Let's Write Stories

Everything In-Between

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 11 Oct 2012 13:00:00 +0000

Everything In-Between

By Ryan L.

Rated G

The celebration became stagnant

No group belonging to the other

A word is spoken

Unknown to the first or the second

Easy it is to descend into this hell

To climb back out

To reverse the mind of a million

Upon whose eyes are of the same hue

Yet there are cries of mine is mine

And yours is not

For my skin is black, yours white

My skin yellow, yours brown

And we are everything in-between

They do not seek, but cannot find

As one candle burns, it cannot fade

Yet only if one becomes two

One is all and all is yet to be one

Combine their lights as their Lord would do

The separations of these flames it ought to be

If that may be, one and two will forever be three

Because we are all in-between

The Lord be forever unseen

Black, White, Yellow, Brown

We cannot see, our sight forever veiled

Why then do we love if not our own family

Understanding when we cannot tolerate

How it is we learn

Beseeched is that day

Of learning from passed mistakes

Searching through the maze

And everywhere in-between

In trials justice does not exist

Through eyes that cannot see but understand

It is them who cast the haze

And through the fog the course is set

Never yielding, never undying

Silhouettes of men come to bear

Their blackened heads and foreign reins

To cast aside for malice, in the lands of justice

Or if chance may be, somewhere in-between

You must wait after me

You must wait before me

You may eat here and there

Though if through the glass I see

The primitive hands to dine

Upon the table set for a king

Beneath the serfs and cobblers

The whip shall crack and bleed the skin

And upon your sweat-soaked brow

The unyielding stare shall be

That you are beneath me

Though somewhere in-between

With a blank expression

And with a clenched jaw

A clash of fists and hate

And the crows shall feast

Upon the skin

Of Black and White, Yellow and Brown

And everything in-between

note: A poem on racism I once wrote for a sociology class

Bear Hugs Before School

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 08 Oct 2012 09:18:00 +0000

Bear Hugs Before School

By Ryan L.

Rated G

My name is Lucy. I’m seven years old and I’m in the second grade. I like to swim and play with my dog Snuff and my little brother Jim. I have a Dad, his name is William, everyone calls him Will, and a Mom named Eliot. Mom told me her parents named her Eliot because the doctor thought she was a boy when she was in Grandma’s tummy.

I go to Summerset Elementary School. Every morning, my Dad drives me to school in his big pickup truck. He works in construction and helps make people’s homes. I’d like a job like that someday. Dad’s pickup truck always has all kinds of tools and big pieces of wood. Mom works as a writer for a photography magazine. She likes taking pictures. For my birthday last year, she got me my first camera. We take pictures together every weekend. And Dad taught me how to make a birdhouse.

Every morning Mom wakes me up and Dad cooks breakfast. They don’t talk at the table anymore. They only talk to me and Jim. I don’t think Jim notices, but I do. When I asked them, they told me they’re just tired in the morning. But they’re never too tired to talk to me. That made me happy.

Last week Mom pulled out the old photo album from the closet where she keeps her old things so I could see what she looked like when she was a girl. She was very pretty. And I didn’t recognize Grandma at first. Some of the pictures were from before Mom and Dad got married. They looked very happy and went to different places like the Grand Canyon and the Yosemite National Park. After they got married, they went to Paris in France. Mom said we’ll all go again someday.

We looked through every picture in three whole albums. I liked most of the pictures. But some mad me sad. The pictures we took this year and last year and the year before are different from the others. Mom and Dad don’t look happy when they’re in the same picture.

A few nights ago, I could hear Mom and Dad arguing downstairs in the living room. They were arguing about money. I don’t think they should argue about money. Mom and Dad told me money isn’t everything. But they fight about it a lot. And then I heard Dad say we could lose the house. I wasn’t sure what he meant, but it sounded bad. They argued about a lot of other things. I’m not sure what most of it meant. But I do know Mom thinks Dad should spend more time with me and Jim. I’d like to play with him more too. But I know he’s busy. He must be tired because he missed most of our family trips and vacations because of work.

Everything is okay again in the morning. That’s the good part. They fight a lot when they think I’m sleeping. But in the morning they’re happy again. Just not around each other. But they’re happy to be with me and Jim. We eat breakfast and then Dad drives me to school. That’s my favorite part of the day because when we get out of the pickup truck, Dad picks me up and gives me a big bear hug. He even sounds like a bear. I like it because it’s funny. And when Dad hugs me, I feel very safe and warm. I try to hug him even tighter. When he puts me back down, he tells me he’ll see me at dinner. I go to class. I don’t think he leaves until he sees me walk through the door.

