Fireball is Dead

Tragically, just after commenting that if my blog were a pet it would be dead by now, I discovered that my son's pet toad, Fireball, had died. This is relevant because I was the one who had most of the responsibility for feeding Fireball. Unfortunately, she only ate crickets and the occasional wax worm, both of which had to be bought in small quantities from the pet store, and she only ate them once or twice a week, so I would, on occasion, forget to feed her for a week. Once I found her little dried up body (a toad's body MUST be 90% water), I realized the last time I had fed her was about two weeks ago, just before we left to visit my cousin in Ohio. Apparently she was hardy enough to make it one week, but not two. The day I found her I felt really bad and kept thinking about it all the next day, but it was much harder on my poor son, who kept crying every time he thought about her death. Ah, Fireball, you were a good pet. I'm sorry I forgot to feed you.

S.M.A.R.T Goals

If you have ever at any time had to engage in goal setting in a business environment, you've probably heard of S.M.A.R.T goals, but perhaps, like me, you can't always remember what the acronym S.M.A.R.T stands for. Well, trouble yourself no more - I have the solution to your problem. That's right, I've documented below what each one of those capital letters stands for.

S is for Smelly - You know the old saying, "so close I can taste it"? Well, your taste buds are part of your olfactory system - if you're going to get close enough to that goal to taste it, it's gonna have to be smelly.

M is for Marketable - What's the point of having a goal if you can't convince others of its value? You've got to think like your goal is a street whore and you're it's pimp - get out there and hustle that goal!

A is for Aardvark - If you have to ask, you wouldn't understand. Every goal needs an aardvark.

R is for Retractable - How can you be a winner if you sometimes lose? You can't - that's why your goals always have to be retractable.

T is for Table - You're going to need somewhere to put your goal. I like to put mine on a table.

There you have it. If you'll just remember this simple mnemonic, "Smelly Marketable Aardvarks with Retractable Tables", you'll always have S.M.A.R.T goals.

The Washington Post Magazine's 2009 Valentines Fiction Contest

Well, I'm back. To those of you who follow along, bless you for your patience. Obviously, if this blog were a pet, it would be dead by now.

Anyhow, those of you who have been following along may recall that I entered a short story in the Washington Post Magazine's 2008 Valentines Fiction Contest. (See this post if you're interested.) Well, for obvious reasons, I didn't win, nor was I a runner up. What I submitted held the embryonic outline of a story, but I never fully freed it from the dark incubator of my imagination to live on its own. That said, really, my goal last year was simply to submit some kind of fiction to something, soooo ... as they say in school, I'm a winner just for trying. (Go, me - win by losing - woo-hoo!)

Anyway, there's a new contest, and another chance to lose, this year. See this link for details. I've copied the image for this year below. (Yeah, it's small. If you want to see the full image, go to the link.)



For some reason, this year's image was more inspiring to me, and I ended up writing two stories. (Which is good because my goal this year is to write two stories a month.) I've included them below. If you're inclined to comment, I'd be interested in knowing which of the two you like better and why. For both stories, I'd also be interested in what you think works or doesn't work. (Of course, if you don't want to be my virtual editor, feel free to just *read* the stories.) I've got until May 4th to choose which one to submit.

Story Number 1: The Illusion of Leaving

That day, my daughter, Carrie, showed up at my door, claiming she was on her way home from work and wondering if I had a moment to look at her clutch. Though I'd helped her with her car in the past, I suspected she'd really stopped by just to be sure I was okay. At the time, my wife, Marlene, and I had recently separated after twenty-seven years of marriage; of our two daughters, Carrie was particularly concerned that I wouldn't know how to get a long without her mother.

“Sure,” I started to say, “come on in. I'll be happy to look at your, uh, your, uh, ...” But for some reason I couldn't say the word “clutch”. I kept opening my mouth, expecting the word to come out, but it just scuttled deeper into the recesses of my mind, away from my grasping tongue.

“Dad,” Carrie said, concerned, “Dad, are you okay?”

