Middle Grade

I Didn’t Ask for This

February 12, 2016 by Caleb Jacobo Leave a Comment

This can’t, like, really be happening to me. What have I done to deserve this? It’s been hard enough just trying to get through middle-school with nobody liking me, but at least there was always the hope that high school and college might help people forget how much they enjoyed looking down on me and calling me names. If they find out about this, about me, they’ll have an actual reason for hating my guts, and I’ll never be able to get away from it.

“Do they have to know?” I ask in a small voice.

“Does who have to know?” the doctor asks. His voice is calm and, like, sincere. He seems nice enough. At least he doesn’t look at me like there’s something wrong with me. I can’t seem to remember his name… I know we’ve just spent, like, twelve hours together, but I can’t remember if he ever told me his name. I search for a name tag on his stiff, white lab coat, but there’s nothing, not even a logo. “Tara, what we’ve done today, what you and I have talked about, what we’ve discovered—none of it is anybody’s business except yours and mine, do you understand?”

There’s something in this doctor’s eyes and the way he moves his mouth and dips his head that makes me feel like he really cares and, like, it’s okay to talk with him about this. Maybe he’ll be able to help me after all.

“It’s just, life’s already hard enough. I’m used to the kids at school and the teachers looking at me like I’m something horrible and smelly, but I could always move away from them. I can’t move away from my parents. If my parents find out—”

“Your parents don’t need to know anything about this, Tara—not unless you would like them to.”

I wouldn’t like them to. If my parents knew about this, they’d probably sell me to the government for, like, experiments—anything for a legitimate excuse to disown me. This doctor makes me feel safe, like this could be our secret and my horrendous life didn’t have to get any worse. At least not yet. “I don’t want anyone to know, especially not my parents.”

“That’s fine,” the doctor says with a gentle smile, “that’s all fine. What’s important right now is that you come to terms with it, that you learn to control it. This isn’t an easy thing for any thirteen-year-old to deal with.”

“I’m not even sure what it is. How can I come to terms with it if I don’t know what it is or why it’s happening to me?”

The doctor sits back in his cushioned roller-chair and rubs his chin with his fingers. “I’m not sure either, Tara, but what I am sure of is that you are very lucky we found out now, together, before things got any worse.”

I know what he means. He means before I hurt anybody again. I feel guilty, and a little less comfortable talking with this man. “That wasn’t my fault. I didn’t know what I was doing. Jennifer and Stacey just wouldn’t let up. Usually I’m able to ignore it, all the teasing and name-calling, but they just wouldn’t let up. It’s not my fault.”

“One of those girls is dead,” the doctor says in a matter-of-fact tone, “and the other is not likely to recover. Whether you feel it was your fault or not, these girls and their families would not have suffered if it weren’t for you. I think you can appreciate how important it is that we move past the denial and start coming to terms with your powers immediately.”

Suddenly, I feel, like, very uncomfortable sitting here in this doctor’s big, grey office and I, like, feel very much like I need to get out of here. I’m not even sure where here is or how I got here to begin with and, like, I’m not even sure who this doctor is. My head is muddled. I can’t put the pieces together in my mind. Why am I here?

The doctor narrows his eyes at me and bites his lip. “Tara, can you tell me how you are feeling right now?”

I feel hot, like when I have a bad cold and the front of my face feels like it’s literally going to blow open from all the heat and pressure. A moment before, the room felt cold and large, but the air around me is so tight and hot now—so hot—and I can feel the sweat, like, gluing my shirt to my chest and arms and all I can think about now is how I can get out—how I can get out right now. I become aware of the pain in my fingers as I dig my nails into the armrests of my chair.

“Tara,” the doctor says, his voice an accusation, his face full of worry. “Tara, I need you to take a deep breath. You know what happens when you get upset. I can assure you, I am here to help you.”

Help me? I don’t even know who this doctor is or what he wants from me. I feel like the time I snuck a beer from my dad’s cooler on the Fourth of July, like I wasn’t acting or thinking right. I can hear my chair rattling and its legs thumping against the floor.
“Tara? Now that’s quite enough. If you don’t calm down I—Tara, do I need to call your parents? I thought we had an understanding, but if you can’t be reasonable…”

My parents? Would he actually call my parents? I thought he said—what did he say? I just can’t remember. None of this is making any sense. What did he do to me? He’s trying to do something to me. He’s trying to, like, trick me. He’s trying to, like, hurt me. He’s… He’s just like everyone else.

Yes. I can see it in his face. He’s not concerned about me, he’s afraid of me. He’s afraid I’ll, like, do something to him. Maybe I will. I feel whatever this is inside of me, whatever this thing is that’s made me do the things I’ve done pushing to the surface. It’s going to happen again and there’s nothing I can do about it but sit back and watch.

He picks up his desk phone. He’s trembling. Sweat is popping up on his forehead. It’s dripping from his palms. He’s, like, burning up. Steam rises from his hand holding the phone and he screams and throws it on his desk.

“Tara!”

But he’s not shouting at me, he’s shouting toward the door, like, he’s calling for someone to come and help him, like he’s supposed to be helping me, to keep me from doing what I’m about to do. I feel so angry, so angry and sad, and I can see him, like, getting smaller and smaller while I, like, get bigger and bigger and, like, farther and farther away. I’m above him now and the whole room feels too small. I feel like I’m literally about to burst through the walls and ceiling and I can see, like, the little doctor below me screaming and his face is, like, all red and bubbly and I’m, like, somewhere else, like, far back, like, watching this all happen, just like it happened before, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I can hear them trying to break down the door, but they can’t because I’ve become so big and so hot and the room is, like, literally catching fire.

This is it. I’m doing it again. I’ve done it again, and they’ll all know now, my parents will find out, the whole world will find out, and there will be no where for me to hide. They’ll all hate me now, forever and ever. They’ll all say horrible, nasty things, the worse things they’ve ever said and I literally don’t know what will happen to them when they do. It’s not my fault.

This is my response to a prompt I posted yesterday: “A thirteen-year-old girl finds out she’s “blessed” with paranormal powers, much to her dismay.”

If you enjoyed reading this sketch, please follow me on Facebook and Twitter. Thank you for reading and, as always, keep writing.

Writing Prompt: write a short magical realism story about loneliness

February 12, 2015 by Caleb Jacobo Leave a Comment

Hello you. Here is a short story sketch I wrote about a Pygmalion-like character with some twists on the original myth. I hope you enjoy it.

Giroff spread the crinkling blinds and peered down on a group of friends passing under his window. His eyes were bloodshot and the flesh around them was swollen and an ugly shade of purple. He stared at the young friends—not so young, maybe not even younger than himself—laughing as they strolled, this one putting a gentle hand on that one’s shoulder, all of them slowing their pace for one who lagged behind, then all welcoming him with playful jeers as he caught up.

Writing Prompt: write a fantasy story in 1k words or less

January 19, 2015 by Caleb Jacobo Leave a Comment

Here is my response to the writing prompt: write a fantasy story in 1,000 words or less. I had a lot of condensing to do after the first draft. It was a fun exercise in evoking a rich world with very little space to do it in. I hope you enjoy!

The Legend of Giltiberim

There was once a young gold miner who was so formidable that his king afforded him mail shirt and iron sword to wield in battle against foreign invaders. The young man slew many enemies in the field and earned the name Giltiberim among the common people. After the fighting was done, the king’s retainers sat on long feasting benches in the great hall, telling stories of their bravery and strength. Here it was that men secured eternal life in the hearts of their people.

Veterans Day Brawl: A Middle-Grade Mystery

November 11, 2013 by Caleb Jacobo 2 Comments

Welcome to my public writing journal, and Thank you to our Veterans! I’m glad you stopped by; I have a special treat for you today. Over the past three days, I’ve been working on a sketch for a Middle-Grade short story. The first day, I spent several hours on story structure and development. Day two, I wrote the first draft. Day three, I finished and revised that draft. This is the most time I have dedicated to a single sketch on this blog, and it took considerably longer than the normal one-day prompts and sketches you’re used to reading.

This sketch is nearly seven thousand words long, and while I try my best to keep errors to a minimum for your enjoyment; everything on this site is meant to be completed in a timely manner, and are primarily for practice; so mistakes may appear.

This story is safe for anyone ages 9+. The targeted ages are 9-13, but I try to write so my stories can be enjoyed by everyone.

CAUTION: I do use the words heck quite a bit, and the word damn just once. And it is important. Trust me. So, if that is a problem, please do not let your young one read this, or, if you print it out for them, feel free to edit out those words!

I really enjoyed developing and writing this story sketch, and I hope you enjoy reading it! Thanks again for reading; I write for you!

Veterans Day Brawl: A Middle-Grade Mystery

Burgundy doors clanked open, flooding the cool hall with the din of a middle school campus on break. Two boys strolled into the cool hall. The shorter, darker of the two boys thumbing at the device in his palm, peering from under his flat-billed baseball cap, shaking his head and clicking his tongue against his teeth. His over-dressed companion, complete with sports coat and tan suede shoes, busied himself with a soggy log of cafeteria pizza, trying very hard to ignore the pepperoni’s resemblance to the spiteful acne boils that plagued his face.

“I swear Shaun,” the boy with the pizza said, “I’m gonna punch Tate right in those stupid yellow shutter shades; make me miss all the non-pimply food…”

“Shut it, Michael. Something’s wrong. Tate didn’t meet us after first period, he didn’t meet up for break, and now he’s not answering his phone? Tate’s always online. Here’s his locker up here. Where there heck is this fool?”

“He’s probably working on his new hit album,” said Michael, dropping a piece of cheesy flesh into his mouth and chewing with a laugh, “‘Hardcore Hits From the White Suburbs of Ingberg County’.” Shaun stopped walking and removed his dark sunglasses, looking Michael in the eyes.

“How many times do I need to tell you this? We’re not in elementary anymore. People aren’t all hanky-panky here, okay?—Don’t laugh, I’m serious—don’t laugh. You’re lucky that you got Tate. And Benny. And me. You wouldn’t do good in middle school all on your own. My brother had to do that, and he knows, Michael, you know he had a heck of a time. You know that Michael. But the only way you keep friends is upkeep; do you get me? Upkeep.”

Michael lowered his eyes. He held his mouth tight, a lone pepperoni hanging from the left corner. “Sorry,” he said. “We better get to his locker then. To make sure he hasn’t lost his groove or anything.” He grinned. Shaun did not.

When the boys reached Tate’s locker, Shaun spotted a black backpack, wide-open on the floor, its contents strewn across the hall. “Oh snap,” he said, “that’s Tate’s gear.”

The boy’s collected their friend’s belongings into the backpack and searched the hall, checking each corner where the lockers broke for classroom entrances, but they found no Tate. When they had returned to Tate’s locker, they heard a faint moaning sound coming from inside. The boy’s tried the latch, but someone had already clapped on a lock. They banged on the flimsy door and called to Tate. What returned was a rattling moan.

Shaun shook the lock. “Tate! Tate, is that you? You in there dude?” A sickening gurgle echoed in response. Michael stared with is mouth agape. Shaun banged and banged and shook. “Hold on man, hold on! Michael!” He turned on the other boy. “Get help, now! Go to the office; bring—uh—the nurse, the principle; someone with a key—”

“The janitor?”