Things seem better now; Mom and Dad talk to each other. But even though they say nice things, they get angry at each other. I don’t know why. They only stop when me and Jim are there. I asked Mom why they fight so much, but she told me Moms and Dads fight. But everything is okay and they always love me and Jim. Last night before bed, Jim asked me if Mom and Dad hate each other. I told him what Mom told me. I don’t know why, but it didn’t make me feel better.

Once I woke up early and went downstairs to get some orange juice. Dad was asleep on the couch. I asked him why when he woke up. He told me he was so tired from work that after dinner, he didn’t go upstairs and just fell asleep on the couch. Dad works very hard. When Mom woke up and came downstairs, her eyes were red and puffy. I think she was sick. But Dad didn’t give her any medicine.

When Dad took me to school that morning, he gave me an extra long bear hug. Only I get bear hugs. Dad flips Jim in the air like a somersault. But I get the bear hugs. Mom gets mad at Dad for not playing with us very much. But I’m fine with our bear hugs.

A few weeks after that, I was playing with Jim on the sidewalk. We were drawing pictures with the chalk Mom gave us. Snuff just laid there and watched. He’s an old dog. When we were done and went back inside for lunch, Mom and Dad were yelling. They didn’t see me and Jim and Snuff for a while. They used bad words and said mean things. Jim started crying. When Mom and Dad heard him crying, they got even more mad at each other. They stopped fighting and gave Jim hugs and kisses to make him feel better. Mom and Dad are just fighting. They’re not mad at us. But I still feel bad. I didn’t know Mrs. Lori thought I’m bad at math and spelling. Maybe they won’t fight if I do better in school. That night Dad sat down with me and we did homework together. Usually I do it with Mom when she’s not writing at her computer. I think I like it more when Mom helps me. But I think Dad did his best.

A few weeks after that, Mom and Dad left every Wednesday Night after dinner and were gone for almost two hours. Dad said he and Mom went to see a friend named Dr. Katherine. He said she’s very nice, and helps him and Mom not fight as much. Sally from next door comes to babysit. I like Sally. She does my hair and helps me with my homework. And she plays Legos with Jim and reads us stories. I’m always sad when she leaves when Mom and Dad come back from seeing their friend. Sometimes Mom and Dad look even more angry. Sometimes they look the same. Other times Mom looks sad, or Dad does, and sometimes both of them do. I only saw them looking happy once after seeing their friend. Dad always sleeps on the couch now.

Mom and Dad always left to see their friend every Wednesday. They saw her every week for most of the school year. But I don’t think Dr. Katherine can help them because they’re still fighting. When I told Mom they should talk to another friend, she told me Dr. Katherine was a very good doctor, and she and Dad just need to try harder. But the mean fights and bad words never went away. Soon, we stopped doing things together. Sometimes I went fishing with Dad and Jim. Mom didn’t go. Other times Mom took us to different places like the zoo or a science museum with fossils and things from outer space. Sometimes I was with Dad while Jim was with Mom; or the other way around. Once I told Mrs. Lori I didn’t want to go home because I knew Mom and Dad would be fighting. I think she called Mom and Dad because they talked to me and told me they’re sorry they fight so much. And that they won’t do it around me or Jim anymore. They love us both very much. And it worked. Mom and Dad almost never fought after that. Everything seemed back to normal. They even talked at breakfast and then Dad would drive me to school and give me an extra big bear hug.

Last night Mom and Dad told me they’re separating. I don’t understand. They stopped fighting. And they’re talking to each other again. I thought everything was back to normal. Mom and Dad told me that sometimes Moms and Dads can’t live together anymore because they can’t stop fighting no matter how hard they try. They told me it’s not my fault and it’s not Jim’s fault. They told me that because I asked if they were still fighting because I didn’t know math and spelling. But they told me that’s not why. Sometimes Moms and Dads fight about grown up things that can’t be resolved. But they always told me family is stronger than anything. Family is more important than anything. We stick together and love each other and take care of each other. We talked for a very long time that night. They asked me many times if I understood. I pretended I did. I think they believed me.

After a while, Dad moved away. Me and Jim only see him on weekends now. Mom and Dad said that even though they are now divorced, they still love us more than anything and want to spend time with us. But since Dad live in his own home now, we can only see him on Saturday and Sunday. Sometimes he picks us up on Friday’s if he isn’t working late and we spend the whole weekend with him.

