Some Fiction

Here is the fifth revision of a short story I posted a few months back. I've been working on it to make it submission ready. I think it's better now. I added a little more plot and gave a bit more depth to the characters. The tricky part was disconnecting myself from the story, and letting the characters speak and act like they want, not necessarily how I would. The homeless man is someone from my past who made a great impression on me. I'm pretty happy with this little story now and I entered it in a contest. Keep your fingers crossed, Dude readers! As always, I appreciate your honest feedback.

Wheel of Fortune

I’m leading my platoon through high grass in choking heat, green and black paint mixing with the sweat on my face, wondering if the next step on foreign soil will be my last in this world. I hear shots and drop to the ground, putting my hand up to halt the line. So, this is the bright future of a grad student who majored in English literature and had a passion for the stage, I think as I spit in a bush.

Jolted by the nightmare and the freezing cold, I push off my makeshift quilt, a Sunday edition of The New York Times patched together with duct tape. The clacking of high heels signals the approach of a passerby. I stand with effort, lifting a discarded Starbucks cup to a woman in a black wool pea coat. She looks past me.

I slip back under my shell of newsprint and scowl bitterly, shouting after her: “A man may see how the ... this world goes with no eyes!”

Chilled to the core by a damp cold, I can no longer feel my fingertips. I press my ear down on the gritty cement and listen to the world beyond the blanket of newspapers. Feet on pavement, laughter, conversation, the sound of taxis honking, and a pain in my stomach prevent rest. I reach into my pocket, remembering the remnants of a half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich I stuffed there yesterday. The plastic sandwich bags work as makeshift gloves; they block the wind a bit. Sleeping out in the street is hell, but it’s still safer than the shelter I was in last week.

God, it is so cold out here, I think, as I drift off from exhaustion. In my mind’s eye, the tear-stained face of my ex-wife, Helen, appears. I have five children who won’t see me. Everything I ever valued, every blessing was sucked into a bottle and I am forever thirsty.

“Lewis. Hey there, ole’ man. Wake up!”

The little punk who works in this deli that I sit in front of is shaking me. He thinks I’m crazy and I like messing with his head. I'll just pretend I’m sleeping and maybe he’ll go away.

“Hey there!” You have ta get up and move ya-self somewhere else. You can’t sleep here outside the business.”

Last night I saved his ass while he was closing up. Some thugs came in and tried to hold up the cash register. I started screaming “fire” and they ran off. It seems like the kid knew the lousy bastards, or else he would have reported it. I sit up and read the boy’s name badge aloud like a ballpark announcer, just to piss him off.

“Taheem Lashard, Deli Associate Trainer!”

The brat smirks at me. We have an understanding now.

How dddost, my boy? Art cold?.... I am cold mysssself.” I shout.

"What-eva ole' man. The police are gonna haul in your sorry Shakespearean ass.”

Then the kid points to the woman in the pea coat who is on her cell phone in the deli. She’s calling the cops on me.

“When we are born, we cry that we are come to this great stage of fffools!” I yell into the passing crowd.

“Come on soldier, Move!” The kid lifts me up by the arms and drags me around the back of the building.

He pushes me through a door sprayed with numbers and satanic images and into a damp bathroom. I sit down against the radiator. There is another blanket near the back wall and a filthy pillow. Then the kid reties his apron and leaves me there. I get a whiff of freshly brewed coffee, sweet pastries and warm bagels. I imagine the feeling of holding a hot cup of coffee in my hands. I smile. Maybe the kid is going to kill me later, or hand me over to his drug lords. I wonder, but the pipes against my stiff back are too warm to let me worry about the future.

“I ...will die BRAVELY, like a sssmug bridegroom.” I mutter.

I hear Taheem shut the lights in the front of the store. It’s closing time. Time for me to get kicked out or die maybe, I think, but the kid comes into the bathroom and grabs the blanket and dirty pillow. He crawls into a corner.

“Goodnight Sergeant Lewis.” He whispers.

It has been a while since I felt warm enough to cry.

Fiction Friday #3

The ground was hard, frozen by the touch of the season’s first frost. A frigid air had blown the last of the stubborn leaves off the trees, leaving nature’s retreating message on the Dogwoods, crossed out in black lines on the bark. Evelyn left the maps in the car, and followed Jeff onto the old asylum property, now partially a park. It was the beginning of the afternoon, the time of year when darkness falls early.

As she took a small notepad and a pen out of her jacket pocket, a pack of gum fell out.
“So the town of King’s Park used to be called St. Johnland in the 1800’s?” Evelyn asked, brushing off the pack to offer Jeff a piece.