“Start banging on doors!—whatever, just go, now.” Shaun turned back to his coffined friend, laying his brown hand against the steel locker. “Dang it Tate, who’s toes did your goofy butt step on this time?” Shaun remembered something and shouted after Michael, “And get a hold of Benny! He needs to know what’s going on.”

The twelve-year-old boy on the Mongoose bicycle raced down Washington Avenue. His forearms were lean and well-muscled under the sleeves of his red jersey—number 03—the name “B. Alvarez” spanning its broad shoulders, and just below it, written in permanent black marker, the young man’s nickname “El Toro”.

Benny peddled hard, but the Thompson Middle School bell sounded, marking the end of break, and beginning of second period, which meant he was too late; he would miss biology and algebra… again; the fourth time in a month. Not only did this mean he was treading on thin ice for a three day suspension if he was caught without a note, but any in class work or tests that were missed, couldn’t be made up. And failing grades meant no football. And no football, meant no life for Benny Alvarez. He thanked God that his only test that day, in social studies, wasn’t until forth period, after lunch.

The dentist was behind that morning, making the wait even more painful, as Benny imagined it should for any rational person with a healthy sense of fear for the cruel and unusual. The sadist dentist had also requested that, because of the nature of the “procedure” (i.e. because he didn’t like kids) Benny not be allowed to eat for twelve hours prior to the delicate teeth cleansing. For a football player that consumes on average a breakfast of four eggs, two pieces of bacon, and four slices of buttered toast, this was concentrated starvation.

Regardless if he had a legitimate excuse for his absence this time, Benny understood that a boy could only cry wolf so many times, and that one boy could only go to the dentist so many times in so many days, and lately he had needed to be excused for far too many check ups; these, by the way, would be news to his dentist. And hard to explain to his mother. But none of that mattered now. It was useless; he would have to hide out until third period, or risk being written up. Benny slowed his peddling to a comfortable cruise and looked for a place to lay low.

As Benny neared the middle school, he heard music, a beat, like hip-hop, but new, and vibrant; something alive. It excited him. After a minute of searching for the source of the beat, he guided his bicycle into a cement water ditch that bordered the school parking lot, careful to avoid campus security, where he spied a lone boy, sitting with his lunch set out on his lap, one hand held over his mouth and nose, his body swaying left and right and bobbing with the beat, and the beat itself, seeming to emanate from the boy’s mouth. It looked like Benny wasn’t the only sixth grader missing in action.

After he was satisfied listening for a moment or two, Benny said, “I’ll be darned. Now that’s cool. What do you call that?”

The boy started, and looked wide-eyed at Benny. Seeing who he was, or wasn’t, the boy calmed, and asked, “What’s that, who are you?”

“Said you’re really good at,” Benny shaped the word with his hands, “those beats. Mind if I hang out for a minute? I need a place to avoid faculty until the bell. You go here right? You must be new. How long you been doing that for?”

“Well,” stammered the boy, “I mean you can hang out—sure, I don’t mind—” the boy stood, spilling his sandwich into the dust, “no, dang it! Oh, I mean, I don’t mind at all…” He blushed and Benny tried not to notice. “Jeez. I—hey, I got some other food stuff here you know. My name’s Jameson. Trevor Jameson. You aren’t hungry, are you?”

Benny started shaking his head. Normally Benny did not take food from anyone but his mother; it just didn’t seem like something that you did anymore. People had plenty of food. The days of boney children and soup kitchens were over, weren’t they? And something about taking food, even offered food, made Benny feel like a beggar.

“I have plenty,” Jameson insisted, “Really, my dad’s not much of a cook, and he says the prices of school food are ridiculous, but…” he lifted the butt of his backpack, letting loose not book, nor pen, nor scrap of paper; rather, a trove of salty, sweet snacks that fell at Benny’s feet, displaying themselves in kisses of sunlight that twinkled in through the maple leaves above. “He buys these in bulk from base.” Jameson smiled.

When his stomach saw the pile of potato chips and bars of chocolate wafers, Benny’s will was overcome. “You know what,” he said, “I haven’t eaten in days.” And after leaning his bike against the chain link fence, the two boys sat, cross-legged, facing each other, tearing into there treats and talking excitedly.

“Well, heck yeah I heard of you,” said Jameson. “You should of told me who you were right off. Isn’t that something. Benny Alvarez, at my school. And here I am sitting with him: ‘El Toro’! You know, my school played you in the first quarter before I transferred here; I saw you run down three of our biggest blockers to get to that ball—you were a beast!”

“Sure,” Benny turned and pointed at the marker on his back, “that was the game that earned me this. I’m starting line tonight for the Veterans Day Bowl . It’s a big deal I guess; I’m one of the youngest they’ve had. They mostly use their all-stars I guess. The coach tells me as long as I perform like I have been, I’ll have a long career in ball.”

“I’ll be darned.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t mean to interrupt your practice or anything. I just heard while I was passing by. That’s real cool stuff.”

“Oh, that’s—it’s nothing really. I do it sometimes when I’m by myself, or think I’m by myself anyway. But, most people find it annoying I guess, so I usually take to doing it where I won’t bother anybody.” He held his face and palms to the sky, then back to Benny. “It’s stupid, but it’s kind of fun to do when you can’t afford real entertainment, you know? ”

Jameson’s eyes fixed on Benny’s. They were a light green, shades lighter than his brand less trucker’s cap, the sea-foam green of Benny’s mother’s eyes; but no, they were his mother’s eyes; hurt eyes, tired from salty sorrow and aching from heart break and want; but, then they were Jameson’s eyes again, and Benny stuffed a handful of chips into his mouth. “I don’t think it’s stupid,” he said. “You got a good thing there. A real good talent. I would try and take it as far as I could.”

“You think so?”

“Sure,” said Benny. “In fact, I’m pretty sure they have a hip-hop music and dance club at our school.”

“Really?” Jameson studied Benny’s face.

“I believe so. I would ask the front office, or a teacher. That is, if you ever end up going back to class.” Jameson smiled and picked at the dirt with a twig. “You know. If the hip-hop club thing doesn’t work out,” Benny hesitated, “well, middle school can be rough without friends and—you seem like a decent kid and—I’m just trying to say, I kind of have this group of friends and we look out for each other. Anyway, if the hip-hop club doesn’t work out, you might hang out some time. I think they might agree with me.”

“That sounds awesome!” His excitement embarrassed him, so he once again looked to the floor; then back to Benny, “Hey, what do you play?”

“Me?” Asked Benny.

“Yeah, what instrument?”

“I don’t play a thing—I play football; tight end.”

“It just seemed like you knew what you were talking about. Have you ever tried beat-boxing?”

“Is that what you call it?”

Jameson’s voice broke as he spoke, “You want to try it?”

“No, no. Not me. I couldn’t do that.”

Jameson ignored Benny and slid closer. He pursed his lips and pointed. “You see?” He positioned his mouth and repositioned until the action was clear to Benny. “Put your mouth like this, see?” Benny offered a little protest, but eventually went along with the entire lesson. After several minutes of spitting, popping, coughing and laughing, both master and pupil had had enough. “Well,” said Jameson, wiping spittle from his chin and tears from his eyes, “I guess it really isn’t as easy at it looks.”

“I told you, I don’t have a musical bone in my body. I find them in the other team; then I break them.” Jameson spurts the partially chewed wafer from his mouth in a honking laugh, and this made Benny laugh in response. “I think that will be the end of my beat-boxing career for a while. I’ll stick to the pigskin.”

“If you say so,” chuckled Jameson. “But seriously, I think you could make a heck of a beat-boxer. Mexicans make really good beat-boxers. What? I’m not being racist! You got the lips for it. What?” Then the pair were off laughing again.

Benny and Jameson reached the middle school just in time; the bell marking the end of second period rang as the two boys finished locking up Benny’s bike and slipped into the campus’s West entrance. They managed to wade into the students flowing out of their classrooms without being spotted, and parted ways once they were sure they were safe. Benny couldn’t stop thinking about Jameson as he shouldered his way through the crowds. He kept replaying the visceral beats through his head and wanting to hear them again. It really was something, and Benny was eager, stepping into his third period English class, where he could tell the group all about it.

“Has everyone in this group forgotten how to use their phones?” Asked Shaun when Benny had taken his seat at his usual desk near Michael and Nicholson.

“Keep your undies on Shaun,” said Benny. “I had a doctor’s appointment this morning, my phone was on silent. Where’s Tate at?”

Shaun threw his sunglasses on his desk and rubbed his eyes. He held out his phone. Benny leaned forward to squint and read the tiny notification that read, ‘Outgoing Calls: Benny (El Toro): 8.’

Benny checked his phone and saw that Shaun was right. “I’m sorry, I guess I didn’t hear it over the beat-boxing.”

“Beat-boxing? Beat-boxing? Benny, this is serious. While you were out playing Middle School Musical, Tate was being beat-boxed in the face by some maniac. Me and Michael found him this morning after break. It looked like he made the wrong person mad this time Benny. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Where the heck were you last class?”

Michael sat with a dazed look on his face, staring at his hands. “How can someone hurt a person that much? I couldn’t even hit a dude in the face.”

“It was one of Shiever’s little bros if you ask me,” said Nicholson. He was a huge sixth grader, his bulk mostly due to his being held back. He hunched over his desk, slowly grounding a banana in his cheek. He was a part of the group through Benny; a heck of a halfback, but not yet a full member. “They’ve never liked Tate,” Nicholson continued, “and they talk a lot of smack. They’ve been wanting to tune up Tate since they heard he was coming here last year.”

Benny cursed. “That’s all we know?” His fingers were bulged in fists and the desks nearby scooted closer. “What—how bad did they mess him up? Tate’s just a little guy, I mean, why would they mess him up so bad? Why wouldn’t he know who it was?”

Shaun shrugged out a sigh. “Tate didn’t know the kid. All he could tell us was that he didn’t know him, that he was medium height, medium build; but you know Tate, he might not be giving us the whole story, so I don’t know. Nicholson claims some kids saw Tate in the hall working on homework, listening to his iPod when he got into it with some other kid in a green hat over music or something; that’s what got us thinking it was Shiever.”

“What kind of music, Nicholson?” Asked Benny.

“Well it wasn’t really music, music. It was a kind of rapping, they said. More like, he was saying some stuff, but he was making the music too, you know? Like a trick with his mouth or something. They said it wasn’t anything like they’ve heard. I don’t know, maybe the guy was messing with Tate? Does this make any sense to you Benny? Benny?”

Benny sat, looking at the eraser head of his pencil, remembering Jameson in his mind. “When did you say Tate was attacked, Shaun?”

“It had to be sometime before break today.”

“And no one has seen this kid since? And you say he was making those noises with his mouth? In a green hat?”

“What is it Benny?” Asked Michael, “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking I might have just hung out with the kid that beat up one of my best friends.”

Benny and Nicholson crossed the courtyard towards the gymnasium, a bustle of students weaving by them. Their eyes fixed on the posting of events beside the doors. When they were close enough, they began flipping through a shredded nest of club advertisements posted on a large cork board.

