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I Just Wanted to Help

August 15, 2016 by Caleb Jacobo Leave a Comment

I Just Wanted to Help

It was shortly before one o’clock on Sunday afternoon. I was sipping a cold cup of coffee while reading the news on Facebook, a habit I find pleasurable despite the incessant reports of violence and corruption. The daily phantasmagoria reminds me that, while the world might be losing its way, at least my moral compass still points north. I’ve also become rather addicted to iced coffee.

My wife was busy chopping bell peppers for lunch, and I was doing my best to ignore her, when she suddenly yelped.

“What’s the matter with you?” I asked, not looking up from my iPhone.

“Nothing,” she said in a labored voice. I heard a clink as she set down the knife, and I looked up to see her grimacing as she rubbed her left hip. “It’s just this sciatica pain. It’s bad this time.”

This will be my wife’s fourth and final child. Her previous pregnancies were uneventful, besides the giving birth, of course, and even that was over and done with in one push. But this time my wife has had every pregnancy related malady in the book. (There is a book, by the way: What to Expect When You’re Expecting. Spoiler: Don’t expect anything good.) I’m not sure if it’s her way of cashing in on all the sympathy she missed out on the first three pregnancies or if she really is experiencing chronic discomfort, but she does seem to experience it most often while I’m relaxing.

I took a slow sip of coffee, returning to the news. “Why don’t you take some ibuprofen?”

“I can’t. If we had Tylenol, I would take it, but we keep forgetting to pick some up. It’s really bothering me, though.”

She meant I keep forgetting. She also meant that she would like for me to stop what I was doing and go purchase some Tylenol for her right now. But she’s been terribly oblique and moody this pregnancy, so I didn’t push it. I sighed, took one last drink of coffee, and pushed back from the kitchen table.

“I’ll go pick some up for you,” I said resolutely.

She protested, but only halfheartedly, and soon I was lacing up my shoes. She thanked me and kissed my cheek, which helped relieve my annoyance. But it was Sunday, after all, and I didn’t really have anything else to do. Anyway, I was hungry, and the idea of choking down another bell pepper salad made my stomach clench.

A few minutes later, I pulled into the Smith’s parking lot. I took out my phone and texted my wife:

At Smith’s

Let me know if you need anything else while I’m here

The sidewalk leading to the Smith’s entrance was filled with outdoor swings and hundreds of clay pots in a Southwestern style. When the pots were first set out a month ago, they were ridiculously overpriced at forty dollars a piece, but now each one boasted a 70% OFF sticker, making them only completely overpriced. They aren’t worth half of what they’re asking. It’s just another marketing scheme, another greedy company looking to shake down the American people, another compass pointing south.

When I reached the point on the sidewalk where the pots and outdoor swings forced foot traffic into the street, I became delayed behind an old woman with diaphanous white hair, bent nearly double, pushing a walker with tennis balls on the feet, moving at negative speed. I couldn’t pass her by way of the street because of an enormous pickup that was slowly cruising through the pedestrian crossing.

That’s why you don’t go out when you’re this old, I thought. Doesn’t she have family or a caretaker to run her errands?

After what seemed like an hour, the truck passed, and I skipped around the woman, muttering a sarcastic apology.

As I rounded the last of the outdoor goods, I saw a collection of images that triggered an instant understanding in my mind. A greasy sign made from the side of a discarded cardboard box; deeply tanned skin under filthy, nondescript clothing; a rusty coffee tin set out on the floor with a scrap of paper taped around it — taken together, I knew I was about to encounter one of life’s more pathetic constituents: the homeless beggar.

There were two of them, a young mother and her daughter, who couldn’t have been more than ten. They were both too thin, and the little girl wore a vacant expression that made my stomach feel cold and hollow, the way I imagined the inside of one of those overpriced pots felt.

I reached for my wallet, knowing I had a few dollars on me that I was willing to part with, but then I removed my hand. I waited until I passed in front of them, until they saw me, until the mother said:

“Please, sir. We are hungry.”

Then, I made a show of it. I took out my wallet, grabbing all the bills without looking, and handed over my money with a most saint-like expression on my face.

“God bless you, sir,” the woman said in an accent I couldn’t place. It might have belonged to any of those far eastern countries that no native-born American could identify on a map with confidence. It was an exotic, dangerous accent, and I suddenly felt like I understood everything about this tragic pair’s life.