A short while after that, Me, Mom, Jim, and Snuff moved into an apartment just like Dad did because the house was too expensive. I miss our old house. I miss having Mom and Dad at the same time. Jim and Snuff miss that too. I’m still not used to switching between apartments. Sometimes I forget my homework at Mom’s or Dad’s and get in trouble at school. Mom can’t cook breakfast like Dad can. And I like it better when Mom helps me with homework. The other night I had a dream that we were back in one of the old pictures, the ones where all four of us were smiling and Snuff wasn’t an old dog.

It’s Thursday. Mom burned breakfast again. But cereal is good too. Jim doesn’t like cereal and gave his to Snuff. Mom tells me to pack my things and get ready for school. When we get there, Mom leans over and kisses my cheek and tells me she loves me. I tell her I love her too.

I step out onto the sidewalk and close the door. Mom leaves in a hurry so she won’t be late. Jim is back home with the baby sitter until Mom gets back from work. And then she and Jim pick me up from school. I don’t mind, but there’s one thing I miss more than anything.

Dad’s not here. I won’t see him until Saturday. Or maybe tomorrow if he’s not working late. I want a bear hug. But Dad isn’t here to give me one. I take the straps of my backpack in my hands and tighten them as hard as I can. It’s not the same as a bear hug.

Patient 37459

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 07 Oct 2012 11:43:00 +0000

Patient 37459

By Ryan L.

Rated Pg-13

“Have you read the file, doc?” Dr. Thomson asked.

“Yes, I believe I have what I need. 37459. Patient’s name is Hubert Frylund. Diagnosed clinically insane after murdering seven men, three women, two children, and a dog in a span of three months. L.A. area. Suspected of killing at least twenty others though not confirmed as yet.” Said Dr. Leonard.

“Yeah, he goes on a killing spree and the state wants to help him. Hard to believe.” Dr. Thompson said.

“Oh, I have my doubts. But I must meet with Mr. Frylund and see for myself.”

“Well, if you’re ready, they’re waiting for you Down Below. The guards will take you to the Hold.”

“Yes, I believe I know the way. Good day to you, Doctor.”

“And you.”

Dr. Leonard sauntered down the hall with the flickering fluorescent lights. He counted how many were in need of new lights. Too many. The air was dead and still inside the Staging Compound, like a stench his lungs refused to inhale. The dank, sour-rich aroma was palpable at best. Though he could never discern where the smell came from. On his first day he thought of asking, but thought better of it. He wrapped his coat around him and shivered, striving to keep up appearances, to walk with the distinguished command and élan doctors of his standing deserved. He stopped at the nearest window and searched out into the grounds. Five guard towers with snipers. Invisible grids all along the ground. Of course he couldn’t see them, but he was told they were there. And somewhere past the walls and cameras, a line set to a self destruct frequency in the collar of every patient.

Dr. Leonard exhaled against the glass and drew a picture of a smiling face and watched as the condensation dripped and distorted the image into a monster. He sighed, suddenly tired and spent from the night’s work. He paused in wonder. A full moon, but almost no light whatsoever save from the towers and the rest of the Staging Compound.

Dr. Leonard pushed off against the window and scoffed at his misgivings. He was a man of science, not superstition. There was nothing off about the place. Save a thousand insane patients who’d like nothing more than to sink their teeth into his flesh just to see how he’d react.

At the elevator Dr. Leonard pushed on the DB button. He waited for the elevator to rise to his level, exchanged a few pleasantries with a passing doctor passing with her intern, and stepped into the metal atrocity when it finally arrived. He never felt safe in the elevator. All the creaking and groaning made him uneasy. And the slow and steady grinding was enough to drive any man insane. Perhaps it was the building that drove the patients insane. But no, they all came here because they were already diagnosed for insanity. It was his job to find a way to treat them.

The grinding came to a stop and the small chime sounded a long, lament that echoed through the adjacent hall of yet more flickering fluorescent lights. He walked down the hall, nodding to the guards as he passed by. They served their purpose. He only wished he could wear their armor to ward off makeshift sivs and shanks. Some even wore bulletproof vests. He passed the hand and eye security measures and proceeded into the restricted area.

At the end of the hall, Dr. Leonard finally reached the Red Door with two guards flanking the entrance.

“You ready, doc? Don’t worry, this guy even blinks at you the wrong way we’ll stun him.” The guard said.

“No, I don’t think that will be necessary. I’ll be speaking with him alone. Just be ready if I have need of you.”

“As you say, Doc.”

Dr. Leonard walked through the Red Door and into the near-blinding White Room. A single white table and two white chairs on either end were all that stood out besides the two-way window, four cameras, and the vents in the ceiling ready to unleash sleeping gas.