Nicholson found the flyer first. He tore it from its pin and jammed his half-eaten protein bar at the front photo. “Look Benny, this the tip-top club thing?”

“Hip-hop,” said Benny. “It’s called hip-hop.” Benny took the flyer from Nicholson’s large hand. He recognized the intimidating kid in the photo, holding the microphone, to be Quinton Hardknoll. He was surrounded by four other boys and one girl, all doing their best to sell their attitudes to the camera. Hardknoll’s younger brother played second string for Benny, and he knew him well. He heard that Quinton was actually a pretty sweet guy when he wasn’t rapping about shooting and stealing. And all the lyrics about violence and drugs? They were just part of the art. At least that’s what his brother had told Benny. Below the photo were three lines of text in large type:

TMS Dance + Hip-Hop Crew
1st Schedule Lunch – Room 901
Bring Talent or Stay Home

“Looks like this is it,” said Benny. “If he’s not here, then I don’t know what to do. This kid seemed to disappear. I don’t get why no one can give a straight answer around here.”

“Maybe because he didn’t tell you where he was really going?”

“What do you want to do about this, Nicholson?”

“I don’t know El Toro, bro. You didn’t tell me there was a club of these bead-boxer-dudes at school. It’s seeming less and less likely. I don’t want to ruin some random kid’s day.”

Benny’s mind had been lapsing between confidence and panic, like water spilling out of a full glass, when you’re trying to sneak it back to bed, ever since he thought Jameson could be the one who beat up Tate. He was usually sure about things. His father’s absence left a gap he filled for his mother with a juvenile capability that he prided in himself. He fostered it in himself. Until this moment, Benny had never come across a situation that challenged his cool, rational detachment. But something about Jameson. Something about this one; didn’t seem right.

“I’m not saying that I’m sure it’s Jameson,” he said. “I’ve never seen him before, he’s medium build, and that before today, I don’t think I’ve ever seen another kid beat-box in person. We don’t have any other idea of who did this to Tate, so Jameson’s our best bet. We have rules. We can’t let something like this happen without consequences, right? If it does, what’s the point of our group?”

“I-I know, I know. I still don’t think it’s much to go on. From what you told us, he kind of seems like a nice kid. So what if he wasn’t in the classroom he told you he would be? If he’s here, then it means he took your advice doesn’t it? That doesn’t seem like a wacko to me. And whoever did that to Tate had to be a wacka-doodle, don’t you agree? I just don’t know Benny. I kind of feel bad rushing in there and dragging the kid out of his club. Especially a new kid? Man that’s cold. Going to be rough on his social status. That’s the kind of things kids will talk about around here. It will be funny as heck. Sure will. But what if we got the wrong guy?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you’re right, I can’t treat him like this. We can’t just rush in and humiliate him. But we need to take care of this now. We can’t let whoever did this to Tate get away with it.”

Nicholson screwed up his face, widened his eyes, then sighed. He seemed to give up. He picked at his ear, and flicked something into the air and said almost to himself, “Let’s just take him to Tate.”

“Take Jameson to Tate? You mean so Tate can tell us if it was Jameson who attacked him?”

Nicholson stopped rolling his fingers together and looked excitedly at Benny. “Sure,” he said. “Seems to me that would clear it up. And that way, none of us have to be too accusing about it either way.”

“Nicholson, I think that’s the smartest thing you’ve ever said.”

Nicholson beamed.

The boys crossed the basketball court, through the doors to the back halls that housed the nine-hundred classrooms. When Benny knocked on the door to room nine-o’-one. The boy who answered, a bulky upperclassmen, glared down on them with bared teeth. Nicholson noticeably shifted position behind Benny, who stood a full foot shorter than himself. Benny and Nicholson recognized the boy as Quinton Hardknoll. To their relief, Hardknoll’s glower softened at the sight of the boys’ jerseys. “My brother plays ball. You better not mess with him. What do you all want?”

Nicholson chewed helplessly—shrugging—and pointed to Benny. Benny asked, “Is there a kid named Trevor Jameson in this room? He’ll be new.”

Hardknoll looked over their shoulders. They turned to see what was there; but Quinton seemed to stare at nothing. He shook his head slowly. “He a little white kid?”

Nicholson nodded eagerly. “In a green hat? That’s him!”

Quinton still wouldn’t look at us. “That kid’s got talent. Real talent. The kind that comes from being hungry. Do you kids know what it means to be hungry?” He waited. Benny and Nicholson said nothing. “He’s got problems too, you know?”

“What kind of problems?” Asked Benny.

“I don’t know. I can just tell. He’s got talent though. Hey, what they heck do you want with him anyway?”

Benny felt the surge of primal fear leap up his back, closely followed by adrenaline, and readiness. Behind Hardknoll, Benny was suddenly aware of the tens of hulking and slinking bodies, all confidently laughing and interacting. “Listen Quinton,” he said, “we just want to talk with Jameson; take him up to the nurse.”

“That’s right,” said Nicholson, sensing the urgency of his help, syphoning out his courage, “it’s life or death bro—I mean, sir—we got a friend laid up bad. If we don’t find him soon, Benny’s gonna miss the Veterans Day Bowl ; and he’s starting!”

Quinton started closing the door and Benny said, “It’s Tate Russet. We think he beat up Tate Russet.”

Quinton cursed then looked Benny in the eyes and said, “They got a sixth grader starting at the Veterans Day Bowl now, huh?” He widened the door. “You really think this Jameson kid beat up a Russet?” He shook his hand. “Forget it. Tell me when you know. I don’t want to hear until you know. I’ll get him for you. Just do me a favor. If he didn’t do it; if you’re boy says he wasn’t the dude; send him on back here all right?”

“Sure,” said Benny, “all right Quinton, I’ll do that.” Quinton turned to leave, then Benny added, “And what if he did do it?”

Quinton turned slowly and looked Benny in the eyes for several seconds. “If he did do it, you should probably take care of business. If you don’t, the Russet’s will. That Tate kid’s something else.”

Benny and Nicholson nodded together. “Yes he is,” said Benny.

When Jameson had been ushered out and the door was closed behind him, Benny positively beamed at us. “Hello, Benny! Hello, Benny’s friend. Hey Benny, thanks so much for telling me about this club. I really mean it. They really love me in here. They really think I’m good at something. They think I’m good at something. I mean, there’s a lot that I don’t know, I mean, I can’t afford all the CDs they can, but they said they will have me in shape in time for the school talent show! They say we’re going to perform, and—heck!—I’m going to be their featured performer!”

Benny rubbed the warm spot at the back of his neck. “Is that right? Well, that sounds great Jameson. But me and Nicholson didn’t come here to talk about the club.”

“No?”

“Nope.” Benny couldn’t look Jameson in his mother’s eyes. But, was there a different way of doing things? He looked to Nicholson; gave a nod.

Nicholson wrapped a great arm around Jameson’s shoulders. “You see, our friend was tuned up pretty bad by some unknown goober bean, so me and Benny here are trying to weasel out who said goob might be.”

“Oh my gosh. That sounds terrible. Who was hurt?”

“His name is Tate,” said Benny. “Tate Russet.”

Jameson searched his memory with his eyes, but nothing came. “No, I don’t know him. I’m new here, but I’ll make sure I keep an ear out.”

“We appreciate that,” continued Benny, “But there’s something else. Tate said that the boy who attacked him; well, he’s never seen him before. That means he’s most likely a new student. Like you.”

Jameson laughed. “I can’t be the only new student at Thompson can I?”

“No,” said Nicholson, “you can’t but then there’s your little beat-boppin’ too.”

“What? What does that have to do with it? Benny told me just this morning how much he liked it. Now I’m being accused for it?”

Benny said, “No one’s accusing you of anything. But, some witnesses claim the person who fought with Tate was a beat-boxer. Not only that, but they were dressed like you.”

“It seems like you two have already made up your minds. I’m telling you, I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

Benny frowned and held up his hands. “We’re just making sure we aren’t missing anything. It would make it a lot easier if you just helped us out.”

“Do you have an iPod?” Nicholson pulled Benny’s ear to his mouth and whispered, “Now we’ll see if he has Tate’s iPod!” Benny grinned.

“Sure I have an iPod,” said Jameson, “everybody has one now, don’t they?”

“Sure they do,” said Nicholson, “sure they do. Let’s see it.”

“They all look the same don’t they?” Chuckled Jameson. Benny and Nicholson stared, lips pressed together. “Okay, okay.” Jameson produced a shining white iPod from his dirty front jean pocket and held it out for them to inspect.

Nicholson laughed triumphantly and Benny cursed and kicked the painted mascot on the wall. Jameson jumped and held out his hands, his eyes darting between the two bulls. Benny pulled Nicholson into private council and whispered, “So… Is this it? Is this Tate’s iPod?”

Nicholson ground his teeth and spat. He held his fists on his waist. He gave Benny a confused look and his face drooped. “I don’t know,” he whispered, “I thought you would know.” The two turned the iPod over in their hands; on the back was a small engraving that read:

RDMC

“Turn it on,” Nicholson demanded.

“Can’t, it died last period.”

“What’s RDMC mean?” Asked Benny.

“Ruth. Diane. Marie. Corinth.” Jameson finished and there were tears in his eyes. “My ma’. She gave it to me before she… Before she…” He could not finish.

“Oh,” said Benny. Benny and Nicholson exchanged shameful glances and Nicholson returned the iPod.

“Sorry bro,” said Nicholson. “You see, Tate had his iPod stolen after the attack. I had to check.”

“It’s all right,” said Jameson. “So you just want me to go see your friend—Tate?—and have him confirm it wasn’t me who hit him? Then we’ll be cool?”

Benny shifted his feet, feeling suddenly that he was in a very foolish position. “Yes,” he said, “that sounds like the gist of it.”

Jameson sighed and shouldered his backpack. “Well then,” he said. “as soon as I’m done here, we can go.”

“I think we better go now,” said Benny. “Lunch is almost over. And I don’t know how long they’ll keep Tate at the nurse.”

Jameson shot a look down the cement corridor to the sunlit track beyond, then back. “Well… If you’re sure… Okay then, Benny,” he said. “Okay.”

On the way to the nurse, Benny kept a close eye on Jameson to make sure he didn’t try to run, but that time never came. He couldn’t figure the boy out. Either he was completely innocent, or he was one heck of a lying manipulator. He even let out with a few beats along the way. Benny couldn’t help but casting raised brows at Nicholson every few feet on the way to the main office, but Nicholson never failed to take the gesture as an invitation to a dirty joke, so eventually, Benny quit.

But just before they reached the office, Shaun came running to meet them, waving his hands out in front of him. “Hold up, hold up, fools,” he breathed. “Is this the guy?”

“Yeah,” said Benny, “this is Jameson. But we’re just taking him to see Tate so he can make sure he’s the right guy.”

Shaun whipped his arms in a circle and power-kicked the nearest trash can with a hollow thud. “Why did Edison invent the cell phone? Why do we live in the twenty-first century people? Check you dang phones people!”

Benny and Nicholson both search their pockets and focus too long on the home screens of their phones. “They sent him home,” Nicholson said finally.