God bless me indeed, I thought. I don’t believe in God (how can I, the way the world is headed), but it must be uplifting for two degenerates to encounter a man who just wants to help. I replaced my wallet and strutted off without a second glance at them.

When I entered the store, I found a woman engaged in a desperate struggle to separate two small shopping carts, which had become entangled together. She became so agitated that she actually lifted both carts several inches off the ground and brought them back down with a metallic crash. This obscene gesture gained her nothing except a few turned heads from passersby. I shook my own head at the display. Some people just don’t know how to act in public.

I had watched this battle for several seconds, patting my thighs and willing for this woman to either triumph over the carts or to give up so I could collect my own cart, when a young couple, who had just finished their shopping, came up behind me to return their cart.

“I’ll take that, thanks,” I said, grabbing the cart and directing it toward the sanitation stand.

I pulled out several wipes and cleaned the handle bar. I placed the other wipes in my basket, just it case (it truly is disgusting what people do when they think no one is looking). Then I went on my way, leaving that silly woman and her struggle behind.

As I ambled up and down the aisles, I couldn’t stop thinking about the beggars. I wanted to congratulate myself on my benevolence, but now that didn’t seem right. My initial sense of complete comprehension regarding their lives had faded, replaced by an uncomfortable doubt.

Were they really so desperate, or did they make more money at begging than I did at web development? Was it all a scam? Had I been a fool to give them money?

My mind was so distracted with these thoughts that I spent a half-hour touring the store with nothing in my cart to show for it. This won’t do at all, I thought at last. And so I decided that their authenticity didn’t matter. Should I avoid every good deed because of doubt? That kind of attitude is exactly what’s wrong with this country. Who was I to judge? If they were gypsies, so be it. If they were truly in need, then all the better. Anyway, it was only three dollars.

My thoughts turned to my stomach as I spotted some yogurt on the shelf. I lifted a large tub of Chobani to read the label, but the tub was slick, and it slipped from my hands before I could catch it. The top burst open when it landed, and thick globs of yogurt spewed onto the floor.

I glanced around, hoping no one had seen my accident, but saw that I was alone in the aisle. I quickly picked up the tub, replaced the lid, wiped away the excess yogurt from it, and placed it back on the shelf with the others. Then I decided I wasn’t in the mood for yogurt and moved on.

After a few more rounds through the store, I settled on a large baked chicken and a cold soda. I began checking out at one of the self-service kiosks and found myself wondering if my three dollars would actually help that mother and her little girl. I would hope, if it were my wife and daughter, that someone would be as generous as I had been — more generous, in fact. After all, was three dollars really enough? How many people stopped to give them money?

I felt that disturbing, pot-like chill in my stomach again as I fed the machine my money and took my receipt. I left the change (don’t you hate the feeling of change in your pocket?), grabbed my bags, and headed for the exit, leaving my cart abandoned near the kiosk. But before I left the store, I saw the mother and daughter through the sliding glass doors, still standing there with their sign, and I stopped.

As I watched, three people walked by without so much as a turn of their heads to acknowledge them. I felt an uncomfortable heat replace the chill in my belly. I really am too optimistic about the human race, to think that anyone would stop and help. 

I remembered the hot chicken in my bag. I could give it to them, give them a warm meal to go with the money. But no. What if they didn’t eat chicken? (Can a beggar afford to be a vegetarian?) And, also, what would I eat? I looked back into the store, considering. It’s only six dollars for a whole chicken, and it wouldn’t take me long to get it. But as I looked, I saw that old woman, the one with the walker who had blocked my path, standing at one of the registers, making a horrible face and lifting her hands out of her reusable shopping bag with a look of bewilderment.

Her hands were covered in white goo. A phlegmy moan rattled in her throat as she complained in a trembling voice that the yogurt she had just purchased spilled all over a greeting card she had bought for her daughter. The cashier rolled her eyes. She picked up the bag with two fingers, holding it at arms length, and picked up the phone to call a manager. The people in line behind the old woman groaned and rolled their eyes, too.

On second thought, I didn’t need to go back for a chicken. Beggars do alright, otherwise they wouldn’t be begging. I gave them a lot of money — three dollars is a lot to someone with nothing. Yes, there was no need to worry any more about it. All that was left to do was to smile and nod at them as I left, reminding them that there were still some good people in the world. Maybe their gratitude would help ease my mind about the whole thing.

But as I left the store, the mother, in that same slimy accent, said:

“Please, sir. We are hungry.”

