Wordsmith Holler

Original Pulp Fiction

Tag: window

  • Dallas 3 a.m.

    On Oct 1, I woke in Dallas at 3 a.m. before my flight back to Las Vegas. Picking the morning flight over the red eye became a battle of trying to sleep in a too soft bed with a thin pillow. I might have slept better on the overnight. I should have just stayed awake and pretended I was 20 again.

    I hit stop on the phone alarm and saw a long line of alerts. In the dark, the light of the phone let me know, “20 dead in Las Vegas. More than 200 wounded.”

    It was 1 a.m. in Vegas; it had just happened.

    For years, I feared hearing a mass shooting in my city. Too many tourists; too many opportunities. It seemed very real.

    I spent the weekend with Katie in north Texas. A fan of country, she would have been at the concert. Thankfully, she was in bed in Denton.

    Matthew tried to get tickets to the Route 91 Concert on Saturday. He texted to say he had couldn’t get tickets. That left my son Albert. My phone showed he walked into the house at 10:06 p.m.; two minutes before the mass murder.

    I sat in the dark and thought how lucky we were. None of our kids were there. Relief and then horror as an alert put the death toll over 50.

    We landed in Las Vegas after 7 a.m. Curtains flowed out of two windows at the Mandalay Bay. The Strip was closed so we took Maryland Parkway to work. It felt like the wind had taken the heart out of Las Vegas.

    A Justice tried to give blood but the line was 3 hours deep and she had to come back to hear oral arguments. She never was able to give blood.

    Albert woke up confused. He read my text, “Are you okay?” He looked out the window. A bus went by so he figured everything was okay. Then he Googled Las Vegas and saw the news. “Oh, that’s why they texted.”

    He went out and bought six cases of water to take to the first responders. It seemed like all he could do. He talked to a few of them. Everyone was feeling grief. Not too many people wanted to talk about what had happened.

    He kept pausing the news to ask us questions. “Why did he do it?” “I can’t believe he did it.” “Do you think he cared?”

    I didn’t know what to say. I had the same questions.

    I donated some money to the Vegas Shooting Fund. By the end of the week, it totaled more than $10 million.

    Most of the victims were from California. Of my friends, at least 12 knew somebody shot or killed. A large number of people were from my hometown of Bishop. One little town of 4,000 people and so many people were at the concert.

    Las Vegas gets a bad reputation as a place no one calls home. Nearly 50 million people visit every year.

    But on the first day, United Blood Services collected more than 600 pints of blood; they are lucky to collect 100 pints a day. As people stood in line, businesses brought sandwiches, water, pizza, cake, umbrellas, and chairs. Everyone wanted to help. Our community showed through.

    By the end of the week, you could find #VegasStrong on most of social media accounts and billboards around the city.

    The mass murder stung us. But it didn’t stop us from being people who care.

    I’m still numb to the whole event. I would give anything to wake up in Dallas at 3 a.m. to see nothing on my phone.

     

     


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  • March 15, 2017 Scribble

    I spent twenty minutes holding my head to the right as a doctor went in again for my fourth thyroid biopsy. “Boy this is really deep,” he said. “Yep, maybe you’ll be the guy,” I said. It is clear with have a nodule or two. We don’t clearly know if it is cancer. “At least if it is cancer, this is the best one to get,” said my endocrinologist. “It takes so long to grow.” Comforting. While other writers are busy taking people to other places, I’m in an endless loop of out-patient surgery. No, you would not be interested in the waiting, prodding, and sore neck. It doesn’t jump off as one of those stories you want to hear.

    ***

    Hemingway said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” True. Sometimes you just have to write it out and hope something sticks. Then let it fall to the floor. In Hemingway & Gellhorn  he says,” Never crumple pages. Always let them float gently into the basket. Any writer who rips out his stuff and crumples it will go insane in a year, guaranteed.” I like the idea of floating paper to the trash. I would float this to the trash, but it’s a huge monitor.

