Terrible Analogies

Posted every Monday. The goal: write as much as I can in five minutes, letting the fingers do the writing, then go back and clean it up.

Enjoy?

The Little Death

The terminal was always an unkind experience.

Every six months we were forced to go through security, and every six months the same beautiful uniformed woman would ask me as she examined my paperwork, “Tell me about your nightmare.”  I would smile and promise that I’d share it with her on my way out, making sure to subtlety brush my fingers against her skin as she hands me back my freshly stamped Visa as she does her professional best to avoid any and all eye contact with me.

The conversation was part of her job.

I vaguely remember the days before the “incident”, when people would be able to fall asleep every night and awake refreshed and renewed in the morning.  But that was twenty years ago, and nobody’s really slept since.

During those first few days we thought that it was just a case of collective insomnia.  Individually we could explain away the long nights of not being able to sleep, but soon the newspapers and television reports made it painfully clear that what we were experiencing wasn’t a local or regional issue, but rather a worldwide phenomena.

Scientists tried to make sense of what was happening by studying our food and water sources, researching weather patterns and mapping any unusual oceanic activity and sunspot anomalies.  Disease control centers were audited to ensure that no dangerous or experimental controlled substances had gone missing.  Consideration was even given to extraterrestrial events such as debris from passing comets entering our atmosphere.  Nothing was ever discovered and the cause of our global sleeplessness was never known.

After the initial shock had worn off we had to learn to adjust to our new reality.  Businesses now stayed open 24-hours, requiring a doubling of the workforce, which virtually eliminated the unemployment rate.  Brilliant minds worked around the clock making surprising technological advances.  The dream of cold fusion was finally realized and it now powered the world.  Artists of all kinds created masterpieces that stunned the senses.  Athletes, no longer hindered by fatigue, grew stronger and faster than anyone ever dared dream.

It seemed we were on the verge of a utopian society, that was until the first waves of deaths.

Six months to the day of Sleep Zero (as it came to be known), large sections of the population began dying.  It was as if a switch was flipped.  People collapsed where they stood as the body simply stopped working.  With each passing day more people succumbed.  It was sudden, without warning, and terrifying.  Panic quickly set in.  Riots broke out across cities around the world.  And as the death toll continued to mount, a lone voice from a slight, aged and bespectacled man claimed the promise of a cure.

The process was called “The Little Death”, a phrase that never failed to amuse the French.  Pioneered by Dr. Yokshi from the Science of Sleep Disorder Clinic based in Saitama, Japan, “The Little Death” was a dangerous combination of drugs that put the patient into a highly anabolic, near death state, forcing the brain to experience massive amounts of REM phase waves, allowing the body to repair and reset itself after a prolonged absence of sleep.  The entire process could be completed in roughly 60 minutes, depending on the body mass index of the patient.

A side effect of “The Little Death” was the unspeakable nightmares one experiences while undergoing the procedure.  The dreams were so horrible that an increasing number of people stopped going through the procedure, with death the eventual result.

Short story time!  This was a quick 30 minute writing exercise I did at the end of the day yesterday.  I was going to write about a fluffy bunny, but my fingers had other ideas.  Funny, that…

Sitting on a grassy hill overlooking the shadow of the city below, our clothes soaked cold by the storm, we stare down at the ground between our legs, too tired to look at each other.  The rain falls in violent sheets and pelts the back of our necks like waves of marbles.  I can hear Donnie sobbing.  ”God, it’s all a joke, isn’t it?” he says, rubbing an eye with the heal of his hand.

“It’s not the joke that’s the problem,” I say loud enough to be heard over the din of crashing rain, peeking over at Donnie with one eye over my knee, “The problem is that we don’t understand the punchline.”  Donnie rocks back and forth, holding his legs tight to his body, his chin resting on his chest.  A manic week of searching for a man who leaves death in his wake and now that we’re reunited I find myself doing my best to cushion the horrible truth that my brother, this gaunt and fragile shadow of a person sitting next to me is an uncontrollable agent of destruction.  A reluctant collector of souls.