I stopped. A man, who had followed me outside a little too closely and had to yank on his cart to stop from colliding with me, sighed his annoyance as he pushed his cart passed. At first I thought the beggar woman must have been addressing him. I stared at her, wanting that to be true, wanting some gratitude in return for my good deed. But in her face, there was none. She was… holding out her hands… to me, looking me straight in the face without a hint of recognition.

“Please, sir,” she repeated, gesturing with her upturned palm.

The heat inside me, which rose a moment ago in pity, flared up in anger. I shook my head and smiled mirthlessly. “No, no, you see, I already gave you money.”

At my negative reaction, the woman waved her hand as if to shoo me away, saying something in her own language that sounded vile. As another customer left the store, she looked past me and delivered her same plea to them.

I wagged a finger in her face, forcing her attention back to me. “I gave you money,” I said, my voice unsteady. “You remember? I gave you three dollars.” I demonstrated with three trembling fingers.

She only flashed her black eyes at me, and then she was asking the next passing customer for money.

I repeated myself, stepping closer to her. She spat at my feet.

Something inside me twisted, a polar flip, and I felt my heart pounding in my chest. This ungrateful, stupid woman. No wonder she had to beg for money. No wonder she was dirty and poor. No wonder she subjected her daughter to such a contemptible life. She didn’t even have the sense to remember her benefactor. She was broken — completely broken — just a shell of a woman, no more human than the chicken in my bag.

“You listen to me!” I said, coming within a foot of her, inhaling her stench. “If you won’t be grateful, then I demand my money back!”

She scowled at me. Her daughter did the same, the expression on her young face no longer vacant, but exuding a hate I wouldn’t think possible in a child so young. I held out my hand, mocking the mother’s gesture, and demanded my money again. She slapped my hand away and began spewing a series of unintelligible imprecations at me, waving her arms hysterically.

I was blind to the world around me, to everything but this hateful pair.

“You worthless bitch!” I yelled, reaching for the coffee tin, intending to retrieve my three dollars by force. But before I could touch it, something closed tight around my wrist and tore my hand away.

I turned to see a huge man, his muscles bulging under a dainty shirt, bald, with a thick goatee and tattoos up both arms, looking down on me in disgust.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Leave that mom and her kid alone or I’ll fix you up.”

I wrenched my arm from his steely grip and stumbled back. I felt all the heat that had occupied my belly rush to my face. Tears blurred my vision.

“I—” I started, but I couldn’t think of anything to say.

Then I noticed the small crowd that had stopped to watch me, among them, the old woman with the walker and the woman who had battled the carts. Their arms were crossed, their eyes narrowed as they shook their heads and muttered their disapproval of my behavior. They looked at me like I was the problem, like I was the filth. It was too much to stand. I was so embarrassed and indignant that my mind went blank, and I couldn’t do or say anything to defend myself. All I could manage to do was turn and run.

When I reached my car, I yanked open the passenger door and threw in the groceries. I smacked the window with my hand and cursed. I glanced back at the group. They were still huddled around the beggars, pointing my way, probably wondering how someone could be such a heartless monster. But they didn’t know anything. They were the problem. Not me. They’re just too lost to see it.

Then I noticed a small scrap of paper pinned under one of my windshield wipers. I was enraged by its presence and irrationally attributed it to the beggar woman and her daughter. I tore the note free and read:

Hey, you dropped your phone by your car. Couldn’t find you in the store. Put it on the front passenger tire. Be careful. It’s a nice phone. Have a nice day.

I stared at the note, wiping the tears from my eyes so I could be sure I had read it correctly, confused and somehow more infuriated than ever. I turned it over. There was no name or contact information, just the note.

I checked the tire and there was my iPhone 6 plus, a little dent on one corner, but otherwise unharmed. I gripped the phone so hard that I heard the eighty-dollar case groan. I kicked the tire, painfully tweaking my toe. How dare they touch my stuff! They should have let it be. They had no right! I bet they wanted to steal my phone, but couldn’t crack my password, and now they’re trying to pass off their failure as a good deed.

I dropped into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. I gripped the steering wheel, placing my forehead on it, trying to slow my breathing. Then my phone buzzed in my hand. It was my wife:

Don’t need anything else. Thanks for getting the Tylenol. You’re the best!

I let out an intense scream from my gut that would have sent those beggars and their sympathetic morons running had they heard me. I threw my phone against the passenger window. I beat the wheel with the heels of my hands until they went numb.

