of concentration warped into an expression that was equal parts grin and grimace. "Rats. I'm out of quarters. Do you have any more?"

"No, I don't. I only brought enough for a couple games and I went before you, remember?"

Angel sighed and wistfully flipped the flippers one more time before coming over to sit next to me. "I know, but I wanted to ask anyway. Who ever knows when quarters will magically appear out of nowhere?"

"And maybe someday I'll be the queen of France," I teased, and hugged her shoulders.

Angel rested her head on my shoulder. "That would be horrible. You'd look funny without a head."

"So, um, I was just wondering... Why do you always go straight for the pinball machine when we're here? Please please please don't take this the wrong way, but you're not very good at it..." I tensed up, worried she was going to be mad at me for saying it.

She looked up at me.

"Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. That was really stupid of me. Awful. I mean..."

"Stop talking."

My voice quit. I was shocked; I'd never heard her use a sharp tone like that before. Oh boy. I must have messed up bad.

Angel looked at me with a smirk, and then her smirk broke into a wide grin. "I always wanted to try that on someone. Don't worry, I'm not mad."

I took a deep breath of relief. "Bene Gesserit witch."

"Enormous dork."

"I thought you were really mad at me for a second there. I was about prepared for emergency last rites."

"No, it's okay. It's a fair question. But I need you to promise you aren't going to think I'm weird or anything, okay?"

"Promise."

"Well...I'm becoming the game."

"Huh."

Angel's normal playful smirk clouded over as she searched for the words to express herself. "I mean, think about it. Pinball is a game that you can't win, right? Like, unless you wanted to play forever, you can't win. It's a game that's all about losing, right? Except...except it's not just about losing, it's about losing in the best possible way. But that's still about losing, if that makes sense. So, it's like you've got to learn the game, become one with it or something. Because it's a game about losing, and there are a million different ways to do that. So then you've got to become the game, so that there's no difference between you and the machine. And then losing doesn't bother you any more, because it's what's supposed to happen. And when it doesn't bother you any more, you can do what really needs to be done. So I don't keep losing because I want to or anything. I'd love to be able to top the high score list. Maybe some day I will, but I'm not going to do it by trying to cheat the game. I'll manage it by doing exactly what I'm supposed to do, by being the game. Does that make sense? Maybe? Sort of?"

"I think so. You're saying that if you learn all the ways you can lose, eventually you'll know exactly how to win, right?"

"No, that's not it at all." Angel frowned, the first time I'd ever seen her do that, and then sighed. "Maybe I'll be able to put it in better words someday. But until then, you'll just have to believe me, okay?"

I looked her straight in the eye. "You have it on my honor that I will take you at your word."

"Thanks." She rested her head on my shoulder again, and looked up at me with another playful grin spreading across her face. "Now are you SURE you don't have any more quarters?"

Excerpt: Reading at Night

I flipped through the folded pages slowly. I was trying as hard as I could to stay focused on the words in front of me, but I always had trouble reading for someone when they were with me. It was easily three times more difficult tonight because I was reading it for her, and double that because she was sitting right next to me. Maybe I was imagining it, but every word on those pages was contending for my attention against the warmth coming off her skin, every soft whisper of her breath. It was short—only three pages—but it might as well have been in Latin, as long as it was taking me to read it.

"Well, what do you think?"

I responded slowly, trying desperately to remember what I'd just read. "It's good. I, I definitely liked it."

Her lips smiled, her eyes gleamed with a knowing smirk that would cause me to stammer like an idiot and blush if I looked into them any longer.

If anyone else had given me that kind of I-told-you-so stare, I would have just gotten up and walked away. "Well, okay. I guess I have some questions..."

"Sure! what's up?"

"Well, you've asked me to read a couple other things and I don't think they're related, but some of the same names come up over and over again. Is it the same characters in all the stories?"

Angel played with her collar thoughtfully. "You know, I'd never really thought about it before. I guess they sort of are, except...not really? Like, the names represent a specific archetype or something in my head, so if there's a story with James in it, for example, he'll be similar to any other James, but not necessarily the same one? So, like, Lord James will be similar to James Jameson, P.I., but it won't be the same guy who's like 600 years old now. Even though I haven't ever actually written anything Medieval or a detective story..."

"That makes sense, I think. I guess the other thing I wondered about it why it's always raining. Isn't that a sign that something bad is happening when it rains? None of your stuff I've read is particularly sad."

I was staring at the empty space somewhere between the pages in my hand and her jean-clad knee when she stretched out, leaning back on her elbows, but I didn't have to see her face to imagine the smirk she was wearing. "They say you're supposed to write what you know. And it rains here. All. The. Time."

And like a switch had been turned on I started to notice the thickness in the air and the touch of chill, the dull hiss of rain against pavement seeping in through one of the cracked windows, the slowly fading dampness of my own jeans that made them cling to my knees uncomfortably. Damn, she was right. It had started raining this afternoon. It had rained two days ago. It had probably rained here every few days for as far back as I could remember, if I tried to remember.

"Anything else?"

"Huh? Oh, no. I think that's it. I'm sorry. I got distracted listening to the rain outside."

"It's alright. Just don't get too distracted. Rain makes people sleepy, and you're a lot more fun to talk to when you're awake." She leaned over take the folded pages from my hand, rested her head on my shoulder for a moment before she stood up and stretched her arms toward the ceiling. "I really do like it here, but it's always so dark when it rains. I mean, it's dark at night anyway, but with all the clouds there's no moon or anything. If it wasn't for us bringing it with us, there might not be any light at all. If this place could talk, I bet it would thank us."

I nodded dumbly, as though struck by the most profound thought that had ever come to mind.