“Yes,” said Shaun. “They had to send him to emergency!”

“No way,” said Benny. “Christ…”

“Gosh,” said Jameson, “I’m really, really sorry about your friend Benny.”

“Sure.”

“I don’t want to be rude. But, there is some lunch time left, and if I can get back to the club and catch up on the routine for the talent show; I’m really excited.”

Benny, Shaun, and Nicholson exchanged looks. Benny sighed. “Go ahead Jameson, we don’t need anything from you. We’re sorry we pulled you out like that.”

“Oh, totally bro,” said Nicholson, “and good luck on the be-bop.”

They watched Jameson go, and just before he disappeared behind the corner, Benny called after him, “Jameson!” and Jameson stopped and turned to listen. “Tate won’t be in the hospital forever. And when he gets out. If it’s all the same, why don’t we do this again. Because I got to tell you. I don’t know if you had anything to do with it, but something in me doesn’t feel right. If you did hurt my friend though; if you did him like that; well, I just want you to think about that between now and then. Because me and my friends don’t let that kind of stuff happen to each other you understand?”

Jameson stood in silence for a minute. “Is that all, Benny?”

“That’s all,” said Benny.

“All right,” said Jameson. “Let me know when your friend is better. Maybe I can play him a beat? See you boys around.” Then he was gone.

Nicholson picked at his nose. “What do you think Benny? I got this funny feeling inside. Do you think it was him, or do you think we’re just going crazy here?”

Benny clicked his front teeth together. “I don’t know Nicholson. I just don’t know. But no matter what, I know we don’t have the full story. Shaun, did you get anything else from Tate?”

“Naw man. Nothing.”

Just then, Michael came trotting to the group, carrying a large red tray covered in small paper boats filled to overflowing with tater-tots. “Yo dudes, what’s up. Did you catch the kid?”

“We don’t know,” said Benny.

“That wasn’t him was it? Trevor Jameson?”

“You know Jameson?” Asked Benny.

“No, not really,” said Michael, “I was just going to say, it made sense.”

“How’s that?”

“Jameson. He’s poor enough. It makes sense for him to steal Tate’s iPod like that.”

“He wouldn’t steal it,” said Nicholson, “he has one. Me and Benny saw it ourselves, didn’t we El Toro?”

Michael popped a tot and raised his brow, “That’s news to me. How do you know it was his?”

“We checked it out. It was dead, but it was customized with his mom’s initials and everything.”

“His mom’s initials? What were they?”

“RDMC,” said Benny.

“RDMC?” Asked Michael. “Are you sure?”

“RDMC,” said Nicholson, “Yep, that’s what it was for sure.”

“Benny,” said Michael, “RDMC is what Tate has engraved on the back of his iPod. Haven’t you ever seen it?”

“Yeah right, Tate doesn’t let’s people touch his stuff.”

“Yeah, well I touch anyway. The point is, RDMC isn’t somebody’s mom’s initials, it stands for frickin’ Run DMC! His dad wouldn’t let him get it spelled out because he said it was stupid. His dad was right if you ask me.” He popped another tot.

“Wait a minute,” said Benny. “Are you telling me that Tate’s iPod is white, and has the initials RDMC engraved on the back of it? So Jameson was… Stay here you guys, I have to go take care of this.”

“Woo-hoo!” Cheered Nicholson. “Get him El Toro!”

“Turn that weirdo up,” said Shaun. “Do it for Tate man. You saw what he did to him.”

“No!” Michael choked his protest through a mouthful of potato. “Shaun, your test! You can’t! The bell’s going to ring any minute. You can’t miss the test. If you miss the Veterans Day Bowl, if you get kicked off the team; you won’t be a jock! If your not a jock, then we don’t have a jock! And if we don’t have a jock—”

“Chill out Michael,” said Benny. “I’m not going to miss the test. And you got Nicholson anyway. I can’t let Jameson get away with this. I bet the little mongrel will never show his face at school again; then we’ll never have a chance to make things right. He probably goes from school to school like this!”

“You sure El Toro?” Nicholson called after Benny. “I can take care of it.”

Michael shook his head furiously. Shaun shrugged.

Benny licked his lips and said, “No. No, this is something I’ve got to do myself.”

Benny raced after Jameson’s bobbing head in the crowd of students as the fourth period bell sounded through campus. He nearly lost him once or twice, and he saw immediately he was not headed towards the gymnasium. The chase had taken them to the opposite end of school from Benny’s fourth period social studies class, far from his passing grade, from the glory of the Veterans Day Bowl , and a promising middle school football career; nevertheless, Benny would not let Jameson get away this time.

Benny finally caught up to Jameson as they reached an area nearby where they first met in the ditch behind the faculty parking. Benny called out in a condemning tone, “I thought you couldn’t afford real entertainment.”

Both sneakers came to a scuffling, breathless halt. Jameson turned. “What do you want now, Benny?”

“Where are you going, Jameson?” Asked Benny. “Gym’s the other way.”

“I’m not going to the gym,” said Jameson.

“Why the heck did you do him so bad? There’s been time’s I’ve wanted to lay one on him myself, but the way I hear it, you smashed him up. I just don’t get it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Benny.”

“Cut it out man. The iPod, the initials, RDMC, they’re not your mom’s. Tate has those initials engraved on the back of his iPod. That’s his iPod in your pocket. You lied to us.”

Jameson opened his mouth; dropped his head. “Sure. Sure. What are you going to do to me? Hm? El Toro? You going to beat me up? You gonna make fun of me too?”

“So it was you?”

“Sure.”

“Why?”

“I was in the three hundred buildings, keeping to myself, practicing some new beats, whatever. Then out of no where, this ridiculous looking kid in a jump suit and yellow glasses—”

“That’d be Tate—“

“He steps up to me and starts making fun of me, calling me names, telling me to buy a real MP3 player, all the time his giant red hair waggling right in my nose… I don’t know what to tell you, Benny… I just lost it. I can’t help it sometimes. I know I have a problem with my anger. My dad has a problem with his anger. He tells me I have to find ways to direct it like he did; go into the military; the Marines. But I can’t do it. I can’t do that. I wan’t to make music, but I can’t control it. I want to control it. I try to be nice, like with you, that’s really me, I promise, it’s just… Kids are mean, Benny; Kids are damn mean.”

Benny shook his head and paced left to right. “Do you still have that iPod?” He asked.

Jameson put his hand in his pocket, but Benny waved him off. “No. Keep it. Listen to me. You want to know what I’m going to do to you? I’m going to give you advice. Now, it’s your choice to take it or not, but I’m going to give it to you, and that’s the price you’ll pay for all this, you understand? Good. My guys want me to tear your head off. They want blood. But I don’t think that’s going to get anybody anywhere. You want to run away with that stolen iPod and transfer to another school and get into another fight and do this all over again, and that won’t get anybody anywhere either. So I’ll tell you what I think you should do. I think you need to leave Ingberg County. What you did to Tate won’t go unanswered. I can’t protect you. Your dad won’t be able to protect you. Unfortunately, he has soft skin and his parents have a deep wallet. But if they get a hold of you, you’re going to juvie, and that’s the same path my dad went down, and that’s just going to end in jail and prison. You need to go somewhere else; I don’t know where, somewhere better. I don’t know, I don’t have the answers. From what I’ve seen and heard, you’ve got a heck of a lot of talent. You’ve got potential and I don’t want you to throw it away.”

“Why not?”

Why not? Such a simple question. Why not? So simple, but Benny couldn’t think of a reasonable answer. “I don’t know, but you need to get out of here, and go somewhere far away. This isn’t the place for people like you—us; people like us. It’s important you hear me. Most kids don’t listen, but you need to listen.”

“But won’t they still look for me?”

“No,” said Benny. “I’m going to tell them I came after you. I’m going to tell them I caught up to you and checked the iPod and; well, it was a mistake, it was your mom’s initials you see, we got it wrong, and you even had it charged up so I could see.”

“Why would you do that for me Benny? I lied to you. I hurt your friend. No one’s ever been nice to me, not even my own dad. Why the heck would you care? Why would you care about what I do with my stupid hobby, huh?”

Benny thought for a long time, rubbing his mouth and forehead. Then he laughed and bit his lip. “Because you shared your food with me. And I was hungry.” This was all the answer he could give. The two boys stood together in the ditch, seeing each other fully under the high afternoon sun. Then Jameson turned, and head up the waterway.

The boy in the red jersey with the nickname “El Toro” written in permanent marker over the number 03 on the back knelt down in the dirt and the dried up grass of fall, watching Trevor Jameson bound right to left over the slender stream, small and divided by the delicate branches of bushes and untrimmed trees, until he had dissolved, and gone, forever.

Later that week, Jameson returned home from the hospital. He had a few bruised ribs, a fractured cheek; he would live. The boys chose to believe Benny’s story about Jameson and the mix up, and they all set to planning the capture of the true assailant. But Benny and his friends never found him. Missing his first four periods did not result in Benny’s suspension; however, it did result in a failing grade on a certain social studies test, and a temporary suspension from football, meaning Benny had to watch Nicholson crush the Bronson Bears, 12-0. But, as Benny sat with his small group—Shaun, Michael, Tate, Nicholson—thinking about Jameson, imagining he was getting on better somewhere, gentler somewhere, with people who would accept him for who he was; before they ostracized him for who he wanted to be; he did not feel his life had ended with missing the Veterans Day Bowl; rather, something old had been uprooted, and a new, exciting energy had taken deep seed in its place.

photo credit: JamieL.WilliamsPhoto via photopin cc

The Strangest Hat and the Oddest Girl

October 5, 2013 by Caleb Jacobo 2 Comments

Sophie’s wiry fingers quivered violently as they pressed glue in place, attaching a lace veil to a felt bonnet she had laid out on her workbench; her joints swelled; if she stopped now, she might sleep through the night without waking in painful sweats; but Sophie would not take a break; if Sophie stopped making hats for even a moment, she feared all she would do is stare at the old grandfather clock in the corner and count the seconds until her niece arrived to take the horrible creation out of her shop.

Sophie had finished the ridiculous order by three that same afternoon and tucked it beneath the front counter, out of sight of any customers or passersby; so no one might assume she’d lost her sense of taste. She thought she really should set guidelines on what is and is not acceptable on orders for lady’s hats—if not for women’s fashion at large, God help them, then at least in her own shop! In fifty years of ribbons, feathers, nettings and pins, Sophie learned to make the hat you’re paid for, not the hat you’re proud of; but in all those years, there was never such an abomination; such a concoction of trim and contour that made her squirm so much in her own skin. Where was that child?

A tinkling copper bell announced a customer’s arrival and at first Sophie did not know her estranged niece. The last time the old woman saw Ophelia was on her second birthday, when the child wore a bright yellow gingham dress with white ribbons in her hair, bright white socks and polished black shoes. Her sister Agatha and her despot husband managed to raise what Sophie considered a lovely child; just the sort to help an old woman not used to running a shop with one set of hands. The girl before Sophie now looked to be about ten years old, in blue, denim overalls, brown tangled braids, a dirty face and neck, and sharp green eyes. “We’re closed child,” said Sophie.