I had forgotten the damn Tylenol. But it wasn’t my fault — It was that stupid woman and her stupid little daughter! God damned gypsies! I should call the police on them, I thought, on all of them. I should do something. But what was there to do?

Once someone’s compass is broken, what can be done to fix it?

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Filed Under: Adult, Literary fiction, Scene sketch, Short Story, Story sketch Tagged With: Caleb Jacobo, creative writing, Literary fiction, scene sketch, story sketch, writing journal

Adam and the Storm

December 27, 2015 by Caleb Jacobo Leave a Comment

Adam and the Storm

The following is a story sketch I wrote up in response to a writing prompt I got out of the book 642 Things to Write About. I wrote the whole first draft in two hours and spent only enough time editing and cleaning up to make it readable. I don’t want to present these sketches as finished pieces, but as they are: rough sketches done for practice. I hope you enjoy the sketch. If you like this public writing journal, please follow me on Facebook and Twitter and recommend it for your writing friends. Thank you!


It was eight in the morning on December twenty-seventh, a Sunday. Theodore Hartman, my uncle, was out back in his shed, looking for a tool he needed to remove the leather seat from my Dyna Low Rider, an old, beat-up Harley-Davidson I bought as a sort of Christmas present to myself at a good price from the dad of a buddy of mine. My buddy’s dad had given up riding after an accident on the I-15 put him and his wife in the hospital for three weeks. “I was going to have the damn thing destroyed,” he had told me. “It doesn’t run anymore after the accident, but if you want it that bad, I’ll give it to you for three-hundred bucks.” I did want it that bad; I had my reasons. So I got the cash together from what little savings I’d accumulated from odd jobs, called in a few Christmas favors from my mom and other relatives, and I towed that bike home on Christmas morning.

I didn’t know anything about motorcycles — I still don’t; I don’t even have my license — but my uncle had told stories on several occasions about his younger, crazier years spent tearing down the streets of Salt Lake City on his Indian motorcycle, splitting lanes, running red lights, out-maneuvering the cops, all that awesome stuff. “That was before I met your aunt Claire,” he would remind me after each incredible story. “Then when your cousin was born, I got rid of the bike and put my rip-roaring days behind me.” And he did. I knew my uncle as a cautious, reserved man, constantly concerned with the health and wellbeing of aunt Claire and cousin Adam, his energetic son who had just turned six.

Adam thought the world of his father. Every time I came to visit my uncle, Adam would be there, right at my uncle’s side, holding his hand, smiling at every word he said, like his dad was the most interesting person in the world — and he was in a lot of ways, cautious and reserved as he had become. Adam wasn’t at my uncle’s side that day. He had caught a bad cold the previous week and aunt Claire wouldn’t let him out of his bed. But he sat on his knees on that twin-sized bed, watching me and his dad coming and going from the carport where my junky bike leaned over its crooked kickstand. He would wave at us when he caught our attention, quickly dipping away from the window when aunt Claire came into his room, scolding him for doing everything he could to break her rules and remain sick.

“I am too old and tired to manage that boy,” my uncle said, returning from the shed with what I could only guess was some kind of hex-wrench, if that’s a thing. “Claire has a better handle on that spark plug than I could ever hope to. Let me give you some advice.” He knelt beside my bike and began working the tool with his elbow on the bolts holding the leather seat in place. “Don’t wait until you’re forty-two to have kids. The childbirth nearly killed your poor aunt and the child-rearing will put me under before Adam turns eighteen.”

“I think you’re doing alright,” I said. “Even for an old guy. At least Adam likes you. If my dad was still around, I don’t think we could have the kind of relationship you have with Adam.” It hurt to talk about Dad; it hurt to think about him, but spending time with my uncle helped. I don’t know, maybe the only reason I got that bike was to have an excuse to spend more time with him. I did feel a bit jealous of Adam, I couldn’t help it. I loved Adam like a brother, but there was that little part of me, a primal, dark part that wished my uncle didn’t have a kid at forty-two, that I was the only one privileged to the stories about his rip-roaring years, that I had him all to myself. For almost a full five years after Dad bailed, it was just me, Mom, aunt Claire, and my uncle Theodore.

“Can I do something?” I asked, watching my uncle remove the seat and setting to work loosening the bolts around the fuel tank.