I looked back at my daughter, baffled. For a moment, she looked like herself, and then she didn't. Things shifted in my head and she looked briefly like a very blurry version of a Vegas showgirl and then she didn't look like anything.

That was the last sight I ever saw, and, strange as it might sound, the most beautiful. That vision of my daughter as a blurry Vegas showgirl was a revelation to me.

When I woke up in an intensive care unit a few days later, I learned I'd had a stroke. It affected my speech and made me blind. Although the doctor told me at the time that there was a chance my sight would return, it never did.

It's difficult to explain the revelation that came to me in my blindness without telling you about my marriage and why it fell apart.

By the time I separated from my wife, the bitter kernel of dissatisfaction I'd been tending in my heart for the latter half of our marriage had hardened into a cold disdain. Shortly after our daughter Carrie was born, the vitality began to seep out of Marlene. She seemed to lose interest in almost everything. Our sex life was the first thing to suffer. The two month waiting period after Carrie's birth stretched into a year. Whenever I'd try to touch her, she'd make an attempt to participate, but her heart wasn't in it.

When I'd first met Marlene, she'd had a beautiful, almost bewitching quality, that made me ache physically when I looked at her. Though we were both virgins until our honeymoon, when I'd touch her, it was like touching a beautiful instrument: I could feel the music in her body, waiting to be released. After we married, though, and our daughters were born, she began a gradual fade into the caricature of the dowdy housewife. Bit by bit, she built a wall of television, laundry, housecleaning, and children's school activities between us. I tried to feel my way around the wall, but, as time went on and things didn't improve, I retreated into my career. If the girls were out for the night, I'd find reasons to stay late.

Through all this, our daughters grew; as they did, Carrie reminded me the most of Marlene. It was as though at her birth, she'd captured Marlene's soul and taken it with her. As she got older, she looked like a younger Marlene. It was like an echo of Marlene had returned to me, but in a form that I could never touch or hold. You might expect that I'd resent Carrie for that, and yet, just the opposite happened: as she blossomed into a young woman, I found that I could laugh and joke with her and almost live again. I was always careful to avoid confiding in her too much; I never wanted to turn her against her mother. If anything, I hid my feelings too well – she became convinced that I'd never be able to make it without her mother around to care for me.

By the time Carrie left for college, I'd retreated to magazine pictures and movies to fan the fading embers of my passion. I longed to recapture all I'd given up to be with Marlene. Throughout everything, I'd never been physically unfaithful to Marlene – I didn't want to hurt Carrie or her sister like that – but I was increasingly haunted by images of women in enticing poses, young women who made me wonder if I'd made a mistake never daring to look outside the confines of my marriage. I began to fantasize about going away to Vegas and paying a beautiful, young showgirl to live out my fantasy with me. Looking online, I found a woman who seemed to offer what I was looking for. That act finally brought things to a head.

“What are you doing?” Marlene had said, when she'd come across me that evening in the den looking at the web site where the woman advertised for new clients. “What are you looking at?” The confusion and disgust in her voice was too much for me.

“I'm looking at someone who enjoys sex, someone who might actually want to be with me – even if only for money!” I said angrily. Marlene just looked at me, then her lip began to quiver.

“Don't start crying now,” I continued roughly. “You haven't cared about me or what I do for a long time – why start now!” Marlene turned away from me, her shoulders shaking. After a moment, she left the room.

“That's right,” I called after her, “Go back to your television!” I felt a sickening rift in my heart, like the words I was saying were tearing my soul. After she left, I paced the room talking to myself, reciting the ugly rosary of my accusations against her.

When I talked myself out, I looked into the emptiness inside me and found nothing left. That night, I slept alone in an anonymous motel on the side of the road to a future I no longer knew if I wanted to own.

The day after I woke from my stroke, Carrie stopped by. “I brought someone to see you,” she said. “I told mom you woke up and she wanted to come by to be sure you were okay.” I heard Marlene enter. I hadn't seen her since I'd rented the apartment.

I tried to mumble a greeting, but the words wouldn't come out right.