Dr. Leonard sat down in the remaining chair and examined his patient. Shaved bald. Brilliant blue eyes. Something definitely off from the start. Far too awake. Far too alert. The eyes of both predator and prey. Unrelenting. The man didn’t blink. Not once. On his face the man wore the most benevolent smile the Dr. Leonard had ever seen in his life.

“Good evening, Mr. Frylund.”

“Evening, Doctor.”

“Since this is our first session together, I thought we’d start be getting to know each other better." Dr. Leonard continued. He placed he folder on the desk with an almost nonchalance he perfected over the years to show the patients he wasn’t intimidated. These men and women could always tell. The smallest hint of weakness, and treatment would be impossible. A new doctor would have to be assigned.

“You and I will have to differ on your proposition doctor. You need to get to know me, that’s how this works. I don’t need to know you.”

“That’s a very closed mindset, Mr. Frylund. Having a mutually beneficial relationship is the best kind to have. It helps to know about each other. In fact, I was thinking we-“

“What do you need from me, Doctor?”

“I would like to get to know you, Mr. Frylund.”

“I’m sure you’ve read my file. Every doctor I’ve seen has read my file. Why, Dr. Keller before you, read my file. Do you want to know what I did to him?”

“I’m well aware of what transpired between you and Dr. Keller, Mr. Frylund. That’s not what I’m here to talk about. Let’s start with your background.”

“Or the good Dr. Kapour. Such a pretty thing. Though, perhaps not anymore. Could you hear her screams? The other patients told me they could hear her from the other end of the grounds.”

“Mr. Frylund, we will not talk about you’re previous doctors. Now, I see you come from a wealthy family. Though you weren’t always so well off. From what I gather you grew up in various homeless shelters when you weren’t on the streets.”

“Yes, yes. It's dreadfully droll to you, I’m sure. Isn’t it Doctor?”

“Why do you think that?”

“You’re not interested in my childhood.”

“To the contrary, I believe examining your childhood will prove to be very academic. Very beneficial for the both of us.”

“None of it matters, Doctor.”

“Why do you say that, Mr. Frylund?”

“The only thing that matters is the taste. The smell. They say our sense of smell is the strongest sense associated with our memories. For instance, if you find yourself in the market on a warm, spring afternoon and you happen to smell the cinnamon buns the small bakery across the street is baking, you may suddenly remember a time when you ate a cinnamon bun from years ago. Something just clicks that memory into place and you remember. Even if it wasn’t significant. Just an ordinary day. An ordinary day, other than the fact that on that particular day, your mother bought a cinnamon bun for you.”

“Did you and your mother frequent the market? Does a cinnamon bun mean anything to you, Mr. Frylund?”

Mr. Frylund sat back against his chair and examined Dr. Leonard as one would a painting. His brilliant blue eyes bore a hole through the Dr’s skull where it drilled deeper and submerged, an unwelcome guest. Dr. Leonard could feel it. The cold, dead weight of the stare seeped into him. He shifted and cleared his throat before continuing.

“Answer the question, Mr. Frylund.”

“Do you know a Mr. Gregor, Doctor?”

“I admit not very much, I’ve never treated him. But let’s stay on track, Mr. Frylund. I’m still waiting for an answer.”

“If you would humor me, Doctor. A story first. You see, young Mr. Gregor has a mark for every kill. He carved them into his skin himself. One for every kill. He’s running out of space, they say. He’s admired by some of the other patients here. But not me, do you know why?”

“An answer, Mr. Frylund. I would like one right now.”

“One cannot savor a kill for what it really is if he must mutilate himself. He’s so detached from his own work and doings, it’s sad, really. I pity the man. For he must carve a reminder that he’s alive, that he exists. That his life has worth, such as it is. I do not concern myself or care about such trivial things as sinking a blade through my skin. My mark, my scars, are all kept nice and neat in here. Like a filing cabinet. Do you understand what I’m getting at?” Mr. Frylund said, gesturing to his temple. He leaned forward in his chair and wrested his bound wrists on the white table.

“No, I don’t believe I follow.” Dr. Leonard said. He shifted in his seat again, berated himself for doing it yet again, knowing full well his patient must have noticed. A disturbing thought occurred to him as he returned his patients stare. But he decided he best not walk that road.

“I helped them all remember. I helped myself remember. Does that not fall under your definition of a mutually beneficial relationship? I help them, they help me.”

“I believe you’re referring to the people you’ve killed.”