Ophelia turned to the sign in the window that clearly displayed its ‘Open’ side to the public, then back to Sophie with raised eyebrows and a grin. “Aunt Sophie?” She asked. “I’m Ophelia? Agatha’s daughter; your niece? Mama told me you were needing help since uncle Ralph die—since uncle Ralph. Did you have work that needs being done?”

Aunt Sophie’s face relaxed; she felt her cheeks warm as she felt the weight of the hat leaving her already; she nodded. “You’re very, very late young woman,” she said with a long sigh. Then, as if seeing her as human for the first time, “You are terribly dirty; doesn’t Agatha bathe you girl?”

“Oh she bathes me all right,” said Ophelia, “it’s just, she’s always saying she can’t keep up with me no matter how much she tries. You know Agatha tried to give me a bath three times a day every day for a week once? My skin was so red and sore, I couldn’t pull on a dress without yipping and biting my cheeks. But it didn’t matter anyway, because after the week was up, Agatha gave it up. Somehow I always ended up just as dirty at the end of the day as I did any other day.”

“That’s fine now Ophelia, but you shouldn’t call your mother Agatha. Mama’s all right like you said before; or Mother, or Mom. She doesn’t let you call her Agatha does she? Bless that woman if she does, I’ll have to have a talk with that sister of mine.”

“Oh no! It’s just that you called Mama Agatha, and it’s such a romantic name, don’t you think it’s a lovely, romantic name? and I don’t hear it very often because it’s Mama’s name, and we don’t know a lot of other people named Agatha—that is funny how some people know dozens of people with the same name as them like Ophelia, or Michael, or Aunt Sophie, but then some people like Mama’s got names that you just don’t hear so much? I like Agatha.” Ophelia sighed. “If I could be called anything in the world I think I’d like to be called Gwenvaria.”

“Gwenvaria? Now you listen Ophelia: there’s nothing wrong with your name, and I won’t be calling you by anything but what my sister calls you by. I’ve called you here for an important delivery. I need to know you can get it done. We don’t have any time for chit-chat at the moment, and I don’t see any reason a young girl like yourself should talk so much anyway. Now, you’ll need to leave now if you’re going on foot. She’ll meet you at the Rochester II boarding gate, I’ve arranged it all with her you understand?”

“I can get it done Aunt Sophie, I know I can, if you give me a chance. This place is so incredible! I’ve never been inside a hat shop before! I mean, not a real one. I’ve imagined them hundreds of times; they’ve always made the most fantastic visits. It’s so nice to know that the real thing is so much better than the imagination. Isn’t that wonderful when that happens? Does that ever happen to you? Oh, it’s just perfect. I would just love to stay Aunt Sophie!”

“I’m not sure what you are saying Ophelia, but I admit it makes me smile to hear you like the shop. I built it myself. Not the wood of course, I mean the business. And I’m glad to hear you have at least some interest in staying. I can’t say I hear many young people showing interest in working nowadays, especially not in craft trades. But all this can wait. I have lost feeling in my right hand and the cold eats at my bones. Are you ready to go now?”

“I’m ready! Is this the hat here?” Ophelia picked up the black veiled cap from the counter that Sophie had been working on.

Sophie snatched the hat from Ophelia’s hands. “No!” she said; then softer, “No; this is for me.” She bent under the counter and for several seconds Ophelia was not sure if her Aunt would resurface at all; indeed, neither was Sophie. As she knelt behind the counter, she stared at the monstrous hat and contemplated whether it might not be better to just sit down where she was, next to her grotesque offspring, and never come up again. She held her chest; she became aware her vision had dislocated and started to drift.

Aunt Sophie regained her homeostasis and returned with an extraordinary sight: a wine striped ribbon held a billowing cream ostrich feather that drooped over a wide brim. The hat’s woven body was mummified in embroidered silk, pinned in place with long needles, each capped with crystals. Ophelia thought it the grandest, most bizarre hat she’d ever seen in her short life.

Ophelia rushed out into the October afternoon; hat held to her chest; this was it, her first real adventure, and this time her Mama wouldn’t be able to stop her. Sure she would worry for a while and wonder where she was, but Ophelia planned to return to the pig farm when she finished with her adventures on the western coast of town. She looked towards the direction the taxi had taken her from the country. The streets were lined with shiny cars and two story apartments. A few local children chased each other along the sidewalks; their little white terrier joining in the romp. The air was cooler here than the farm and it settled salty on her tongue. Her father once told her that no any one town is ever very unlike any other one town, and if one keeps their eyes open and are very careful, one can never really be lost.

Ophelia smiled at her own wisdom. She threw back her head and sniffed the air; she licked a finger then thrust it in the sky; she laid her cheek to the dirt then listened intently. She didn’t know why she did these things, but she’d seen them all done somewhere, and she knew they must be important for getting where one needed to be. She spun herself in three semi-circles, then lowered her finger where she stopped. Finally, Ophelia stopped a passing gentleman on the street and kindly asked him to direct her to the way of the port, to which he gave her simple directions. Ophelia thanked him graciously. Sometimes, plain old asking works too.

Ophelia skipped off in the direction the man had directed until she came across a small market displaying in its window a roll of bright, patterned wrapping paper; the very same shade of candy-cane-red found on the hat Ophelia was carrying in her hands. It was such a perfect match it seemed to Ophelia a disaster not to buy the paper. Even though the gift was not from her, or for her, it is not often that one gets to give gifts as grand as custom made hats, especially young girls, and Ophelia had always hoped that one day she would be able to give someone a real hat; one that was all wrapped in real wrapping paper. There was nothing to be done for it, Ophelia entered the little market.

When Ophelia reached the counter with wrapping paper in hand, the clock over the clerk’s cabbage head read four-thirty. Based on Ophelia’s directions, she would make it to Rochester II with at least five minutes to spare. The clerk was busy wrapping up a dozen bottles of Horse Cellar Scotch in white paper and boxing them in a wooden crate for an enormous patron in a deep wine-red suit and yellow flat-topped straw hat.

The patron spent the clerk’s time half-choking on laughter from confusing idiosyncratic jokes that made Ophelia clench her teeth, and the other half complaining about the various shortcomings of the town and the county. You see, he could not wear his best shoes on outings for fear he’d destroy a third pair; he’d never felt so embarrassed or exposed in relieving himself like a ‘savage’ then he had in the public ‘facilities’ in the town—although Ophelia could not think what other means of relieving himself the man could possibly be used to—and that this poor soul had heard the chowder from the carts along the docks was famous, ordered three bowls the first night in port, but the putrid smell of the inland pig farmers from his brief visit to the butcheries burnt up his nostrils so terribly that all he tasted was onion.

At this, Ophelia could no longer keep quiet. “Maybe the pigs can’t stand the smell of you,” she said loudly, “you ever think of that?” The clerk stopped with the patron’s last bottle of scotch half-way in the crate; his wide, leafy ears twitching.

The enormous patron turned in three, slow rocking movements to face Ophelia. He breathed heavily through his open mouth. Ophelia thought the man looked like a middle-aged infant with dark sunglasses. A silky, sweat covered Ophelia’s forearms. “Hello there little mouse,” said the patron through a wet smile, “I didn’t hear you down there darlin’. Once I get goin’ I just get goin’, you know?”

“I said,” said Ophelia considering, “I said I’m in a hurry, and if you don’t mind hurrying up yourself and stop talking so much, because it’s really very rude to talk so loud about people you don’t know anything about anyway, especially when you’re a visitor in their town, because you don’t know who could be listening, so you don’t know who you could be offending, and especially because you’re wrong, and you’re a mean, big man, and pig farmers don’t smell, and because you want to know how I know? Because I am a pig farmer, and my mama and dad are pig farmers, and I just need to deliver this hat to a very rich lady so I can have a job in the hat shop, so I can work here in town, and then maybe I won’t have to be a pig farmer, but even if I had to be a pig farmer for the rest of my life I wouldn’t care because pig farmers might smell, but at least we’re not rude, hurtful people who say things about other people when they should worry about themselves, and how’s that for a pig farmer?”

The enormous patron wheezed out the beginning of a laugh, then choked on it like he inhaled a sausage; fell against the counter, then in an explosion of hoots and wheezes, had a good laugh. The clerk gave a twisty smile, understanding only that a laughing man warmed his tummy, but looked cautiously at Ophelia when her stare chilled his bowels. Ophelia pressed her thumbs into her fists as hard as she could push. The man recovered himself enough and said, “My, my young lady, who are you and where are you from? I want one of you, where can I get one of these?” he asked the clerk. The clerk shrugged, wide-eyed. “Ew, but what on earth is that?” He asked pointing at the hat in Ophelia’s hands. “We can leave that out of the deal.” He laughed again.

“I already told you all that,” said Ophelia, “and you don’t need to know my name and don’t you dare talk about this hat. My aunt made this for a very important lady. I told you, I’m in a hurry and if you are going to be rude—” Ophelia felt the soda pop rushing through her veins and her bones threatening to shake all her bits loose, so she dropped the paper, took her hat, and left the market with tears in her eyes. Presents and wrapping paper were all very romantic, but they would have to wait for next time. For now a plain old, unwrapped, ostrich-feathered-mummy-hat successfully delivered, and a job successfully done would have to do for Ophelia.

“Young lady!” Called a voice behind Ophelia. “Young lady, excuse me!” The enormous man ran out from the market with his crate of scotch clanking in his arms. “I have a big mouth,” he said. “I have a big everything, I can’t help it. My name is Poins. I’m sorry I offended you darlin’. I didn’t mean to run you out the door. I really dig your attitude. You’re a spirited kid. Why don’t you let me help you out? What did you need in there?”

“I accept your apology, but I don’t need your help; I’m nearly there now. I was just stopping in to match some wrapping paper to this hat my aunt made for a client. I’m supposed to deliver it to a woman at the port at five. I would have been early if it wasn’t for your talking. This is my first job for my aunt and I wanted to wrap the hat, to make a present out of it, you know? I’d never given anyone a real present before, but now that I’m saying it all again I see that it was a silly idea. Anyway, I’m sorry I said you smelled, but I have to go.”

Poins looked around the street. “You’re not going on foot are you?” He asked. “You’ll never make it. I just came from Port Royal this morning, you’ll need a car if you hope to make it there in time at all.”

Ophelia’s face went white and she gripped the front of her dress. Since that morning Ophelia had heard two distinct names used interchangeably; inlanders call all of the western coast of the town the ports. “Port Royal?” She said. “You mean there’s two ports? No! You don’t mean it.”

“Well, I would think you’d know your town better than a stranger. But I’m pretty sure, there is Port Laguna, which is just beyond these storefronts, and then Port Royal, which is a good five, ten minute drive up the coast.”

“Oh no! This can’t be happening; what will I do? If I mess this up, no one will buy hats from Aunt Sophie anymore and it will be my fault and then she will have lost her business and her husband in the same week! Oh, I can’t mess this up, I can’t! I can’t let Aunt Sophie down!” Ophelia went on like this until she collapsed into a stack of trembling knees and sobbing shoulders.