“Damn!” he said, dropping the wrench. He rubbed his index finger where he had jammed it against the bent frame. “Yeah, you can learn something. This bike is going to require plenty of work and I’m not keen on the idea of spending all of my free time in next year split between your cousin and this mess.”

He said it with a smile, but I felt a sick tug in my stomach. Didn’t he enjoy spending time with me? Did he really not have room in his life for both Adam and me?

My uncle must have noticed something wrong in my face, because he stood up and put a dirty hand on my shoulder. He was perceptive like that, a real good guy. I would follow him wherever he went too if I were his son. But I wasn’t. “Actually,” he said, “if you could run to the shed for me real quick and grab my toolbox, that would be a big help. I need to start teaching you the names and purposes of all this stuff anyhow.”

I jogged out of the carport through the six inches of snow towards the shed, an old, once-red wooden hut where I spent many adventurous hours of my own when I was Adam’s age. But my death-defying experiences involved rusty pick-axes, not high-speed asphalt, cobwebs and daddy longlegs, not pursuing police. I pulled at the door to the shed and a trickle of dust dribbled directly into my right eye. I cursed, quickly turned to make sure my uncle didn’t hear, then began rubbing at it furiously. I thought I had blinded myself. I’d never gotten anything so perfectly in my eye before. I spent several minutes trying to clear it out. When I was able to open my eye again, I tested it out by looking up into the sky. That’s when I first noticed its strange green glow and swiftly moving clouds.

It was such an odd sight that I completely forgot the discomfort in my eye for a moment and just stood gawking up at it. The sun was completely hidden, except in a few thin streams of gold in the distance, which shone down on chosen parts of the neighborhood. The wind picked up then, and I felt a chill run from the nape of my neck, down into my Nikes.

“Did you get lost, son?” I heard my uncle ask.

I looked down and began rubbing my wounded eye again, as if to give excuse for my delay. I pointed to the sky. “Do you think it will snow again?”

My uncle stepped out from under the carport and looked up. I could see the expression on his face change from mild curiosity to a strange look that could have been confusion or fear, which sent that chill down my back again. “Could be snow,” he said slowly. “Could be something else.” Something else? “Anyway, it looks like it’s coming on fast. We might have to put this bike business off until later.” Later? My uncle returned to my bike and began fiddling with the handlebars, glancing out into the distance every few seconds at the skyline with concern on his face.

Later? I’d already waited days to get started on that bike. Later? If we stopped now, we wouldn’t get back to it until next weekend, and then Adam wouldn’t be sick. Adam would want to spend the whole time asking his dad all of his annoying questions, ruining what little time I had to spend with my uncle, demanding attention for every stupid comment. Later? I threw open the shed door and let it slam against the wood. I started groping around in the dim light for my uncle’s toolbox. I found it in the far corner of the shed. It was big and red and weighed close to a hundred pounds. I tried to lift it, but I couldn’t quite manage the weight so I let it slam down. Damn Adam! I wish he wasn’t so clingy. I wish he didn’t have such a close relationship with his dad. I wish he stayed sick forever. I wish he would just leave us alone!

“Simon?” I heard a small, raspy voice say as a little hand caught hold of my shirt. I jumped and cursed again before realizing it was only Adam. He was standing in his pajamas, a zip-up onesie with Spider-Man printed all over them. He must have lost interest in watching from the window.

“Adam,” I said, more angrily than I meant it, “what are you doing out here? If your mom finds you—“

“She won’t,” Adam said with a grin. “I pretended to be asleep and she fell for it. I just wanted to see what you were up to with my dad.” My dad. “I really like your bike. Dad says I can’t never get one, but you can — that’s so cool! And Dad won’t care if I’m out here with you guys.”

Well, I cared. I cared very much. Now he wanted to ruin whatever time I had left today with my uncle too? And why would my uncle refuse to let Adam ever get a motorcycle, but have no problem with me getting one? Did he not care what happened to me? Adam just smiled up at me, snot oozing from his nostrils, like we were the best buddies in the world. It’s hard to describe the mixture of disdain and fondness I felt looking down at this little boy, a boy who stood directly between me and my uncle, a boy who in many ways reminded me of myself at his age: a rule breaker, an adventurer, and a complete daddy’s boy.

I finally let my anger win out over my sense of brotherhood and was about to threaten Adam with telling his mother if he didn’t get his sick butt back in bed that minute, when I felt the whole shed quake. Adam stopped smiling and I could see pure terror in his face. I felt it too, but I didn’t let it show. I heard my uncle shouting something outside and I rushed to the shed door to see what was the matter.