Jeff took two strips of gum, and stuffed them sloppily into his mouth, then proceeded to chew like a llama Evelyn once saw at a petting zoo in Yaphank. “He’s so freaking weird.” she thought. There was always something quirky about the way he looked at her, that made her uneasy, even back in grad school.

“Yes,” he continued, laughing nervously, in 1885, this land that we’re standing on, plus about 600 acres was home to a working farm attached to King's County Asylum. At first the site was chosen for the overflow of mental patients in NYC hospitals, with the belief that country air was beneficial, but between 1885 and 1895, this place grew overcrowded too. In 1900, the site officially became a state mental hospital called King's Park Psychiatric Center. Over the years the name changed to King's Park Hospital, which closed at the end of 1996. At that time the remaining 1300 patients were transferred to Pilgrim State Hospital.”

“And when Pilgrim State closed, many of those patients became homeless, living in the streets of many towns across Long Island,” Evelyn added.















Jeff nodded. “Sadly, that is true. Let’s take a walk to one of the old wards. Follow me.” On unofficial “museum curator business,” Jeff seemed to have unspoken rights to the property, and he knew how to get into the boarded up buildings.

Evelyn traced his steps through the overgrown brush to a large building, standing silent and sealed like a mausoleum.

“This is ward 122. It was built around 1890.” Jeff pulled off a loose board off the bottom of a first floor window. He placed it against a knotty tree and made a gesture of mock grandeur. “After you, Madame.”
Evelyn hesitated. Going into an abandoned building with a strange person is not advisable, but she was obsessed with this place, and the story attached. So she climbed in the hole. They found themselves in a long hall. The walls were cracked with powder blue paint peeling like dry skin. “Don’t breathe too much,” joked Jeff, “there’s asbestos.”

Evelyn was too absorbed to care. She followed dusty footprints into a large center room, pulling her phone out of her jacket pocket to take some pictures. Evelyn felt this impromptu tour was giving her a clearer understanding of the ledger, like newly discovered pieces of a puzzle that were filling in the gaps. In her mind’s eye she saw the room as it was in the time of St. Johnland.

Men in chairs near the fireplace, sitting crumpled over, some rocking, all staring down at their feet, mute. The next thing she knew, Jeff was slamming closed the ancient door to the large room, and turning towards her, his eyes dark.

Pictures are from online archives. To Be Continued Next Friday...Click on the label: Asylum Project for the other pieces of the story. Your comments on this fun and interesting fiction piece are much appreciated!

Fiction Friday: Asylum Project #2

”All the lonely people...Where do they all come from? All the lonely people...Where do they all belong?”
–"Elinor Rigby" The Beatles

St. Johnland, 1880:

Just as he reached for the fence, Edward could feel the dogs tug his right shoe and tear the bottom of his overalls. He leaped, and fell prostrate, letting his body be dragged, feeling the heat of hounds’ breath. His hands dug into the tilled soil, and he gagged on the smell of manure. “I don’t belong here!” he shouted. “He’ll kill me if I don’t get out! ...HeHehe! SHUT UP! I’m gonna slit your neck in your sleep, Eddie boy,” someone else who shared his tormented body growled.

Back in Men’s Cottage B, it took four nurses and two doctors to get him into the straps. They faced him toward the window, sitting up on the gurney, to prevent him from drowning in his own snot and tears. The window had a calming effect on Edward, and the straps prevented him from harming himself.

In a woman’s voice, Edward sung himself to sleep, focusing on the field flowers he had picked and taped to the top right corner of his window.

“Hush little baby, don’t say a word, mama’s gonna buy you a mockin’ bird…” Tomorrow would be different.

In a small office the size of a closet, Dr. Mack pulled a ledger off a giant shelf and opened to Edward’s file. Filling his pen with ink he scratched a note in the book. “With three days observation, Edward may be allowed to return to work in the kitchen.”

Evelyn looked at the clock. 2:45 A.M. Although her sleepwalking episodes ceased with the discovery of the book in the basement, she now had a new problem: insomnia. The ledger was fascinating, and she couldn’t stop reading it. She was on a quest for these names. The faceless men in Cottage B had a story to tell. Anyway, what else did she have to do on a Friday night?

She opened her laptop and popped up her email. “Evelyn, Got your message. Meet me at Reese’s tomorrow at 2 p.m. We’ll talk about the “funny farm.” Just kidding. (Not Really).
-Jeff

Jeff liked his coffee black, strong enough to discover undissolved coffee grinds at the finish of a cup. He had a vested interest in research related to the Kings County Asylum, since he was the curator of the local history museum and his father owned a 1/3 of the neighboring property. He had maps and documents spread on the table when Evelyn arrived.