“Can he speak?” I heard Marlene ask Carrie.

“Not yet,” Carrie said, brightly, “but the doctor says he should get most of his speech back in a few weeks." She paused. "I'll leave you two alone for a bit.” I heard her leave the room.

The room was silent, then I heard Marlene pull up a chair. Across the hall, I could hear the television playing. We sat in silence, neither one certain how to cross the void.

After a while, I heard Marlene shift in her chair and felt her hand touch mine. It was then I realized she was crying quietly.

“Why didn't you ever talk to me? I was so alone and you never talked to me.” She whispered between quiets sobs. “And now you can't talk at all.” Her fingers beat against my hand like tiny fists, then grasped as if reaching for something to steady her.

“I only ever wanted you to love me. But after Carrie was born ...” Her voice trailed off. “I was never enough for you then.” It broke my heart to listen to her. The image I'd seen just before my stroke, of Carrie, looking like her mother, dressed as a showgirl, flashed before my eyes. I tried to tell her I was sorry, but my tongue was awkward and I could only mumble sounds that wanted to be words, but weren't.

In the weeks and months that followed, all through my recovery, I don't know why she chose to do it, but Marlene was there. Once, after I'd regained most of my speech, I tried to thank her and then apologize, but she only patted my hand and said, quietly, “don't.”

When I was released, she came for me. I didn't ask about the apartment. Carrie moved in with us, “just for a little while” she said, “to make sure you and mom are okay.”

That was more than a year ago, and, as I listen from my room, I can hear them both working happily together down the hallway. As I listen to them, to me, it is appropriate, and painful, and beautiful that the last memory I have of seeing is of a blurry Vegas showgirl – and more so that it is a memory of my daughter Carrie, looking all the world like her mother reincarnated.


Story Number 2: Leaving the Big Country

“In a big country dreams stay with you
Like a lover's voice fires the mountainside”
In a Big Country, by Big Country

The image that woke him at night and haunted his thoughts was the the image of her just before the bomb went off.

"Why don't you tell me about that?" The doctor asked.

"Tell you about what?" Cole asked.

"Tell me about the dreams."

"Doc, I've already told you about the dreams. Talking doesn't make them go away." In his mind the reel starts again: he's in the bradley, thinking of her.

"What the fo-monkey is that?!" G-Max is saying, using one of his homemade replacement curse words. Then the bomb goes off. For a millisecond he can still see her in his mind, then her image is enveloped in a halo of shimmering blue and black, and he blacks out.

"Why do you think that image is so important to you?" In a previous session, Cole had told the psychologist about the dreams that started while he was recovering in the ICU at Landstuhl. He'd got it into his head there that he needed to read the Bible from beginning to end. Maybe he'd thought that it would shield him from the guilt, maybe he'd hoped it would make him worthy of her again - whatever he'd hoped, he hadn't counted on it affecting him the way it had.

'Behold, all ye that kindle a fire, that compass yourselves about with sparks: walk in the light of your fire, and in the sparks that ye have kindled. This shall ye have of mine hand; ye shall lie down in sorrow.' Those words in Isaiah, the dream always started with those words: sometimes Cole was saying them, sometimes G-Max said them, sometimes she hung over him like an avenging angel, saying them. In the worst moments, the child was saying them.

"You know, after you shared your dream with me, it got me thinking about the Bible myself." The doctor was still talking. "I found this verse in Job: 'Yet man is born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward.' When I say that, what does it mean to you?"

"Doc, this is stupid." Cole sighed. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, but it doesn't mean anything special to me. I got blown up, my buddy died in an RPG attack - all those things involve sparks. That's all it is." He'd been coming to these sessions since he'd arrived at Walter Reed for rehab. They didn't really make any difference, but the military felt better. Talking couldn't replace the foot he'd lost or G-Max or ...