    ***

    It turns out nobody reads this blog. (more…)


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  • March 2, 2017 Scribble

    You can read this if you wish although it consists of thoughts and fragments as I attempt to free write 750 words every day. Some of this may end up in a Story or a Conversation. Anyway, this is how one learn and shapes up The Craft.

    According to my new writing goal, I am supposed to just write down whatever comes to my head and finish up in 750 words. The whole thing sounds a bit of a waste of time, frankly. I don’t have the luxury of writing nothing; there is so much more to write and get done.

    Yet, here I am just writing. And counting time.

    (more…)


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  • Driving Back from Spring Break

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    Three days earlier I studied all night with a girlfriend for a physics exam and afterward drove four classmates 12 hours to San Diego for spring break. The entire trip the girls giggled and cackled behind me while a Korean kid sat silent up front. I decided we scared Jae. Although, being a confused immigrant might also explain his silence. Either way, he only said thanks when I dropped him off at his house. For that matter, Cindy told me how to find it.

    The rest of the trip to Oceanside I drove in a blur on autopilot. All of the lights merged into a slow motion light show and I doubt I could even tell you about the trip. I arrived at the motel, went to bed, and slept nearly all Sunday despite my mother’s pleas to come to the beach. In the morning, I drove her north to Anaheim where we rode the teacups, stood in a long line for the bobsleds, and paddled a canoe. We ate dinner on the bayou, visited the pirates, posed with Mickey Mouse, and explored the Swiss Family Robinson tree house. Overall, mom had a great time and I played the sweet son. By nightfall, the sky exploded with fireworks and we headed back south. Mom slept pressed into the window missing the nuclear power plant, the Marines, and the moonlit beach. As the tail lights on the interstate blurred into red, I again drove like a drone.

    Tuesday, I left mom in the room sadly wondering why I was heading back to college. I made Spring Break last only as long as a three-day weekend with an irritating baby. At the studio I planned to make a lot of cash in the remaining days of my break.

    Before I left, Cindy called to say she wanted to ride back with me to school.

    (more…)


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  • The Baby Picture

    [aesop_image imgwidth=”600px” img=”https://wordsmithholler.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/11/poison-1481596_1920.jpg” credit=”Pixabay” align=”right” lightbox=”on” captionposition=”right” revealfx=”off”]

    “The usual?” Mary grabbed two slices of sourdough from a bag before slapping on some tuna salad.

    “Yeah,” Tom replied looking around the deli.

    Two small puddles of rain water merged on the floor. He shook the drops from his umbrella before sticking it into a cloth grocery sack. Water leaked through the canvas of the heavy bag. He looked around to see if anyone saw its contents.

    Mary sliced through his sandwich, placed it on a plate with pickle, and pushed it toward him. He placed on his tray a banana from the fruit basket and a cello-wrapped brownie from the deserts.

    “Just a cup of ice water,” he said paying for the lunch.

    (more…)


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  • A Moment of Pure Truth

    A Moment of Pure Truth

    Christopher stood over the maze of workday and eyed the ocean. A thin fog cloud floated passed his perch on the 45th floor. On the docks, sea lions barked at tourists. East Bay traffic sought a faster path, ships hauled electronics in and almonds out, and the blood-red sun sunk into late afternoon north of the Golden Gate.

    In the conference room, five people sat in executive chairs around a table. Their faces reflected gloomy sullenness. They might as well said they intended two more hours of arguing and defensiveness. He crushed out his cigarette and flicked it into the wastebasket.

    A nervous man hunched from a camera with a stenographer perched to the side wearing a mask. Christopher thought he could use oxygen too. While the inventor told his story, the woman repeated what he said.

    “Does she have to do that?”
    “We need an accurate transcription,” said an attorney seated at the end.
    “Isn’t the video enough?”
    “I want to read it tonight.”

    Christopher rocked forward. He ran his right hand through his hair and looked over at the inventor. “Forget the transcriber, Mr. Wells. The quicker you answer, the faster we can get out of here.”

    The nervous man explained his one-of-a-kind process. It required this and that and one thing or the other. It mattered little to those at the settlement conference. The questions rolled, and the answers landed in a flat dud. Each person rubbed their eyes and wished for sleep.