The wind whipped me in the face as soon as I reached the door. My uncle was pushing my bike to one corner of the carport to prop it against a support. The sky was a blackish, neon green now and the whole backyard was in a frenzy. Snow, bits of plastic and wood, and whole branches were twisting through the air. I saw a large branch laying beside the shed. That must have been what shook it so hard. I’d never seen weather like this in Utah, not ever, and nothing that came on so quickly.

“It’s some kind of hurricane!” my uncle said, barely audible over the now howling wind, even though I could see that he was shouting as hard as he could. “We need to get inside now!”

I rushed back into the shed to get Adam. He was hugging my uncle’s toolbox, tears rolling down his cheeks. “We have to go!” I said, grabbing his arm. He pulled away from me.

“No!” he said. “Mom will know I snuck out.”

I heard my uncle shouting some more and I grabbed Adam’s arm again. “Adam, there’s something wrong. The weather is going crazy, it’s not safe, we have to get inside — now!”

Adam just pulled away again and clung tighter to my uncles toolbox. He shook his head stubbornly. “I can’t, I can’t, I’m scared!”

I went to the shed door and looked out. My uncle was headed for the front door already, without me. He was rushing inside to his wife and… And little Adam. Adam who he actually cared about, Adam who he loved like a son because he had a son; he had a son and it wasn’t me. I glared at Adam. “You don’t want to move?” I asked, contempt rising in my voice. “You want to stay out here because you’re too scared to face your mom? Because you’re too scared of this stupid storm?” Adam shook his head, whimpering, snot and tears flowing down his cheeks. I looked out into the storm; the air was crowded with flying debris and snow. I turned back on Adam. “Fine,” I said, waving my hand at him, “You stay here then, but I’m making a run for it, and I’ll be sure to tell your mom how you were too scared and selfish to listen to me!”

With that, I turned and ran for the house. I could hear the faint cries of Adam as I pushed my way through the biting chaos of the storm. He was screaming something about not leaving him, about coming back. I stopped under the carport and turned back toward the shed. I couldn’t see more than five feet with all the snow and debris flying around; I couldn’t hear over the roaring clatter of everything crashing into everything else. What was I thinking? I couldn’t believe what I was doing. I had to go back for Adam, to drag him from that shed, to carry him on my back if I had to, but to get him safely inside to his Dad, no matter what.

I stepped out from the carport. My foot sunk deep into a mixture of snow and debris; I felt something snap. I heard Adam’s voice on the wind, scared and drifting farther away. I pulled at my knee trying to free my foot. There was an enormous cracking sound as a tree trunk smashed through one of the carport’s supports and the storm tore it to the ground, crushing my bike, only missing me by a few feet. My bike. Now what excuse did I have to spend time with my uncle?

That was the last thought I had before something hit me on the side of my head, sending me into darkness.

I woke up the next day in a clean, quiet hospital room by myself. My neck hurt so bad when I turned my head, I felt like I would throw up. I could feel the heavy wrappings the doctors had put on my head. I blinked several times. There was something wrong. I looked around the room, I looked at my hands, with the I.V. sticking out, I looked out the window at the clear morning sky, clear like nothing had ever happened, like the storm was just part of a horrible dream, but there was something very wrong. I could only see out of my left eye. The world looked flat and I felt disoriented.

I removed the bandages from my eye, checking if it was open. It was, but it saw nothing. It was totally and completely blind. I felt my face becoming hot. I felt tears threatening to spill out at any moment. All the pain and hate and anger and wanting pushed against my chest, preparing to burst out in a horrible flood of tears and spit. But before the dam broke, before all that pain could escape, I heard another sound — voices — and one of them was making the most horrible sounds I’d ever heard. The most chilling cries a person can make, the sound I had been preparing to make myself, only this was more sorrowful, more desperate, more true.

The voice belonged to my uncle, and his words told me everything I needed to know about that sorrow. Adam, little cousin Adam, my little cousin who I left in that shed because of my own fear and hate — Adam, the greatest love of my uncle’s heart, was dead.

Apparently he had tried to chase after me, because he left the shelter of the shed and he caught a chunk of wood — possibly peeled from the shed by the storm, possibly the same chunk of wood that half-blinded me — in the back of his head. Adam was not so lucky as to be sitting up in a hospital bed preparing to cry over the partial loss of his vision. He had died before he ever got the hospital.