“Shh-shh-shh,” urged Poins. “Hush now, you’re all right, shh, there now, hush, hush, goodness girl you’re stopping people in the street.” Poins shifted his weight and looked around at the onlookers; they stared, but offered no help. “You know,” he started. “I could… I could maybe drive you there myself.”

Ophelia looked up into Poins’s smooth, rounded face; he had removed his glasses, his eyes were a deep chocolate-brown with flakes of rose gold that shrank into the iris. “Would you?” she asked.

“That’s Rochester II there,” said Poins, leaning over Ophelia and pointing at one of the tallest liners docked in the crowded port. It was two minutes to five; Poins had a moment of inspiration on the drive up the coast, and in the face of defeating traffic, devised a back route that put Ophelia within running distance of her delivery point. “You’ll have to go on foot from here. The crowd’s too thick.” And it was; boys and girls of all ages in their long coats and caps, knocking into each other with their bulky suitcases, wardrobe boxes, and bloated burlap sacs.

Ophelia held a bright white hat box with a picture of the same hat that Poins then wore on his head. Inside, Ophelia had placed her delivery. She now replaced the lid and took a breath. “This will work perfectly. Are you sure you don’t need it? I don’t know if I can do this. I’ve been on the docks before, but not by myself. Not with so many people. I always thought the docks were so romantic; sea voyages, sailors, pirates. There’s so much adventure, don’t you think there’s so much adventure and mystery about the sea?”

Poins laughed and messed up Ophelia’s hair. “I think I do. I guess I’m just not gutsy enough to say it anymore. Come on, you’re going to miss her, you gotta move it.”

Ophelia got up on her knees and hugged Poins around his large head, which was all she could manage to hold and Poins placed his oversized hand on her back, as gentle as if Ophelia were made of smoke. Then he watched the child slide down from his passenger seat and disappear into the crowd.

Rochester II was a straight run. Ophelia was small enough to avoid most contact if she was careful. The giant clock above currency exchange told Ophelia time was up, so she tucked the box under her arm and took off toward the ship. She weaved through carts of salted cod and beef tac, she skirted past a banana stand where the men were catching tarantulas the size of small dogs, and when a crew of lifeboats broke down and blocked the rest of Ophelia’s passage through the docks, she managed to squeeze under a Gordon’s Fresh Potato Chips trailer, out into the open, and make it to the Rochester II.

“Stop right there you!” Demanded the boarding master, holding his palm in Ophelia’s face. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Ophelia was breathing heavily. “Oh please… tell me there’s time… I have… a delivery… a hat for a passenger… on your ship…”

“Well, I’m afraid I can’t let you on the ship deary,” said the man.

Ophelia shook the hat box weakly. “I just… need to… deliver this hat. Please.”

The man took a long hard look at the odd little country girl; a filthy sight; scraped and bruised and muddied. “I’ll tell you what. If you give me the hat, I’ll deliver it for you.”

“That would fine I suppose.” It would have to be; she was out of options. If it could not be delivered by Ophelia, she would have to settle for it being delivered by not-Ophelia.

The man took out a notepad from his vest pocket along with a charcoal pencil. “If you give me the name,” he said, “I will bring it to her once we leave port.” He put the pencil to the pad and waited for Ophelia.

Ophelia’s eyes rolled and fluttered; oh, no… the name… what was the name? Did she have a name? Of course she had a name, everyone has a name, but what was her name? Did she write it down? She didn’t think she did. The man looked up at Ophelia. Ophelia grew more anxious. “Um,” she said. “I’m not sure of the name.”

“Well you can’t expect to get a delivery done if your don’t know who the package is being delivered to, can you?” The man smirked and shook his head; slapping his open fingers with his notepad, then replacing it in his vest.

Ophelia dragged herself a few feet from the boarding master and let herself collapse onto the side walk. She didn’t cry; she thought she might be all out of tears. She didn’t speak, or moan, or do anything. She just focused on the wet grey street and the jet black cracks and tried to find the tears again. The tears did something at least. But now, Ophelia felt empty and grey and wet…

“Awww, no she looks so sad, Sammm.”

“What?”

“Dooo something. She’s just been staring at the ground for five minutes.”

“Seriously? We’re just visiting, keep out of it—Ouch! Frick! Really?”

“Um,” the voice is close; a male’s. “You okay sweet-heart?”
“Sweety,” the second voice; a female’s. “Can we do something for you hun?”

Ophelia looked up to see a young couple leaning over her on the sidewalk, one of them wore the same wicker flat top that Poins had recently purchased. Ophelia thought it fit the enormous man better than this thin, angled man. The woman had a soft, doll’s face with black eyes and exactly three freckles on either cheek. Or maybe she was a doll. Maybe this was Poins. Maybe she had finally slipped into the depths of despair, and these angelic figures were just the players of her mind. Ophelia reached out a hand to touch one of the doll’s black eyes, but the doll shrieked and drew back.

“I’m so sorry!” cried Ophelia, I thought you were manifestations of my deepest sorrow.

“You poked me in the eye!” Said the woman. “We were trying to see if you were okay!”

“Ophelia Corbronte!” Ophelia turned to find an old woman in a bright yellow dress standing by the boarding master. She held a feathered parcel over a terrible greenish hair. Ophelia thought it was the worst hair color she’d every seen. “Are you Ophelia Corbronte or aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“And you are the niece of Sophie Corbronte?”

“I am.”

“And your aunt told you to to be here no later than five this afternoon? I don’t know how they do it in the country young lady, but where I come from, punctuality is character. I don’t know what happened. I don’t much care. I am an old woman and I am tired. You’ve made me remove myself from my cabin and once again brave this ridiculous plank. I find it terribly rude and disrespectful that a bad little girl like yourself could take such a generous opportunity and disappoint so profoundly. Well dear, I think I’ve said my mind on it. Now, don’t cry, don’t cry. I’ve had my say. You’re here now aren’t you? There, there. That’s better. My goodness girl, you are emotional aren’t you? I’ve been expecting you for some time. There, there, I’m Ms. Noose, I believe you have a hat for me?”

Ophelia forgot all about the hat. She ran straight to Ms. Noose, put her arms around her waist, which took the old woman much by surprise, and squeezed. “Oh Ms. Noose!” Ophelia cried. “I know you’re angry with me, but I’m just so happy to have found you. I didn’t think I was ever going to! I mean, I did at first, I really did. I wouldn’t have told Aunt Sophie I could have helped her if I thought I couldn’t have. But things just started off so well Ms. Noose! I mean the hat shop! The patterns and buttons and ribbons and lace and, oh Ms. Noose! You tell me if you were a young girl again, and you came to work at a hat shop, and you were ten and you were used to working with pigs all day long, then you tell me how that would make you feel; I bet you would tell me it makes you feel like you can do anything, and that’s exactly how I felt Ms. Noose; honest! But I thought getting around town would be like the country, but it wasn’t. Then I wanted to wrap your hat in pretty paper because I wanted to make a present of it—I know it’s silly, but I wanted to make it special for my first delivery—but I met a mean mountain man who ran me out of the store, and then it turned out I was at the wrong port, but the mountain man turned out to be more of a moon man after all and he’s the one who drove me here, and he leant me the nice box to put your hat in so that it won’t get crushed on your journey to America—Oh my goodness, your hat!” Ophelia turned, just as a blaring horn sounded through the port.

“Ma’am,” said the boarding master, “we need all passengers on or below deck, we’ll be departing any minute.”

Ophelia returned to Ms. Noose with the hat box in hand. The woman took the parcel like a newborn in her arms. She thanked Ophelia again for her loyal service. “You have more manners than to say anything about my poisoned hair,” said Ms. Noose, “and I thank you for that dear, little one. But I’ll tell you this; I’ll tell anyone who will listen who the best hat delivery girl in the county is.” She warmed Ophelia with a last smile, then creaked up the plank and out of sight.

“Aunt Sophie!” Called Ophelia, bursting into the hat shop as Aunt Sophie was putting the sheets over the last of the hat racks.

“Ophelia?” Said Aunt Sophie. She tossed the sheet to the ground; hands loosely shaking with excitement. “Where in the devil have you been my girl?” She took Ophelia in her arms. “Ow, ow, ow;” her spine and hips popped and clicked; but Ophelia held them both together. “You silly girl! You left before I could tell you who you were delivering your package to.”

“I knew I didn’t forget it!” Said Ophelia. Then she told Sophie all about her adventure in the market and Poins and the docks and the couple and Ms. Noose.

“I’m very impressed with you Ophelia,” said Sophie. “I didn’t know what to expect at first, but ever since you took that dreadful hat far from here, I’ve had a fine feeling about things Ophelia, a fine feeling. I doubt we’ll have an ounce of trouble working side by side, the two of us.”

“Really?” Asked Ophelia. “You mean it? Oh, Aunt Sophie you don’t know what this means to me! I’ve been dreaming and dreaming of moving to the ports since, since, well for a while now, and I’m so grateful it’s finally coming true!”

“Well, it sounds like you earned it,” said Sophie.

“Oh, that’s not even the best part,” said Ophelia. “I forgot to tell you what Ms. Noose said she was going to do for us! Ms. Noose said that I did such a good job for you as your new hat shop assistant that she was going to tell every living soul she knows about me—and the hat shop of course—but about me and the shop too! Isn’t that great?”

The shop’s copper door chime sounded before Ophelia finished speaking. A young woman entered holding a white box in her hands. “Excuse me?” she asked. Ophelia recognized her at once as the doll-faced woman at the docks that she nearly blinded.

“I’m sorry ma’am,” said Sophie, “we’re just about closed for this evening, but we will re—”

“Actually,” said the woman pointing at Ophelia, “I’m here because of her.”

Ophelia felt ice water seep through her gut into her thighs. Sophie turned to Ophelia in surprise. Ophelia pointed to herself in surprise, “You see?” Ophelia said shakily. “Ms. Noose must be very influential.” Sophie did not look convinced, and she did not look away from Ophelia.

“It’s about this hat,” said the woman, holding out the hat that Ophelia knew to be the same one that should be on its way to America on the green nest of Ms. Noose’s head. The ice dribbled through her knees to her toes and began to tingle. “I’m afraid you and my husband mixed up hat boxes at the docks sweety,” said the woman. “Luckily, my husband was wearing his hat, but it looks like your’s was still in its box.” The horrible woman took the hat with both hands, so it was unmistakable, and lifted Sophie’s monster from the box. “It’s very… different. Anyway, I asked the boat guy and he had that old lady tell me where to find you. We just arrived, so…” the tingling turned to boiling and Ophelia needed to run. The woman leaned into the store, stretching in one foot, and placed the box on the closest shelf. Sophie’s stare was visibly heating Ophelia’s skin to uncomfortable temperatures; without another word, the doll-faced woman stole out the door and into the dark October night.

Sophie’s stare never left Ophelia’s face, but Ophelia could not meet it. “Does this mean,” said Ophelia after ten painful seconds, “that you’re not going to let me stay? Aunt Sophie? . . . Aunty?”

Thank you for reading. This scene sketch ended up at around 5k words. I started this yesterday around 10am; my goal for this exercise was to develop a story from scratch and develop a scene or sequence of scenes with clear intention and design focused on an imprudent little girl, then attempt to sketch out a draft that came close to that plan. This is different than most of my sketches, which are ‘from the seat my pants’ sketches, that give me more freedom, but are less structured.