“And a dog, Doctor. We mustn’t forget about the canine. Why, he was once a trusty companion to some small eleven year old boy. Would you like to know where he lives? Check up on him? I can’t, you see?” Mr. Frylund held up his bound writs. “There’s no way for me to see how much I’ve helped the poor lad remember.”

“I doubt that little boy would agree with you, sir.”

“Really?” Mr. Frylund exclaimed, his eyebrows raised, small wrinkles forming on his forehead. “Well, imagine that. That’s the thanks I get. I may have to go back someday and help him remember a few more things. Maybe then he’ll show some gratitude.”

“Mr. Frylund, surely you understand these murders are a horrible, horrible thing you’ve done. All for, as you say, making them remember? Remember what, exactly?”

“Well, if you’d allow me to finish, I’m still getting around to that. But first, let me ask you something, my good Doctor.”

“I’m the one asking questions right now, Mr. Frylund. Do you understand what you did was a crime?”

“What do you remember, Doctor? How much can you really remember? I see a man sitting before me with glasses, white and grey streaks in his hair, beginning to bald a bit, yes? No ring on the finger, markings on your skin from a watch I imagine you only take off when you shower and when you pass through this fine institution’s security and while with dangerous patients like me.” Mr. Frylund stopped and took a long, exaggerated gasp of air. “And . . .” He exhaled, long and slow. “That look in your eyes, the same look I’ve seen in far too many people. Are you fatigued from a weary life, Doctor? Looking back and realizing you don’t remember most of it? Oh, no. No, no. It’s all there, you see? We never truly forget, not entirely. People are amazing. No one truly forgets what they do, what their senses pick up, their various experiences, what they learn. Oh no! No! It’s all in there. We all have an eidetic memory. It’s just some of us can tap into it more than others. Oh yes! It’s as simple as that.”

“Mr. Frylund, unless you’re willing to cooperate, I think we may be done here for the night. We can continue tomorrow.”

Dr. Leonard pushed back his chair, gathered his file and made for the door.

“How about last week, Doctor? Tell me what you did last Wednesday. What did you have for lunch? Just answer me that, before you go.”

“I don’t remember. Good night to you, Mr. Frylund.”

“Where did you stop for a drink after work? Was it the same watering hole with the young and attractive bartender with the long black hair and big, shimmering brown eyes? The bar with the wings you like so much? Still can't think of much to say to Stacy the bartender?”

“No I- how could you possibly know all that?”

“No? Then I suppose you stopped by to see your dear aging mother. I must say, stashing her in a home is cold, even to a killer like me. What, can’t be burdened with caring for your own mother? For shame, Doctor. And they call me the animal. I always took care of my mother. I’d argue that my greatest gift to her was killing her myself.”

“You sick bastard! How do you know about my mother? Tell me!”

“Alzheimer’s is such a cruel twist of fate. To forget, even more than most people do, it’s a cruel twist of fate, I say!”

“Tell me how you know!”

“Just visiting her day after day. Though, let’s be honest here, Doctor. You only see her maybe once a month, at best. And maybe on the holidays. Though not last Thanksgiving, correct? Or Christmas. Hell, not even on her birthday. March twenty-second, if memory serves. Ah, it does. Good.”

Dr. Leonard took his chair and jammed it against the floor of the Red Door. He turned, ignoring the guard shouting at him to let them in. He flung himself over the table and grasped the freak by the throat and thrust him against the wall where he bore his weight against the psychopath.

“You tell me what you know! How do you know this?”

Mr. Frylund smiled the same angelic smile and chuckled softly to himself. His eyes shifted up as the vents exhaled the sleeping gas into the room. Three heartbeats and Dr. Leonard could feel his vision closing in on him. He staggered a few steps away from the freak and slumped against the wall for support. He opened his eyes for a moment and realized he and the freak lay on the frigid floor. The freak was still smiling at him and was the last thing Dr. Leonard saw.

After a hearing with the board and several favors, Dr. Leonard found he wasn’t fired. Of course, he could never work with the freak again. In the long history of the medical institution in which he worked, no doctor had attacked a patient. He was issued a warning, should such a thing happen again, he would be terminated. But he didn’t care. Mr. Frylund haunted his dreams at night. His words slithered through his soul during the day. At times he even suspected the freak could somehow be following him. Of course, that was when he was at his most paranoid and irrational state of mind. At times he even saw the man in his other patients, only for a moment. Then gone. So quick was the transformation he rejected the notion of having seen it in the first place. It was insanity.