    Christopher turned to the window daydreaming of places far from this evening. He watched the sun drop into the sea until the dying light filled the room.

    ~

    Five hours over the vermilion bridge, he opened the fabric roof. Clammers walked along the beach carrying clam guns and pails. They laughed in the ocean air. Christopher breathed deep taking in warm relief. The surf sweet. Sentries of redwoods stood on the cliff and a lone tree marched out to the shore. He longed to join its rush to the sea. Away from him, he picked up the faint smell of skunk. Humboldt County Fog, he guessed. A guy in a beanie and a girl in a flannel shirt smiled and waved.

    Christopher touched the solid dash. It was real, although, he still wore his virgin wool dress pants. He closed his eyes for a moment and opened them quick. A pair of 501’s replaced his wool pants. He looked in the mirror and dark sunglasses reflected his face. He settled into the car seat steering the wheel from the sand.

    The redwoods rose above the ocean. Ferns and grass bunched up crowding the road. The path intruded on the stillness giving way to silence. Sentries of trees towered until only darkness touched the sky. Christopher came to seek solace, and the forest ignored him.

    He slowed the car into a clearing. The tires crunched over cones, broken branches, and fronds. A hard thump echoed from the closing door. He regretted disrupting the surrounding cathedral.

    Christopher wandered over fallen timbers and rocks. Over a ridge he scanned for the forest tops watching the breeze sway each branch. The woods reached a a prominence beyond his imagination. He leaned against a trunk rounder than his stature. He followed the ridges and cliffs of bark as high as he could see. It never ended. Christopher guessed this tree stood stories tall long before his great-grandfather arrived in California.

    The width of the tree circled around and Christopher stepped over ferns as he rounded it. A black ant carried a golden speck of pollen at the end of a mile long trek. It rushed to disappear under the surface of leaves going deep into the humus. Christopher looked and failed to see the clearing’s starting point.

    A beam of light surrounded a smaller tree with a pathway from the sky. Dust and insects crisscrossed the dancing light. Christopher stood in awe breathing in the serenity.

    Christopher walked away from the big tree to stand under the light shaft. The illuminated tree as stood tall as the last one. This one though had the purest white branches. His shoulders shuddered, and every tree stepped back with appreciation and respect. He reached up stroking an albino cone of pure whiteness. Then a subtle spark passed through his hand twinkling in the light. Christopher rubbed together his fingers relishing the soft white powder. A jolt of energy flashed from the tips and floated to his core. He felt alive and full of wisdom.

    The light illuminating the ghost tree shown brighter, and he stood alone looking up. In the light glow, Christopher’s face expressed joy.

    ~

    “Is that what a nervous breakdown looks like?” asked Mr. Wells.

    Christopher jumped back from the table. The room became larger and the crowd surrounding him snapped to attention. The transcriber braced Christopher’s back as he sank into a chair confused. Everyone stared. A hand pushed him a glass, and he sipped the water allowing himself to return to the meeting.

    Christopher surveyed the balcony. Stars touched the rooftops of the city and a helicopter searched the bay. He pondered the outside while the others waited for him to say he was okay. Christopher cleared his throat and everyone turned to him.

    “Answers come at the strangest times,” he said.
    “How do you mean?” Mr. Wells asked.
    “All this means nothing. None of you should win.”
    “But we are so close.”
    “A settlement over a slight?”

    Christopher pushed himself from the table. He stood for a moment before the people seated opposite him. He nodded, smiled, and looked up. They followed his gaze to the ceiling tiles where his answer revealed itself to him but no one else. The others in the room only recognized a crisscross pattern.

    As they tried to understand the truth, Christopher gathered up his papers, turned away, and walked out the door.


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  • The Smell of Sage and Iron

    The Smell of Sage and Iron

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    The day-long truck ride started out as an adventure, then a journey, and after the third basin and range, it became a challenge to overcome boredom.

    Victor rolled down the window. He stuck his head out far enough for the wind to buffet his face. The blowing wind helped. He shuck off the grog and blinked a few times. The cool air made his face numb but the inside air made him sleepy.