"Corporal," the sergeant was barking through the static in his ear, "clear that house!" Somewhere in the other alley, just over the roof, the sergeant and the rest of the squad were pinned down by machine gun fire. Cole signaled to his team. G-Max shattered the back door with the butt of his rifle, then threw a grenade into the opening. As the concussion rocked the house, the team rushed through the broken door. It opened into a kitchen. Cole barely had time to register that a boy and a woman were down on the way into the next room. Nothing moved in there. Cole signaled to G-Max, who tossed a grenade up the stairs. Following the blast, they rushed to the next floor. A child was screaming up there, a horrible, keening sound. The sergeant was cursing in his ear. "Wrong house, you got the wrong house, corporal! Get out of there!"

After that, he still thought about her, but he didn't call or text. How do you tell someone like her you killed a mother and her two children? How do you tell her you still don't know if you feel bad about it, that you'd do it again if you thought the raghead killing your crew was in the house?

You don't.

As time went on, he tried to stop thinking about her, but his dying heart was infected with her. If he didn't resist thinking about her, she drifted into his thoughts; if he tried to resist, his thoughts fought him, fixating on her. He was going through the drill in the bradley – first fighting her memory, then pretending to ignore it – when the bomb went off.

The dream, he hadn't been conscious for any of the things that happened in the the dream. He was unconscious when G-Max pulled him from the burning bradley. He was unconscious when G-Max lay on top of him, covering him with his body while bullets and rocket fire sliced through the air. He was unconscious when the concussion of the RPG blew G-Max off of him and tore away his foot. He didn't see or feel any of that until he started living it in his dreams in the ICU at Landstuhl.

"You're quiet. Do you want to share what you're thinking about?"

"No, Doc, I don't. I've had enough talking for today." Recently Cole had begun hording pain medicine; he was done talking, it was time to do something.

"Okay, Cole. Well, I certainly hope you'll think about what we talked about last week."

"Sure, Doc, I'll think about it."

Out on the street it was getting dark. As he walked, Cole could feel his prosthetic, alien and hard.

"What's your hurry, gimpy?" The man's voice was mocking as he stepped from the shadows. "Slow down there - I think you got something of mine." The man stepped in front of Cole and stiff-armed him to a stop. He raised a gun, gangster-style, with the grip turned sideways and pointed it at Cole's chest. "Gimme your wallet."

It was clear from the way he held the weapon, thumb-down, within striking range, that he didn't know what he was doing. Reflexively, Cole's body moved to fight back, but he bridled himself. He could do it himself or let this man do it - maybe it was better if it was someone else. "Go ahead and shoot." He responded without emotion, looking the man in the eye.

The man struck him a downward blow across the face. As the blow caught him in the side of the head, the searing pain lit a fire in his body like the charge in a gun. Sparks kindled before his eyes, reminding him again of Isaiah 50:11. Through the sparks, he could see the man's hand coming up again, the pistol pointed slightly outward, away from his body. He slammed his left hand hard into the man's right hand, jerking the man's arm back down briefly, then yanking it up and straight out from the man's side. As he did, he twisted the barrel of the gun so that the grip rotated toward the thumb-side, pulling it out of the man's grasp. As he pulled the gun free, he swept his right leg past the man's right leg - the prosthetic held - then mule-kicked backwards, punching his right hand into the man's chest with all his force. The man crashed into the ground, head bouncing off the pavement. For a second his face went slack, then he looked up at Cole in confusion.

Cole had the pistol pointing down at the man's face. He could feel the surge of energy like an electric current coursing through his arm and into his trigger finger. He flexed it slightly. It would be so easy. Her face flashed into his mind, the image from his dreams. "This shall ye have of mine hand; ye shall lie down in sorrow." He could hear the whisper of her voice.

The child had died. In spite of everything he'd done, the child had died.

"Get up, man - get outta here." He gestured with the gun. The man was still in shock. "Get up!" Cole shouted, "I said, get OUT OF HERE!" That jolted the man into action. He scrambled to his feet and ran down the street, one less death in a broken world.

Cole threw the gun into a nearby dumpster, then stood on the street for a long time, trembling. When he started to walk again, he realized he was crying. It was time to go home.