I apologize for any errors in this sketch. This is basically draft 1.5 and I just don’t have the time or manpower to edit these properly, but I do my best. This is being published hot off the presses (just finished the last read through before typing this message); sorry for the delay, I could have kept working and working on this sketch. I enjoyed working on it; I hope you all enjoyed reading it. Please ‘Like’ my page of Facebook, and connect with my Twitter, Google+ page, and Linkedin for more free weekly reads. Thank you for reading; I write for you!

Cheers,

Caleb

Bethlehem-3

September 5, 2013 by Caleb Jacobo 7 Comments

Sunrise Earth

“What started it?” the dark little boy asks. “Did we attack them?”

I don’t know this one. One of Chaz’s new friends? “What are you talking about?”

“The war, Chaz told me you saw when it started.”

I look around the kitchen. The noise of the birthday party hums in from the front room. “Why don’t you join the party kid.”

“I’m not a kid, I’m thirteen, and you’re an old man.”

For a few seconds I stare at the little weasel; sunken collar-bone and bright yellow eyes. “You really want to know?” The boy grabs the stool beside me, climbs up to sit facing me, then rests his chin in his palms.

My wife, Josie, pokes her head in from the hall where she finished pinning her hair and painting her face. “Rucal!”

“What?” I say, turning and spilling hot bourbon on my hand. I suck it dry. “The kid wants to know.” The words came out muffled through my mouthful of liquored hand.

Josie rolls her eyes and is back in the hall. I turn to the little boy. “Right. So, we’d been attacking them on and off for years. But the strike that started the war was on Sept. 5. We were there, Josie and I.”

“Really? You were actually in the space colony?” The boy’s eyes widen with his mouth.

“Yep,” I say, “Colony Bethlehem-3, the Earth orbiter.”

“Were you assigned there?”

“I applied three years before they opened, I had Chaz then, he was, oh, two? And we had Abigail on the way. My work was mobile; they told me I was the perfect candidate. They had done test runs on the professional colonies; the first three orbiters and the moon catastrophe—Christ! But Colony Bethlehem-3 seemed to get it right, you know? Have you ever seen any of the promotions for it? They made a lot of promises and talked a lot of big talk about being the ‘cure to a dying planet’, and will ‘absolutely alleviate’ the population crisis once and for all, and more spittle.

“But Despite the obvious disappointment, Colony Bethlehem-3 was a swell place to live. I’m talking Disney-clean; creepy clean, you know? But it’s not manufactured looking like you’d think, like I thought rather. I heard they used graphs from several places around the world to model the environments after, but I couldn’t tell you which. It was very convincing. Gravity there is simulated by its constant rotation both around Earth and itself. It works well enough I suppose, the kids never had any issues growing up, did they hun?” Josie doesn’t answer. “Anyway, some people complained about vertigo or oxygen sickness, but we never noticed anything did we? Anyway, no matter where you lived in the colony, you had, most of the time, an incredible view of Earth through the transparent ceilings of the station. So just before the missile impacted, a lot of us actually saw the little bastard swooping in.”

“Rucalbab!” my wife cries, “language!”

“Wow! Then what happened?”

I shift on my stool and turn my glass. “Well I told all I know now, let me see… Well, okay, I remember it was fairly early.”

“Here we go…” the boy says, nodding his head in anticipation, a little smile sparkles in the corner of his mouth.

The boy’s childish rapture excites the professional elocutionist in me, and I start molding the actions of my tale with grand hand gestures as I speak. “The sun had just started peeking over Earth and haloed it with a gorgeous warmth that lit up the black satin of space.” Satin of space, he liked very much the sound of that. “Josie was just finishing the kids’ breakfast when she gasped in a tone reserved for the severest of occasions, so I sprinted from the bathroom, twisting through the tight hallways, and rushed in the living room; a line of floss hanging from my lower teeth and my shirt is inside out. Josie’s face scared me. She stared at the projection on the living room wall; smoke and panic on the news; misty eyed reporters oddly genuine. There had been a ‘compromise’ was the word; a severe ‘compromise’. The word triggered alarm bells in our minds; some teasing memory trying to leap out and pull us from our sleep.”

“Then you blew up?”

“No! Then the wall went white again and the room filled with the clink and scrape of children at mealtime. A strange groan sounded through our house. It was like standing on a cruise liner who relentlessly yanks her horn, but our vibration came only with a deep, ominous grumble. Panels in the ceiling, I’d not noticed them ‘til then, dropped open and emergency sirens lowered and flashed bright orange in our eyes.

“Josie grabbed my hands. I could tell in her face I needed to make the next move. I told the kids that everything was alright, that there is some trouble on Earth, but everything is fine. I was rudely contradicted the next second by a wheezy man who came screeching over the ceiling speakers, panting as he announced, “Uh-em, imminent attack on Colony Bethlehem-3 is, well…” He faltered and turned from the mic to speak frantically with someone then, “Please, remain calm. There is a terrorist attack attempt, in progress. We have no information currently of the target…” After a tense five minutes of bumbling, the speaker crackled out of life.

“It was a terrible feeling the long hours before impact. The roads were all closed. Advisories suggested we stay home and collect loved ones from school and work. I thought there might be emergency transports, escape pods maybe?… The police were blocking roads and telling those who dared to ask to ‘get off the streets and into the nearest home and lock the doors.’

“Everyone on Colony Bethlehem-3 vaguely remembers the section on the orientation video series that each home is essentially its own habitat and in case of a breach of the outer walls of the station, residents can seal themselves in and switch their home’s climate control to ‘self-contain’. None of us thought, or hoped, that we would ever need to do it, but the video series was so contaminated with its constant reminders that one could not forget.

“So Josie and I—and I’m assuming the rest of Colony Bethlehem-3—having locked ourselves away in our homes, huddled close and held each other’s hands. We prayed. I’m not a praying kind of guy but I’ll tell you I prayed. We all watched with longing our blue mother as she cradled us in her great orbital arm, smiling down on her condemned babes… ” I can’t look at the boy. My eyes sting with tears. My lip trembles. I concentrate on the corner of the kitchen until I regain my homeostasis with a deep sigh.

“Boooring!” the little devil crows, “when’s the fire coming?”

“Well, there was no fire. “ I confess. The boy frowns. “All I said was I was there when it happened alright? The attack compromised a small part of the colony, nearly on the opposite side of our house. We saw the missile hit, and flare up. And it was horrifying when all the emergency teams were sent down the main river, by road, by air, all in one direction. It was intense.”

The boy rolls his eyes, “Sounds like it,” slips off his stool, and trots to join his friends.

I find Josie staring at my grimaced face with raised brow. “What?” I ask.

“Don’t worry about it hun,” She says.

“What did I say?”

“Nothing dear. Nothing. Just—children can’t be expected to listen to old farts like us.”

“Like us?” I say bobbing my head. “I’m not old!”

Josie guffaws, leans past me, and strolls back to the counter with a bottle of Zinfandel. She stops before completely leaving the kitchen and shakes her head. “Let’s not talk about Bethlehem-3 anymore tonight.” Her eyes are gentle. Sad. She disappears into the hall. “You’ve scared enough of your children’s friends for tonight old man.”

I turn to face myself in the shining icebox, pulling up on my brow. “I’m not old,” I say.

This was a scene sketch I worked up this morning. I hope you enjoyed it!

To Save a Mother and a Village Part II

August 28, 2013 by Caleb Jacobo Leave a Comment

This is Part II. For Part I, click here.

The young girl walked for many miles in the young hours of the first night, with only the dim glow of a jaundiced moon to light her way. An inconstant gale stirred the low plants of the plain, projecting suspicious shadows in the corner of the young girl’s eyes. In her mind she filled in the darkness around her with an imagined wilderness, tearing monsters, with only a fragile shroud of darkness between her life and the beasts that longed to rip it from her.

The night seemed to stretch on for days and days. Foreign whoops and growls pressed the young girl faster through the night. She held her hands out in front of her now. Her fingers dumbly curling and uncurling in the tangle of darkness around her. She walked faster. “I have traveled so far,” she thought, “I must be nearing the ends of the earth, and might soon crash into the great dirt wall that surrounds us all.”

She stumbled over uneven ground, able to keep her feet despite her speed, until a low-growing fungus swallowed up her bare foot, and twisted the young girl face down in the dust. She scrambled to reclaim her feet, scraping up the contents of her food bag that scattered into the grass. She secured all she could in her arms and tried to stand, then spilled them all over again, when — a screech blows through the young girl’s head — an owl swooping low overhead — and she is so startled, she allows herself to scream for the first time since leaving the black foothills; a short, aggressive expression that she silenced immediately. She gained her feet again, then dashed onward through the yellow night, uncertain if the night would ever reach its end . . .

. . . The first night did in fact end and, as the morning of the first day opened up, the young girl’s trembling skin began to calm. She cried out for the second time, this time in relief, as the sunlight chased away the false creatures of the dark. Minutes later, as the sun rose higher, the young girl became aware of another welcome sight; first the foot, now the slopes, and now, almost hidden in thin clouds, the peak of the High Mountain itself, where Hazarchereh; Goddess with Many Faces; hid away. Where the answer to her family’s salvation awaited.

The young girl sat on her heels and surveyed the land, watching from what little cover the low grass provided. Almost straight in front of her, skewed right, she spotted the shimmer of rising smoke, then just below it the tiny hut itself. Green smoke drifted up through an opening in the center of the roof. “He is our people,” the young girl muttered. “He builds as we build . . . But I have never seen such strange colored smoke — what’s this? Movement at the door?”

The hut’s flap whipped back from the wrinkled arm that punched from within. Soon after the arm was followed by the rest of a crooked old man; he was baked black, without a scrap of dress on him. The young girl saw the man’s skin was deeply scarred — too intricately patterned to make out at this distance — markings that, if she knew the strange man, she might have asked to read. This is not her village though, and she did not know this man. She waited, breathing softly as sleep, and remained very, very still.

The old man blocked the sunlight from his eyes and looked out to the plain in the young girl’s direction. “He couldn’t have seen me, could he?” She saw then that the man did wear something. Around his neck; half-hidden beneath his tangled gray beard, a small leather pouch hung on a cord. It was spotted with red splotches like dried blood. Upon seeing this, she gasped. She had heard of such pouches worn by Spirit Men. The old man ran a few meters here, stopped to call out for the hidden persons to show themselves; ran a few meters there, then stopped again. All the time, he made sure to secure the gruesome pouch fast against his chest.

The young girl’s heart pounded, but now it was the loudest noise she made. She sat very still and quiet, covering her mouth and trying to work out what to do. Eventually, the old man gave up his search, then disappeared in his hut. From inside came the sound of metal clanging against metal followed by a low, gutty blast and a gush of blue and red smoke from the roof. The man reappeared. In one hand he held a long spear fixed with a copper head; in the other hand he wielded a strange curved blade. The young girl did not recognize these terrible weapons, but the sight of their malignant design sent her trembling so violently that the grass around her cracked, she tried to recover and fell onto her bottom in the dirt. She looked up quickly, hoping the old man had not seen. When she looked, she saw the old man’s yellow eyes, looking directly into her’s.