    He reached back in and the heat hit again. He looked at the thermometer. Still more than 96 degrees. Was that inside or out? It didn’t matter. It was still hot.

    Not a car passed in two hours. The desert highway lived up to its name as the loneliest road and looking east across the playa, Victor saw the heat waves rising off the sand. Blue and green forms rose in a dance hypnotic and he ran too close to the edge. He pulled back with a sharp turn. Another mistake would either leave him awake or dead.

    He reached over for some water. The bottle felt light and only a sip remained. He took it, yet the little wetness only made him thirstier. He reached behind him for another bottle. Finding none, he licked the bottom of his front teeth and wet his tongue.

    To the west a few white clouds formed over the range. The sunlight made them transparent while dark patches below followed the clouds. In the shadows, the creosote and sage took on a dark shade of green and south of these white puffy clouds, a dark cloud filled the sky. The white clouds were rushing to join the darkness.

    Below the dark cloud, Victor saw mist and lines drifting down to the valley floor. Then a flash of light. And another. Lightening mixed with rain. He waited for the reply. Thunder sounded eight seconds after the flash so the rain fell eight miles away.

    He thought about the water. Refreshing and wet. Cold and dark; he longed to drink it.

    He punched his foot on the accelerator. The truck jumped and rushed forward. The wind blew faster beside the window.

    He stuck his head out again and a smell of dried wildflowers and iron filled his nose. The wind telegraphed the rain and brought a few drops to the pavement. They dropped and evaporated.

    In an instant, large drops fell on the windshield. A slow splat of drops hit in front of him and to the side. Each drop the size of silver dollars. A few more rain drops fell and then a torrent of rain.

    Victor let the water hit his face. The dust on his hair turned to mud and flowed past his forehead. He stuck his tongue out to catch a few drops.

    Thunder shook the truck. A flash of light and the rain started falling faster. Water drops filled the cab. Victor rolled up the window. He turned on the wipers. They failed to keep up with the falling water.

    A small road dipped down into the culvert and Victor slowed down to pull over. Off the road, he sat in the cab and watched the water hit the hood. It rippled down the side of the truck and pooled around him.

    He found a napkin and wiped down the door. The steering wheel was sticky. He tried wiping it off. The paper stuck to the wheel and tore off into strips. He tossed the waded paper onto the floor.

    The rain started to let up. Victor rolled down the window. He took a deep breathe of the smell of rain, mud and sage. A flash of light and thunder rocked the truck. He sat beside the road and looked as the sunlight flickered through the rain.

    Steam rose up off the pavement. Victor opened the door and walked to the back of the truck. A small puddle formed in the gravel. He pushed his boot toe through the water and it flowed off into the culvert.

    Victor reached into the bed for a used beer can. He shook it. Water sloshed back and forth in the bottom. Victor brought the can up and drank the water.

    The can smelled of rain and sage. He thought about the length of the journey. A smile turned up his lips and he walked back to the cab. With the rain, the trip became an adventure again.


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  • A Ghost Story – Ghosts Wished People Believed

    A Ghost Story – Ghosts Wished People Believed

    A few of the residents believed they lived in a haunted house. To the ghosts, it seemed unlikely anyone believed. They bumped into the living without the slightest notice. Sometimes they made a sudden movement to remind each other they were still around. They bounced among the residents coloring happy memories or darkening deep regrets. Never had they sparked passion in the hearts of the living. The ghosts wished people believed.
     
    Tommy woke from an afternoon nap. He rubbed his eyes, stretched up his arms, and crunched his knuckles. A ghost bounced a light stream around the cracking fingers. The light then flashed away. The ghost hung above the bed. An idea popped into Tommy’s head. He smiled at the sudden thought.
     
    This time he would do it. Weighing only 98 pounds, more or less, his mother had told him he was too small to play football.
     
    “You’re better suited to chess,” she would say.
     
    But he wanted to grind his toe in the grass and scuff up his shoes until they were green. He yearned to slip the shoulder pads on, bury his head in the helmet, and chew on the mouthpiece.
     