Not looking up, Donnie reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a gun.  For a moment I could see the rain bounching off the dark metal in tiny explosions, and I hear myself wish that he’d put the barrel to his head and pull the trigger.  I imagine the top of Donnie’s head exploding in a muted, wet splash.  His body slowly rolling to the ground.  His heart beating for the last time.  Blood pouring from his scalp and on to the grass, the rain diluting it to dull pink rivelets as they languidly snake their way around my feet.

For a moment I thought this entire thing was coming to an end.

With a lazy flick of his thin wrist Donnie tosses the gun to the ground where it lands with a wet muddy thump between us, half submerged like a tiny metal island.  ”Hal,” he says to me, face hidden behind his knees, “you need to do it.  I need you to do it.”

“Do what?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“Don’t be stupid,” he sobs through a desperate smile.

Somewhere a bridge washes away, carrying with it a car and its occupants.  Somewhere a house by the river collapses.  Screams can be heard coming from the attic as it sinks under the brown frothing water.  Somewhere an entire family drowns, trapped in their basement, a fallen tree sealing the swinging horizontal doors shut above them as water rushes in.  Somewhere lightening crashes over the city, killing a woman talking on the phone, trying to reassure her mother that she’s alright.

Somewhere my body is a million miles away, and I’m detatched in every sense of the word.  I watch as my hand reaches down and picks the gun up out of the mud.  Dirt sticks under my nails.  From somewhere far away I’m watching myself roll over on to my knees, sit on my heels, and point the gun at my brother.

I’m somewhere far away watching this, in slow motion like an instant replay, able to analyze every move I make and I can’t control myself.  ”I know this isn’t your fault,” I say in a distant voice, trying to sound sincere, “but you went too far.”

“I know.  I fell,” Donnie says, looking up at me with hot red eyes, like a man at the center of an intervention who desperately wants to get clean but can’t accept loving criticicim.  ”Look at me, Hal.  I’m no good.  Never was.”

Together we sit on our little piece of high ground, sharing this splintered moment.  I watch through narrow slits for eyes as the world crumbles around us, swept away in rushing torrents of brown earth-steeped water and crushing winds.  Surrounded by this hurling malestrom of water and debris, splintered wood and broken glass, Donnie sits broken and abandoned by a God he loved, ready to die by his brother’s hand.

Rolling thunder peaks to a crescendo of vibration and noise so low and loud that for a moment cancels everything else out.  It snaps me back to my senses and I slowly lower the gun.  ”I can’t do it,” I say in a wet rasp only I can hear.  I let my grip go loose and feel the dead weight of the gun swing limply on my trigger finger for a brief moment before it tumbles into the mud.

“Donnie?”

“Yeah?”

Gritting my teeth I spit out, “Fuck you.  You’re going to have to do it yourself.”

I turn on my heels and slowly make my way down the hill, boots slipping on the wet grass, towards that distant somewhere that marks the end of one instant and the beginning of the next, wondering if the company of a drowning family would be easier on the soul than the company of a lunatic brother.

Somewhere behind me I hear the sharp crack of thunder like pistol shot.

A little story I wrote yesterday while home ill, tentatively called Redline (initial draft):

Nikki Royce was ascending the cold metallic roof access ladder at the back of the Firehouse, a nightclub situated in the middle of downtown that spewed large balls of fire every fifteen minutes through several openings just below a large ominous looking neon-lit club logo which sat perched on the edge of the four-story night spot.  The Firehouse was infamous for being the place where Hollywood heartthrob Jules James overdosed on heroin on a warm summer evening on the sidewalk outside the front door, smashing out his front teeth on the curb where he collapsed and died in the gutter.  Where veteran actor Henry Hanks was caught engaging in a very public scene of oral sex with a street tranny in one of the red leather booths.  And where, after a heated argument that could be heard over the pulsing music and noise of the crowd, two record producers shot each other over a contract dispute regarding the latest teen singing sensation.

Tonight, high above the rippling dance floor in the thickening shadows, Nikki Royce was thinking about the bus schedule as she slowly inched her way up each smooth, dusty rung.

Her tight green sweater and Diesel jeans were smudged where her breasts and knees brushed against the filthy metal.  One red high heel shoe had fallen off when a clasp had snapped during her climb, and was now lying crookedly next to her Kipling purse on the grated railing at the base of the ladder.