A Year passed. Two. Dr. Leonard wasn’t allowed to follow the treatment of Mr. Frylund. But that didn’t stop the more sympathetic doctors from provided what little information they could. In two years three doctors pulled out of treatment. Dr. Ferguson quit altogether. Dr. Crane checked herself into a psychiatric hospital and was never heard from again. Dr. Swanson tried to kill himself by jumping off one of the towers. A security guard stopped him. Four more doctors moved on to other patients, stating for the record they could not treat him and moved he be executed immediately. And all the while Dr. Leonard thought of what the freak said. Three years, two months, and two weeks to the day of the doctor’s assault, Dr. Leonard found himself calling the home he placed his mother in. He was transferred to her line and waited for her to pick up. He knew she wouldn’t know who he was, but he had to talk to her.

By the fifth ring, Dr. Leonard made to hang up the phone but stopped as he heard the phone pick up.

“Hello? Mom? It’s me, Leonard. Your son. Listen, I wanted to tell you I’m coming to see you this weekend. I know you don’t remember me, but I’ll bring pictures and show you. I just want to make sure you’re okay. I know it’s been a long time since I’ve seen you. I’m sorry.”

“You just missed her, Jack.” A calm, collected voice said.

“Who is this? Joyce? You sick? I’m trying to call my mother; can you get her for me?

“No, Jack, may I call you Jack? It’s me.”

“Who is this?”

“I see you already forgot. But don’t you worry, I’ll help you remember.”

The bitter sting of realization plunged into Dr. Leonard’s heart and held it in place, still and cold. His phone hand trembled, the reverberations etching into the hard plastic of his cell phone, threatening to break and snap. The cold, dead air, all consuming, caressed his skin and bore down on him, crushing his lungs, devouring the precious air.

“You? How? How did you?”

“I can’t tell you that, Jack. Why, you’re absolutely crazy, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. And you shouldn’t.”

“Where is my mother? You tell me, you sick son of a bitch!”

“Or was it a jackal?”

“What?”

“I’m joking, Jack. Where is your sense of humor? This is a happy time. For both of us. You should be happy, like me.”

“Where is she?”

“Gone.”

“Gone? Gone where?”

“I mean she’s gone, Jack.”

“You… No. No. You. You killed her? You killed her? Answer me, damn you!”

“Yes, I did. I had the privilege of serving as her salvation. It was my honor to do so. You see, she remembered. She called your name, Jack. In the end, even in her condition, she remembered. When was the last time she recalled your face? Recognized you? Remembered her little boy? It was my pleasure. I saved her. People remember, before they die. They smell what they need to smell. Taste what is there. Feel the most important things. Hear and see what they are meant to. But I’m not done, Jack.”

“What do you mean? What could you possibly do to me now? You sick fuck! I’ll kill you! You hear me! I’ll kill you!”

“Don’t worry so much, Jack. I’ll be your salvation. I’ll help you remember.”

Dr. Leonard rushed through security and into the holding blocks. Once there, he dashed to Patient Cell D-349 and peered though the hard plastic window of the door and into the small room. He had to be sure the man was still in there.

There, Mr. Frylund sat cross-legged on his bed, staring back at Dr. Leonard with brilliant blue eyes and a sincere smile. Dr. Leonard slammed a fist against the door. Once. Twice. He walked back and slammed a foot against the door. The guards were closing on him. He pulled at the cell door. Slammed his shoulder against it with all his strength.

“You! You! How? How did you do it? Guards! Let me in! You tell me! How did you do it! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!”

As the guards seized Dr. Leonard he could hear the freak inside give a soft chuckle. He rose from his bed and walked to the door so he could better see the struggling doctor through the plastic window.

“Why, what do you mean, Doctor? I’ve been behind these walls for years now. I couldn’t have killed your mother. See?” He held his bound wrists in front of his face.

“See? See? Did you hear him? Did you hear what he said? He killed her! He killed her! Let me go! I’ll kill you, you sick bastard! I’ll kill you! You heard him! He did it! He killed her! No! No! Let go!

“You should calm down, Jack.” Mr. Frylund said.

“Listen! Hear him? Did you hear that? I never told him my name! How does he know? No! No! Let me go, damn it! She told him! She had to have told him! He killed her! Let me go!

“Jack, do you remember?” Mr. Frylund said behind the plastic.

“Patients name is Jack Theodore Leonard. Diagnosed clinically insane after the attempted murder of several guards and staff. Convinced a former patient killed his mother. Treatment has been slow. Patient not responding well to the drugs. All attempts to show the him that patient 37459 is and has been under supervision for three years, four months, and twenty-seven days have proven to be futile. Patient insists 37459 is responsible for the death of Ellen Grant Leonard. The patient, 95473, has uttered one question in an obsessive compulsive manner: ‘Do you remember?’”