    Today he would race down the field and catch the winning pass. This was going to be his year; he would not be too short, too skinny, too uncoordinated. He was playing football, no matter what. Of course, mother would never approved. He let that thought slip away.
     
    He climbed to end of the bed on his elbows and pushed up to the edge. His spindly feet touched the cold floor. He jerked up before setting them down again on the concrete. Should he stay in bed?
     
    He considered his plan. It is nice and warm in here. He looked back at the paperback he was reading. The next chapter could be good. He snapped out of his doubt. No, I have to do this.
     
    Across the street from the old house, two teams gathered on a long field of green. Tommy grabbed his helmet and shoulder pads and rushed across the street. He slowed as he reached the edge of the grass and paused. He thought better of the idea. He turned back.
     
    Tommy missed his chance to retreat. A large hand grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled out on the field. On the line, a hulk known as Smasher thumped Tommy’s helmet down hard over his head. Tommy bit down deeper into his mouthpiece. Smasher smiled a deep satisfying grin. He crouched down opposite the wimpy football player.
     
    “You’re going down,” said Smasher. Tommy cringed. “Not likely,” he said under his breath. Tommy breathed in and stared into Smasher’s eyes. Blood gathered in his veins.
     
    Tommy slipped sideways to avoid the mass facing off from him. Smasher followed and crouched back into a stance. Tommy trembled at the thought of grizzled terror bearing down on his small frame. He stepped backward and started to pull up but missed his chance to flee. The quarterback counted down, the ball snapped, and both lines pushed together. Tommy froze.
     
    He started counting. One, two. Tommy didn’t get to three.
     
    Smasher lunged forward before grabbing Tommy by the waist. He twirled Tommy above the crumbling defenders. He pushed him high above the tangled bodies and laughed. Smasher curled the smaller player downward and then pushed him back up. A weak scream escaped from Tommy as Smasher reached higher and higher. Tommy hung above the field in slow motion. He could see the entire team below him collapsing into a twisted heap. Smasher dropped his prey.
     
    Before falling onto the mangled mass, Tommy saw an entire stand of cheering fans. The crowd vanished in a blink as Tommy landed on the pile below. Mom would not like this, he decided.
     
    Tommy lay on the ground for a few more minutes before pulling himself up. He limped to the side of the field and fell down again on the grass. He stared up at the clouds rolling passed. He smiled a satisfied grin. After a few minutes, two orderlies placed him on a stretcher and carted him off to the infirmary.
     
    “What you don’t seem to remember,” said the nurse “is that you are 84-years-old and too fragile to be playing football.” She placed an ice bag on Tommy’s knee. He covered the bag and smiled up at her.
     
    Both men sat in the library playing chess and grinning. It had been a good day.
     
    “And you, Mr. David Lemboski.” The nurse pushed away a wandering hand from the bottom of her skirt. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Trying to pick up a grown man over your head!” She smacked the back of his head and walked away to the nurse’s station.
     
    “You know Smasher,” Tommy said. “I never felt more alive.”
     
    The two men turned to the chessboard between them. Smasher picked up a rook and put his queen in jeopardy. Tommy considered a sudden revelation. “Mom was right. I should have stuck to chess.”
     
    Touching the ceiling, two ghosts hovered above Tommy and Smasher feeling very alive. They then floated through the pieces on the game board. Tommy and Smasher advanced through the squares. The ghosts picked up speed and flew across the room.
     
    They drifted over to join a group of other faded personages. Both ghosts shined brighter than the rest. One in particular seemed very pleased and she beamed a sliver of light down to the chessboard.
     
    Tommy looked over at the two happy ghosts and winked. A wave of happiness extended from the ghost of his mother to his eyes. He chuckled. She nodded in approval. Tommy realized it didn’t matter anymore what she thought.
     
    The line of ghosts drew inward forming a common light, floated through the chess pieces, and then shot out the window. Tommy watched them disappear. The truth was very clear to him. They lived in a haunted house.
     
     Copyright 2013, Michael S. Sommermeyer. All Rights Reserved.

    Inspiration:

     


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