Reaching above her head she pushed against the metal hatch at the top of the ladder, cutting the palm of her right hand when her Boucheron ring snagged on a bolt, but the hatch didn’t budge, frozen from disuse.  Inching up higher she placed her forearm on the hatch, and pushing up with what little strength was in her skinny thighs the hatch finally relented and opened upwards with a slow, deep groan.

On the tar and gravel roof Nikki unclasped her remaining high heel and casually dropped it though the open hatch, where it bounced and tumbled under the protective cable railing along the catwalk, disappearing in the rippling sea of dancers below.  Tightening the green silk bow on her ponytail, she brushed at the soot on her sweater as she slowly made her way over insulated pipes and around exhaust vents expelling  babbling noise and the combined smell of mixed drinks, body wash and cigarette smoke from the club below.  In her bare feet she could feel the bass of the music pulse through the roof, vibrating the pipes around her that were not securely bolted down.

Nearing the front of the club Nikki paused under the neon sign, a comical depiction of a devil holding a pitchfork in one hand and a bottle of alcohol in another.  A green-skinned demon in a tuxedo with red eyes looking down at the line of rich nobodies waiting to get in.  An ugly looking thing inspired by a sketch on a napkin found in the booth where Johnny Jett had been sitting one night drinking Colorado Bulldogs and discussing with his entourage about why he never watches his own movies in between deep snorts of cocaine from a vial he kept in the front pocket of his black and red Daniel Ellissa shirt, the same one he wore in his movie Neighborhood Devil.  This was the same Johnny Jett who, just two weeks after winning an Oscar for his portrayal of a drug-addled 14^th century priest, was found dead in a seedy hotel on Main Street, covered from head to toe in a thin film of Vaseline, hanging by the neck from a studded leather belt wrapped around the doorknob of a closet.

The club owners were big fans of Johnny.

Under the green glow of the Firehouse icon Nikki looked at down at the Bulova watch which hung lazily around her thin wrist.  In the green neon light it showed two minutes to two.

The street below was alive with people wanting desperately to be noticed.  All of the rich kids, pretentious artists, drugs dealers and exotic starlets hiding behind skin bronzers and oversized Nina Ricci sunglasses, trying their best to look like they were avoiding the flashing cameras of the paparazzi who stalked the scene hopped up on trucker’s speed, hoping for that one photo that would pay for this months rent.

“One more minute,” Nikki thought, “and I’ll give you a picture.”

Following the edge of the roof to the left, Nikki peered down on the quieter oil-stained side street which marked the route of the redline bus that passed by the Firehouse on its reliable nightly pilgrimage.  Pausing, holding her breath, she closed her eyes, cocked her head slightly and focused in on the distant noises below.  The laughing taunts of the professional athletes mocking each other’s sexuality.  The honking horns of stretch limousines.  The giddy girlish shrieks of young drunken college students trying their best to fit in.  The familiar sounds that came from dumb money and cheap thrills.

Opening her eyes and looking down the dimly lit street, just past the nearest stoplight, Nikki could see the unmistakable headlights of the oncoming bus.

It was time.

Cautiously, she climbed on to the raised ledge, and with fumbling posture slowly stood up.  With her toes curled over the edge she leapt outward in a clumsy swan dive, tumbling into empty space, just as the Firehouse spit out large blooms of flame below her.

Looking back at it now, Nikki felt as if she fell forever.

When asked later about it, said she couldn’t recall ever landing.

What she did remember was falling for a very long time.  She remembered twisting around just after jumping and floating through fire.  She remembered the smell of burning hair and how her nail polish reflected the orange of the flames.  She remembered looking at her shoes, wishing she had worn her black and purple Jimmy Choo’s, thinking that they would look dramatically scandalous against the neon glow of the Firehouse’s sign above her.  She said that she remembered a sudden pressure on the back of her head where her skull fractured upon landing, and what the doctors  would later dutifully describe in dry clinical terms as a ‘traumatic subarachnoid hemorrage’, a ‘cerebral contusion’, and an ‘epidural hemotoma’.  Lying on her back and surprisingly conscious, with her left leg twisted, broken and dislocated from her shattered pelvis, Nikki lazily flopped her right hand on to her chest and almost purposefully grabbed hold of something slick and sharp jutting from her sweater.  One of seven broken ribs.