“Wow, this really is a working lunch.” Evelyn said, pulling off her coat and pushing aside the menu beside her paper napkin. They had met in grad school, and back then, Jeff had a vested interest in acquiring her. However, that was ancient history, and involved a scathing rejection. Now, he just wanted her book, the treasure from Jack Thurman’s barn.

“You know, he really did not have the right to take that ledger.” Jeff said. It was the private property of the hospital.

Evelyn picked up a crayon from a cup next to the ketchup and drew on her napkin. “But he did, and now I own it.” It’s not that I’m not open to selling it to you Jeff, or even giving it to you for posterity and local history’s sake. When I’m done with my …project.”

“Well, are you going to let me in on this mysterious project?”

“Maybe, when I’m through with it if you tell me everything you know about Kings County Asylum.” Evelyn said.

Jeff picked up his menu and stacked the documents up next to him in the booth. “Alright, these maps are for you to borrow. Now order. We’re going on a little field trip after lunch.”

To Be Continued...

-Above picture taken from The history of Kings Park Psychiatric Center website

Fiction Friday: Mike's Day

Last Friday I took a writing prompt from a book called The Writer's Book of Matches, and tried to write a story from it. I asked you all to give me suggestions about the plot, or end...and I'd still love to hear your feedback. Here's the complete story that I came up with. I think this makes a good "shell," and a lot can be added still. Thanks for reading everyone.

Prompt:
"An old man is dining alone in a crowded restaurant when a fire breaks out."

Mike couldn't remember the last time he had seen his grandchildren in person, but his son sent him updated pictures from North Carolina every so often. Today he let them spill out of his tattered leather wallet when the waitress approached him to refill his coffee. "This is Joey, he's six now, and Patrick who is about 10." He spoke like it was the first time he was showing the pictures, as if the waitress had asked to see them. She had not. "They sure are getting big, Mike," was her polite response, as she poured the coffee and excused herself to serve another table. Mike liked to sit at this particular booth because he had a view of the whole restaurant.
Cricket's was a homey sort of place, decorated like an English smoking parlour, with dark green plaid wall paper, hunting trophies and a working fireplace beside the bar. A crisp fall day like this one always packed the restaurant with people lured by the smell and warmth of the famous homemade chowder in a bread bowl.

Mike was born and raised in New York back when kids played stick ball in the streets with real sticks, and people in cars actually stopped and waited so they could finish a play. His eyes were that certain shade of blue that makes women notice, and sometimes he would glance up at his reflection in the mirrored Budweiser sign on the wall across from his seat. He was checking to see if he still "had it." As he watched men and women at the bar, he thought of his wife when she was young and vibrant. Sometimes he imagined she was sitting on a bar stool, holding a cigarette in her delicate fingers, daring him to approach with her eyes.

Mike had the mixed luck of living beyond his inner circle of family and friends. For this reason, he prized his photographs. He tapped a young mother feeding a toddler in the booth next to him on the shoulder to show off an older picture. "This is me, and my two brothers...I was Navy and they were Marines. We all came home from WWII on the same day, alive. Boy, did the family celebrate." The image was black and white, but the color of joy was evident on the faces. "See how the women all look relieved!" He laughed. "We all were, because my brothers and I lived through Hell." The woman feeding the toddler nodded politely, because the man was obviously lonely, and she felt sympathetic. Then she excused herself from the conversation and ordered another coke. Mike watched as the toddler wiggled his way out of the seat and onto the floor beneath the table to play with some plastic spoons, while his mother made a cell phone call.

A loud boom shook the place so hard it shattered bottles and glasses behind the bar. People gasped and screamed. Black smoke and heat rushed into the room. Mike could see flames pushing through what was left of the oval glass windows in the double doors that led to the restaurant kitchen. People were scrambling towards the exists, some bloodied from being hit by glass at the bar. Mike hit the floor, a reflex from his experience of fire drills on his old Navy ship, and started to crawl. He caught the foot of the woman from the booth beside him and she tripped, landing on the carpet, the contents of her pocketbook tumbling across the floor. "My baby," she whimpered. Where is the baby? TYLER!!" The air was hot; the fire audible, drowning out the screams and chaos. Mike grabbed her by the arms, dragging her as she coughed and wheezed to the door, then someone pulled her out. Nobody saw Mike inch across the floor back towards where he had been sitting. He did without thinking, because he felt compelled. Outside the fire engines screamed.