For a moment the old man and the young girl stared at each other. The old man shouted something at her, gesturing with the spear, but the wind swept the words away before it reached her. It was most likely a formal challenge. Maybe if she did not answer him. Maybe if she ignored him, he would just . . . leave her alone.

The old man held his hands to his mouth and called out in a way the young girl understood, “Turn back at once!” he said. “You must not go near the mountain! Turn back at once, or face certain death!”

The young girl did not budge. The old man started towards her with his weapons raised. The young girl’s mind went numb with fear. She gripped the knife that hung at her elbow, then stopped. “No,” she said, “don’t be stupid. Your family doesn’t need a stupid girl. But what then?” The old man advanced at a slow march. Could she make it into the slopes before the man could catch her? Her arms were still heavy with food and water jars; could she afford to leave anything behind? She did not think so. Then what? The young girl tried to force herself to find another way, but the man picked up his pace now, and the time for deciding was over.

The young girl bolted. She ran like a fox with a tail of fire, toward the mountain at a long, evasive angle around from the old man. The old man threw vicious shouts and curses at her as she passed, held up his spear, threatening to release it on her, but she did not stop. She could not fight this stranger and she could not return home without the answer. But she could sprint like a gale wind in a storm when she needed to, and now, more than ever before, the young girl needed her swiftness to escape the old man. And she might have done so, were the old man just an old man.

This is the second part of the story sketch ‘To Save a Mother and a Village’. I wrote this sketch today and yesterday. I hope you enjoy. If you are still interested in hearing the rest of the story, please let me know on my site or on Facebook so I can judge how to spend my practice sessions. Thank you for reading; I write for you!

Cheers,

Caleb

To Save a Mother and a Village, Part I

August 21, 2013 by Caleb Jacobo 1 Comment

This is Part I. For Part II, click here.

Under a perigee sun, in a desert village twelve kilometers west of the great metropolis, Sher’tlaa, in the stoney, black foothills by the sea, there lived a young girl. She had the aspect of the mythic Amazon; tall, tightly muscled, but lean; the hardened body of her father, Kuwshad, no doubt, and filled to her fingertips with the uncompromising compassion of her mother, Zengwap.

The village was small and intimate; six dirt huts, arranged at different heights, clung to the boulders like squat mushrooms with straw hats that hung two feet out over the sides of the hut’s dirt exterior. Each door was cut to face east. In their thresholds unique displays were arranged, signifying to the other families the identity and nature of that hut’s residents.

The young girl’s baby sister had not yet grown into her name, but she liked to call the infant Buchwek; little pig, because the child rooted so intently at her mother’s breast and snorted as she drank, never eating her fill, and always remaining a small, skinny child.

Buchwek had not lived a month before her mother grew wide with child again. To this, at least, her father rejoiced. His opportunity for a son had arrived; he had not been cheated by the gods, his blood was not doomed to die to dust. He could not risk to lose his unborn son. After a third child his wife’s health would make it difficult; if she survived the birth at all.

Zengwap struggled to feed herself enough to nurture Buchwek, but had not succeeded in keeping either of them healthy. She could not hope to feed a new child. She wept every night. Her sorrow was so much, that one day, the mother grew very ill; so ill that she could not stand up from bed or lift her head to drink water from the cup. So the girl’s father took her aside and said to her, “Your mother is ill, and shall loose the child if something is not done. We have no money for the medicine from the city, but I am not without hope.

“Zengwap is underfed and requires a medicine that I can mix, but its ingredients come from rare plants. I cannot hope for you to aquire them all in time, as much as I cannot expect a girl of twelve to go on the hunt and bring home food while I acquire the plants myself . . .

“I must hunt, or the village will exile us for not participating, and then we shall all die. I will be gone for several days. You, daughter, must go into the high mountains. There you shall meet Hazarchereh; Goddess with Many Faces, and you will ask her what it is we shall do.”

The girl cried out in grief. “But father,” she said, “the mountains are full of snakes and I shall be killed if I venture into their wilderness. I have not yet become a woman of the village.” She held his hands as she told him, wringing them, turning them slick with her tears.

Kuwshad saw the despair in her face and his heart ached. He said, “If you succeed in this, you will be a hero, not just for your mother, but for the anyone in the village who might still fall ill. You will have secured your family’s survival. You must do this thing. I must go to hunt.” His daughter had questions, but Kuwshad refused to speak of it any longer. He gave his daughter a copper blade, hung it in the crook of the her elbow; he gave her protective amulets, rocks of the far valleys, and bones to wear around her neck and ankles. Kuwshad kissed his daughter on the forehead. Before the sun climbed the sky on the next day, the girl’s father and the rest of the able men of the village left on the hunt; gods willing, to bring home life to their people. The girl, meanwhile, had only the weight of three lives in her hands, her mother’s, her unborn brother’s, and baby Buchwek; not a whole village of men and elders and women and children like her father, but she couldn’t help but feel like the weight of the universe had been lashed to her back and crushed the air from her words.

The evening that her father left, the young girl kissed her mother and sister goodbye, allowing them to lay hands on her head, and for her mother to cry over her and say the hunter’s prayer, only changing the words so she spoke to, “strike not down my [daughter] to the dust”, instead of the usual, “strike not down my [warrior] to the dust”, and leaving out the more gruesome specifics of the referenced prayer.

Then, after all was said, the young girl set off, determined to find Hazarchereh; Goddess with Many Faces; hidden somewhere in the high mountains, and persuade her to save a mere mortal woman’s life, offering no more than the sweat on her back in return. The young girl disappeared into the cool of the night, shivering as she stepped, not knowing who she might meet, or if she was ever to return home again.

This was a fun story sketch I worked up this morning and have been playing with today. I hope you enjoyed the read; if so, please check back soon for Part II of this story.

Cheers,
Caleb

California Dreaming

August 12, 2013 by Caleb Jacobo 2 Comments

I stare into an evening sun; a pebble-sized hole in the reddening horizon.

The world stretches towards this sun, as if painted on the inside of an enormous straw; I, standing at one end, the sun the other. All the world curls around us. A boardwalk, wooden fencing, a hill covered in coastal shrubs, all rush to the shore ahead, where curious figures dance and sing and fill my nose with smells both wonderful and complex.

“Hello?” I whisper. No answer. I speak again. Louder, so that the figures on the shore might hear. Then a surge of sea-wind snatches them from my lips and feeds them to the chomping waves. The figures on the shore frolic on, so delighted with their circumstance, they do not stop to rest. I won’t speak anymore.

The sand’s virginal surface shows not a step, not a track, not a man-made mark; it is wholly untouched.

To my right, a range of brittle shrubs shudder under the sea-breeze. To my left, a huge expanse of golden dunes rise up to the clouds; between myself, the beach, the sea, and the sun, the clouds cast a frigid shadow. An ejaculation of laughter. A roar of applause. I plainly see fire on sticks, now being tossed twelve feet high in a rapid spin that catches and turns and tosses it high again, without ever stopping the spin. Two figures now, bound through the air and pass each other mid-flight with a flip and land back into the shadows. Music—high tempo, primitive, urges me on. I walk toward the shore.

To my consternation, the world—changes? The sky—shifts? No—it turns. It turns all around me like a cement mixer, but the earth and the sea and the sun, and I—we all stand still . . . I feel sick. I think I will be sick. I stop . . . the turning stops. I rest my hands on my knees and breathe deep. Somewhere out at sea, a ship blows its fog horn, sounding it for several seconds at a time. I grip my chest. The horn rattles my heart. The horn comes again! I think my bones might shake loose!

On the shadowy shore, curious figures wave and point at me. They want me to meet them. I can’t stop. I must reach the shore.

I take another step, now another, now another. The world begins to turn again. It mixes up my feet, crossing them left, now right, now tossing me down to the sand. This is a sign to stop. But I must meet the figures. They want me to come. They are waiting for me. If I can only reach the shore, I will truly be happy. The ship’s horn sounds again, “tuuuuurn baaaaack . . . tuuuuuuurn baaaaack . . .” it moans. The words that were not words echo in my head. But I can’t turn back. There is only onward . . .

I drag myself through the silky sand.

I wrote this scene sketch today. I hope you enjoyed it!

Cheers,
Caleb

The Boy Who Found a Feather

July 9, 2013 by Caleb Jacobo Leave a Comment

Years ago, before PlayStations and Xboxes, iPhones, Android’s, tablets and streaming TV, when a young boy would play with no more than warm stones or thrown-out processed food cans, this young boy, our young boy, the young American of our story here, found a feather.

He said, “Ah-hah! here I have a token of the angels,” then he turned his baseball cap and stuck the feather in the plastic snap-strap in the middle of his forehead. He began to march around in a tight circle, imitating trumpet with the side of his lips, swinging out Taps in quick tempo. What an impressive sight he was! He felt so proud of himself, he did not notice a second young boy come up the street then ask in a frog’s voice,

“Where’d you learn to do that?”

The first boy halted and turned his cap, bill facing the intruder. He said, “Which part? I was doing more than one impressive thing.”

The second boy stirred the air with his forefinger and said, “The circle dance with the arms swinging.” The second boy was the larger male, but the first, pure cunning.

The first boy said, “I leant it myself,” stuck his chin out and mimed his routine to prove it wasn’t just by accident he was so good at it, and that he was at the intimacy of paraphrase with it. Then his smile stiffened to a glower; he pointed at the second boy, “And, I made it up.”

The boys stayed facing each other as the sun sent salty bombs to their eyes. Neither boy dared to blink. Finally, the second boy said, “Can you teach me?”

The first boy puffed up his chest and turned his gaze to the side. “That is serious talk. Why do you want to know?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said the first boy, “I just want to be able to do something like that.”

“Well if you don’t know, I’m not teaching you anything.”

“Well if you are a little more Pacific about the question—”

“It’s simple! Why do you want to know how to do my soldier routine?”

“It’s a soldier routine?”

The first boy stomped the ground. “No,” he said, “I’ve said too much. How do I know your not a spy?”

The second boy said, “Do I look like a spy?”

The first boy considered what he knew about spies. He knew they were sneaky, but that did him no good, because he didn’t know what sneaky looked like; he knew that they were bad, but he can’t decide if the second boy is bad until he determines whether he is or is not, a spy; Oh! he knew that spies were other people from far off countries that stole things. He asked the boy, “Where are you from?”

“I live on Belmont,” said the second boy.

“Belmont . . . That’s a whole two streets down.” Spy. “Sure, I’ll show you. There’s just one thing you have to do first.”

The second boy smiled and said, “What’s that?”

“You have to catch me!” he shouted, did a quarter spin, looked east, looked west, then skidded off at a run.

The second boy watched the first go then signed, chewed the corner of his lip, and lowered his head. But what’s this? He stooped to pick something up from the ground: a large white and black stripped feather. Maybe it was dropped by a juvenile eagle or adventuring sea bird. He twisted it between his thumb and forefinger, watching the wind strum the barbs. Maybe he would be all right after all.

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