“That’s right. It’s weird; I used to work with the guy. Seemed normal to me. Then one day he burst through here and tried to off 37459. Are you sure you’d like to talk to Frylund?”

“Yes. Mr. Leonard is obviously insane, but I’m intrigued. I’m curious as to what Mr. Frylund has to say on the matter.”

“Hello, Doctor.”

“Yes, Mr. Frylund, good afternoon to you.”

“I understand you wanted to ask me something?”

“Yes, I did. It concerns Mr. Leonard. I believe he was one of your doctors when you were in treatment.”

“How could I forget? How is the good doctor faring?”

“Not well. He still believes you killed his mother.”

“Impossible, I assure you.”

“Of course, you’ve been under surveillance every moment for the past three and a half years.”

“Is there something I can help you with, Doctor?”

“My patient only says one thing to me, or anyone. It’s an odd question to ask and no one seems to know what he’s talking about. I wanted to ask you if the question means anything to you.”

“And what question is that, Doctor?”

“Mr. Leonard repeats the question, ‘Do you remember?’ over and over again. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Yes. Yes it does. It means everything to me. You could say I helped the good Doctor Leonard remember a great many things.”

“Such as?”

“I’ll tell you. But first, let me ask you a question, Doctor.”

“Ask.”

“What can you remember?”

The Black Hole at the Counter

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 07 Oct 2012 10:00:00 +0000

The Black Hole at the Counter

By Ryan L.

Rated G

It's 5:00 in the morning as Brian awakes from his slumber. He blinks once. Only once. He never blinked much. He rose from his bed and strode into the living room where he stood in the middle by the dinner table and rose up and down on his toes 5 times. It had to be 5 times, or he wouldn’t feel right and would have to do the whole thing over again and again and again. At least 5 times. Just to be sure nothing happened.

By 6:00 in the morning Brian grew anxious. Thoughts of his mom and dad not waking up in time bombarded his mind over and over like a drum sounding the call of something ominous and cruel. The thoughts upset him so much he paced to the sliding glass door which led into the yard and back to the dinner table 10 times, all the while his head tumbling and turning with horrible thoughts of missing out on time. So concentrated was he on whether or not his parents would rise in time, Brian lost count. Deeply upset, and jumping 6 times in the air with his hands held tight against his hair, Brian started all over again.

6:30 came and Brian booted up his computer and sat at the desk. He searched the net and found some of his favorite videos of video game spoofs. He watched until he came to the funny parts, a man run over by a car another player was driving, another man sticking a grenade to an unsuspecting player and shoving him off a ledge where the poor player’s soldier tumbled and twirled in mid air, one player racing on the track and botching a turn, his car crashing and flipping over and over again, different parts in the games where the characters make funny noises and faces. All of this, Brian paused and hit play over and over and over. Sometimes he watched the same thing 7 to 10 times in rapid succession, almost creating a built-in lag effect of the funniest moments. On one particular video, by pausing at the right moment, the character in the game appeared to be saying “Soy. Soy. Soy” over and over, which proved to be especially funny. Brian laughed and rocked in his chair with delight and decided to watch the video and repeat the process another 15 times. But it could not be 16.

At 7:00 in the morning, Brian could hear his parents stir in their bed. First his mom came out and mumbled a quiet “Good morning.” And proceeded to make some tea. Next, Brian’s father walked half asleep into the kitchen and opened the fridge. He too managed a “Morning” to Brian and kissed his wife on the cheek. Brian didn’t say “Good morning.” But inside his head, his brain felt it. It felt “Good morning” more than he could actually say it.

Brian was overjoyed his parents awoke in time. He paused the newest funny video he had been repeating at exactly the right spot, pushed back his chair, and began jumping in the air. He did this 5 times while squeaking. It always felt good to do this when something good happened. But what his dad asked next was upsetting and had nothing to do with what Brian was thinking about.

“Son, do you know what you want for breakfast?” His dad asked.

“Today is Saturday.” Brian replied.

“We know, hun. But that’s later. You need to answer him.” Brian’s mom said. She poured some tea into two cups and placed them on the table.

“We’re going to Pete’s Pizza today. You said last Wednesday we’re going there for dinner tonight. I remember you said that. You told me we could at 3:32 while we were in the hardware store. Do you remember telling me that? I remember.”