But I got my wish, it seemed. I had my uncle all to myself then. All to my ugly, half-blind, miserable self.

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Filed Under: Journal, Story, Story sketch Tagged With: Caleb Jacobo, storm, story sketch, Utah, writing prompt

How T-Rex Became King of the Dinosaurs

December 13, 2015 by Caleb Jacobo Leave a Comment

How T-Rex Became King of the Dinosaurs

The following is a story sketch I wrote for my daughter who loves dinosaurs. In the end, I felt that the story was too long and perhaps a little too dark for a four-year-old, but it was good story practice and good fun to write. I hope you get a kick out of it.

[Read more…] about How T-Rex Became King of the Dinosaurs

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Filed Under: Story sketch Tagged With: Caleb Jacobo, Children's Story, story sketch, T-Rex, T-Rex Story

Behind the Story: Evening at the Bus Stop

December 10, 2015 by Caleb Jacobo Leave a Comment

Behind the Story: Evening at the Bus Stop

Yesterday I posted a story sketch “Evening at the Bus Stop” about an old man and a distressed woman having a conversation in which both are unable to really listen to each other. Today I want to go over some of steps that I took to complete that sketch.

It all started with an idea. I knew I wanted to write a story sketch. I hadn’t written one in a while and they are, in my opinion, the best kind of practice a creative writer can do. The initial idea, the spark that got me going, was the Buddhist parable of the mustard seed. You might have heard it, but if not, you can read a version of the story here.

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Filed Under: Behind the Story, Journal Tagged With: behind the story, Caleb Jacobo, story sketch, writing journal

Story Sketch: Evening at the Bus Stop

December 9, 2015 by Caleb Jacobo Leave a Comment

Story Sketch: Evening at the Bus Stop

It’s six o’clock in the little town of Layton, Utah. The sun has already set and the sky is covered with a seeming endless coat of dark clouds. On Main Street, at a small bus stop, sits a woman in a purple windbreaker. Her short, curly hair is newly dyed the blackish-red color of old blood. She is nearly elt

ifty, bent forward, looking down at her off-brand sneakers, wrapping herself with her arms and rocking back and forth. An old man with seventy-five years and a heavy, goose-feathered coat on his back, carrying a small present wrapped in golden paper, tied with a thick, red bow, slowly lowers himself onto the damp bench beside her.

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Filed Under: Journal, Story sketch Tagged With: bus stop, Caleb Jacobo, story sketch, writing journal

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

 El Toro

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

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Filed Under: Middle Grade, Story sketch Tagged With: middle grade, short story, story sketch

A Game of Flap-Dragon

May 20, 2013 by Caleb Jacobo Leave a Comment

Hard soles clop along the sidewalk stirring up gasoline vapor and sweet oak. A pair of once-black leather bootees with no laces, their vamps deeply worn, shuffle along the cement. A pewter mug, tied through its handle by silk thread, rolls and flops against the holed sides of a gray wool coat with each sway of the hips; its contents shake like a lazy maraca.

Six steps up from the sidewalk, a group of three young men recline at different levels. The highest of the men pushes his palm into his eye socket and rocks his head; he groans. “Will you two shut up about the damn bet, it’s payday now, we’ll settle it tonight.”

The percussion of the walking man slows with his gait; then resumes tempo a moment later.

The men on the lower steps curse and the bigger of the two cracks the other on the knee with a plump fist. “Screw that! Not waiting until tonight; I already beat this punk, I’m not spending any more on drinking games.”

This time the shoes stop. One brings up its toe, taps the cement twice, then returns to grind debris into the ground. The shoes turn about. The small man wears a greenish hunting cap, whose earflaps peel up and button on top, revealing the most outlandishly large sideburns the Newberry Townhome residents had ever seen. The rest of his face is bare and smeared with dirt; a pair of thick ovoid glasses teeter on his crooked nose; behind them: yellow eyes. He pulls back his cracked lips to offer the young men a yellow smile. “You boys say something about ‘debt’?”

The men, no younger than twenty five, but comparatively infantile to this ancient apparition, hesitate. But after checking with each other’s expressions, the man on the top step tosses his chin at the old man. “What’re you lookin’ at bro?” The other two laugh.

“I’m sorry I thought I heard someone talk about paying ‘debts’?”

“What the hell? You spying on us? weirdo, get out of here!”