The room was black, not filled with darkness, but smoke that smothered. Mike held his breath, still crawling. He put his hand out and felt under a table. He felt little sneakers, and he yanked and dragged a small body with the strength of his younger self, holding his breath like a drowning man. He could hear the child crying, a good sign. Firemen in full gear were filing into the building. He was still far from the exit, but he needed to breathe, so he did.

Overcome by the rush of fresh air into his lungs, Mike gasped, and the colors around him were suddenly sharper. Had he been dreaming? At the bar sat a young woman whose eyes seemed to be daring him to approach, but he was still on the floor. "What are you doing?" The woman laughed. She was dressed in a black cotton dress with tiny white dots, and wore a netted hat. Her cigarette was stained with red lipstick. Mike stammered an automatic response, suddenly recalled from some past role he once played. "No, I was thrown off my chair by the shock of your stunning beauty." The woman grinned and Mike got to his feet with less effort than it usually took. As they embraced, tears ran off his face, because this was the love of his life. "I must be dreaming," he thought, wiping his face. That's when he noticed how young the skin on his hands looked.

Then Mike remembered why he was crawling. "There was an explosion of fire from the kitchen, and a toddler..." The woman shook her head, understanding, but said nothing. She led him to a window. Outside the mother from the booth was hugging a child and crying. Mike recognized the tiny sneakers. The building was being pounded with water from two fire hoses, but inside, it was business as usual. The restaurant was packed with people eating and laughing. It was as if he were standing on the line between two separate pictures. Inside Cricket's, the faces looked familiar, and many people called out to him, in joyful recognition. A banner was draped across the top of the bar. On it was written "Happy Birthday Mike." A seat of honor was set up just for him, and he could see joy on the faces of his old friends and family. Then Mike realized the point of all those lonely moments in his recent past, and that finally, he was home.

Here's the next prompt:

"And then, of course, it jams."

Next week I'll put a whole story together at once for this prompt. So, if you have any suggestions for the direction I should take, drop me a comment. Look for this story next Friday.

Fiction Friday

Here's a fun game that I just made up, that I'm sure someone else has thought of already, inspired by the writing life of Charles Dickens. Dickens published some of his works one chapter at a time in a magazine, and readers would write in suggestions for endings, etc. (Legend has it that's why Great Expectations has two endings.)

Here's how to play. I start a story using a prompt from The Writer's Book of Matches, by the staff of Boiled Peanuts. You send me an ending suggestion or prediction in comment form. The following Friday I'll give you the rest of the story and the title. Here's the prompt:

"An old man is dining alone in a crowded restaurant when a fire breaks out."

Mike couldn't remember the last time he had seen his grandchildren in person, but his son sent him updated pictures from North Carolina every so often. Today he let them spill out of his tattered leather wallet when the waitress approached him to refill his coffee. "This is Joey, he's six now, and Patrick who is about 10." He spoke like it was the first time he was showing the pictures, as if the waitress had asked to see them. She had not. "They sure are getting big, Mike," was her polite response, as she poured the coffee and excused herself to serve another table. Mike liked to sit at this particular booth because he had a view of the whole restaurant. Cricket's was a homey sort of place, decorated like an English smoking parlour, with dark green plaid wall paper, hunting trophies and a working fireplace beside the bar. A crisp fall day like this one always packed the restaurant with people lured by the smell and warmth of the famous homemade chowder in a bread bowl.

Mike was born and raised in New York back when kids played stick ball in the streets with real sticks, and people in cars actually stopped and waited so they could finish a play. His eyes were that certain shade of blue that makes women notice, and sometimes he would glance up at his reflection in the mirrored Budweiser sign on the wall across from his seat. He was checking to see if he still "had it." As he watched men and women at the bar, he thought of his wife when she was young and vibrant. Sometimes he imagined she was sitting on a bar stool, holding a cigarette in her delicate fingers, daring him to approach with her eyes.

Mike had another picture in his wallet that was one of his most prized possessions. He tapped a young mother feeding a toddler in the booth next to him on the shoulder to show it off. "This is me, and my two brothers...I was Navy and they were Marines. We all came home from WWII on the same day, alive. Boy, did the family celebrate." The picture was black and white, but the color of joy was evident on the faces. "See how the women all look relieved!" He laughed. "We all were, because my brothers and I lived through Hell." The woman feeding the toddler nodded politely, because the man was obviously lonely, and she felt sympathetic. Then she excused herself from the conversation and ordered another coke.

A loud boom shook the place so hard it shattered bottles and glasses behind the bar. People gasped and screamed. Black smoke and heat rushed into the room. Mike could see flames pushing through what was left of the oval glass windows in the double doors that led to the restaurant kitchen.

Alright, now it's your turn to tell me what should happen next.