She lay there, breathing in spastic bursts, in pain but too much in shock to really take notice, waiting for the bus which she knew was coming.  She had timed it perfectly.  The rag-doll jump through the fire.  The expert marksmanship of her landing.  Now the bus.

She waited.

One machine gun burst of breath filled a still functioning lung.

She waited.

Slowly exhaling, blood poured out of her mouth where her molars used to be.

Another intake of air sounding like a loose table leg dragged across a sticky floor.

Still, no bus.

If Nikki’s broken shell would have allowed her to roll over and look, she would have seen that the bus had failed to turn the corner, instead continued straight through the intersection of ‘A’ Street following a new route meant to avoid the club crowds.  The drugged socialites.  The inattentive valets darting around in fast, expensive cars.

Slowly opening her eyes, Nikki let her head roll slightly to her right, and through one red eye with its pupil frozen open with what the doctors would stoically call ‘anisocoria’’, she saw the shocked, frozen faces of two stunned partying girls staring down at her.  Unmoving.  Unblinking.

Rolling her head back and jutting her chin up like an enraptured lover expecting a deep, passionate kiss, Nikki turned her eyes and looked down her nose at those two horrified girls and with a voice as calm as a dying cancer patient, coughed up a fine red mist and said through a sardonic smile, “Was it good for you, too?”

…that Charles Dickens created over 13,000 characters over the span of 37 years (1833-1870)?

That’s a character every day for his entire writing career.

Did you also know that Charles Dickens suffered a heart attack while writing his final novel, and died the next day? Now, that’s commitment to the craft.

And here I am, sometimes unable to decide if I want pizza or pasta for dinner.  So sad…

Is the written word becoming disposable?

With computers having become ubiquitous and the internet providing instant access to news, information and entertainment, “leet speak” and acronyms taking place of actual words, and the sheer laziness of people complaining that words are “too difficult to spell“, has the written word lost it’s cachet?

The more I dig into the offerings of the internet, its message boards and social sites, I’m astounded at how trivial people treat spelling and punctuation. I’ll be the first to admit that I myself am not the perfect practitioner of grammar, but at least I try to spell and apply the correct punctuation where appropriate. For others, however, it’s as if speed is more important then precision; the lack of capitalization, punctuation and spelling seems to take a back seat to spitting out misshapen, inarticulate thoughts without review or analysis.

And hey, sometimes that’s exactly what’s called for…but when it becomes a habit, and that habit becomes accepted behavior, I fear for the intellectual future of this current generation that has never known a day without the internet, books on CD, grammar checkers and cut-and-paste.

Words have been cheapened. Ideas are recycled and regurgitated so fast that critical thought and examination have fallen by the wayside. Reading material by Brautigan, Wolfe, Hemingway, Burroughs, Thompson, Wells and Twain has fallen out of style, replaced by hourly updates about celebrity rumors and pop culture news from questionable sources such as TMZ, DIGG, Facebook, YouTube, Twitter, Fark, Gawker and OMG.

We’ve become a people raised on disposable information and carefully managed sound bites. We’re conditioned to process information a miserable 140 characters at a time. Reading novels is far too time consuming. Unpopular. Passé. Hell, even blogs like mine are contributing to the decline of our short attention span society. It’s been proven that to have a successful blog means keeping paragraphs short. We’re just helping to support negative behavior in our pursuit of unique visitors.

As bloggers, we’re such whores.  A dirty lot.

“Well, if you think you know everything, then what’s the solution?” I can hear you ask. I really don’t know. Honestly, I don’t have a solid answer. This situation is driven by the environment, but if you’re a parent I’d suggest having your that kid simply read. Turn off the computer, the stereo, the television, prop them up on the couch, and have them read. Heck, have them read aloud to you. Get them to critically think about what they’ve read. Engage their minds without the static of outside interferences. Explain to them that “BFF” and “LOL” are not real words and will never find acceptance from companies reviewing their resume. Teach them that quick information is fine, but literary discoveries will always be much more rewarding.

(HermanTurnip pauses and re-reads what he just wrote)

Jeez…when did I turn into my old man!?