The old man takes two gentle steps to reach the base of the stairs. He caresses his chin with a knob-knuckled hand, adorned with three crudely made rings and sooty fingernails that jut irregularly, and three heavy rings that could have been gold. “Oh, I’m afraid you have it wrong, boys. You see, I’m somewhat of a game man myself, and a bit more of an authority on settling debts. And it sounds like you fellows are in need of…impartial council?” Another yellow smile.

The men check ranks again. The large man stands and chews on the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, alright, I just want to make this clown see that he’s beat this time.” He begins with the name of the game, ‘flap-dragon’, in which the players must peck flaming raisins from a cup of brandy and hold as many in their open mouths as they can before having to extinguish the fire. The other two interrupt with explanations and corrections as he speaks.

As they explain, the old man dips his fingertips into the cup at his belt and draws them out, fingers powdered red, then rests the hand in his lower back, thumb hooked through the belt. He creeps a foot up the first cement step. “Yes, fine, fine, that’s all fine my boys, I don’t think we’ll have a problem here. No sirs, I believe we’ll end this before noon—but! there are just a few ground rules we need to go over before we do…” Now he did not smile.

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Filed Under: Adult, Magical Realism, Prompt, Scene sketch, Uncategorized Tagged With: fiction, Magical Realism, Prompt, short story, story sketch, writing exercise

Her lacquered lips spat raspberry-lime in his face.

February 28, 2013 by Caleb Jacobo Leave a Comment

Hello, it’s nice to see you again. Here is a scene sketch I wrote for you this evening. Enjoy!

Like always, if you have questions about what this is about, you can read more here.

—

“I’m special because I know I’m special, and I’m tired of you telling me I not.”

“Get away from that door Marlene! Give me that wallet—” Jeremiah lunged at Marlene.

“Don’t you hurt me—stop!”

He pinned her elbows to her sides.

Her lacquered lips spat raspberry-lime in his face. He loosened his hold. “I’m not hurting you … quiet. quiet.”

Marlene flung her dark braids back and squeezed her face so the skin around her eyes went a pale brown; she sobbed.

“Shhh! Hush.” He held out his arms then quickly replaced them, gently, on her shoulders. “There. Okay now? I’ve let go now, see?” But Marlene wailed on, unaware of her father’s plea.

‘If she is not relentless,’ Jeremiah thought, ‘she would not be her mother’s daughter.’

“Enough. Mar-lene the neighbors are going to call to police darling. Hush now.”

“I hope they do! I hope they come and see you and — and this!” She waved a cream pocket purse at the stairs and then all the house. “What you’re subject-tuh-ifying to your minor daughter.”

“Oh don’t start with that. Here—” he stepped back a step.

“I’m going to leave now.”

“Marlene will you just give me a moment? A damn minute—to help you?”

“You don’t care about me daddy, don’t pretend to care about me.”

“You’re my first born child, you’re my baby girl, I love you mo—”

“You didn’t care when mom was alive, and you don’t now. Except now you can’t drink so you’re more of a jerk.” She wouldn’t let him confess a thing. He pinched the fat bore’s curls on his pocked chin. “A jerk? You really think your daddy’s a jerk?”

“Why else would you be actively trying to ruin everything in my life? Oh, Marlene wants to learn guitar because Mom always said she wanted to—nope! Oh wait, how about: I like writing songs, maybe I can write some poetry, express my life with something, but when I actually need to get the things I need for it, like a ‘laptop’ you tell me that we can’t spend money on a hobby? Yes. A jerk. And a damned fool who don’t care nothing about me or what I feel, or even how I try to make it better!”

They both stared at the waxed wood floor; both shook their head.

“I didn’t have to do this you know?”

“What? Let me stay in my own house? I’m seventeen!” She crossed her arms and plastic rainbow bracelets clinked together.

“Your mother and you had a deal. It’s what she would want.”

“I’m leaving.”

“Marlene.”

Clomp. sccrrrch. clomp—clomp. Marlene banged down the cement steps, through the lawn. She wore pink slippers with plumb puffs on the toes. She held up a final defiant middle finger and slammed herself away in the ancient black Beetle. It cackled to life, trembled, and popped as it turned and drove out of the cul-de-sac.

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Filed Under: Adult, Literary fiction, Scene sketch Tagged With: dialogue, Literary fiction, story sketch

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Caleb Jacobo

Welcome! My name is Caleb Jacobo and this is my public writing journal. Read More…

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