“Yeah, bud. We remember. But like Mom said, that’s later. What do you want for breakfast?” Dad said.

“I want pancakes, of course.” Brian said.

“Again? Don’t you wanna switch it up a bit? I could make some French Toast? Or waffles? Maybe toast and eggs?” Dad replied.

“Change is good. Sometimes you should try new things.” Mom said.

Brian hated when his mom and dad tried to get him to eat new things. He never understood why they insisted he eat something other than pancakes on Saturday. It was Saturday. Saturday is pancake day. Why change it? Eating something else doesn’t make it better. And keeping it the same made him feel good.

Brian’s dad made pancakes for Brian and toast and eggs for himself and mom. The family ate in relative silence. Brian’s dad read over a few choice columns of the paper. Brian’s mom wrote out a to do list and checked her phone for messages from the office. Brian inhaled the sugary-goodness of the syrup-drenched pancakes and only stopped long enough to twitch his fork hand 5 times. It made him feel like everything was on track. Once in a while he shook his hand 10 times to for added reassurance. His mom told him to try and be mindful of when he did it and stop if he could. But whenever he did, he felt sick in his stomach and he worried that bad things might happen. He looked to his dad, still reading the paper.

“Dad?” He asked.

“Yeah, bud?”

“Did you know if there was an ocean big enough, the planet Saturn would float in it?”

“Yeah, you told me many times.”

“And did you know that if two ordinary pieces of metal touch in space they’ll get stuck together without any coating?”

“Yup, you told me that too a bunch of times.”

“And there are around 14 known black holes. People think that eventually black holes will suck up the whole universe. But they’re wrong. Did you know they’re wrong? I do. Because black holes only suck up things that cross their event horizon, so they couldn’t suck up the whole universe. But people don’t know that. I know that. And also, black holes can suck up other black holes. Most people don’t know that. But it’s true. Do you remember me telling you about that three years ago? It was September second three years ago during grandma’s birthday when we were eating pie. Do you remember me telling you that? And another thing most people don’t know is that you can’t really see a black hole because they suck in light.”

“Hun, you keep telling us that. We’re glad you know so much about space, but people don’t like talking about the same thing over and over again. You should try talking about other things. Or try talking about something they want to talk about once in a while.” Mom said.

“Why can’t I talk about space if I want to talk about it?” Brian asked.

“We’re not saying you can’t. But people like to talk about different things. It’s something you have to get used to. Don’t forget to think about other things to talk about. Sometimes people just get bored talking about the same thing.” Dad said.

“Okay.” Brian said. But he didn’t feel okay. He squeaked and twitched his ands. First 3 times. Then 5 times. After the third set of 15 twitches, his mom gently placed her hand on his and gave it a small pat. She told him to keep eating his pancakes. This made Brian want to twitch even more.

“Hey, mom?”

“Yes?”

“Did you know that in movies where there’s space battles they’re wrong?”

“How do you mean?”

“Because you wouldn’t be able to hear anything in outer space.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because there’s no air and so your voice can’t make vibrations so no one could hear you.”

“Wait, didn’t you tell me that last week?”

“Monday while you were driving me to school.”

“That reminds me, did you finish that math homework?” Dad asked.

“Yes.”

“Want me to take a look at it?”

“No, I understand it. But I get mad because people keep asking me why I’m in the math class if I’m not doing the same work. They say it’s easier.”

“Don’t you worry about that. You’re each doing what you can handle. The math they’re doing is harder, but do they know as much about space as you do?” Mom said.

“No.” Brian said.

“Well, we’re all good at different things, right? We’ve talked about that.” Dad said. “Anyhow, I’ll be checking on grandma today, see how she’s feeling. Mom has some errands. You wanna come with me, with her? Or do you wanna hold the fort here?” Dad asked.

“This isn’t a fort. It’s a house.”

“I know, son. Just a figure of speech.”

“I’ll stay.”

“Alright, if you insist. There’s cold cuts and cheese and lettuce and tomatoes in the fridge for a sandwich when you’re hungry.” Mom said.

After dinner the family cleared the table, washed the dishes, and set out. Brian went back through some funny videos and then played some video games. Only the ones he was good at. The fighting and shooting games with the funny characters with their own sayings. He always played video games while standing and hopped up and down when he was winning. After a particularly invigorating match against a fighter on the hardest difficulty, Brian paused the game and rubbed his hands against the carpet. It made him feel better and calmed his nerves. He squeaked, satisfied with his victory, and went on to play another.

Around 5:00 P.M. a disturbing thought occurred to him. The last time they went to Pete’s Pizza his mom and dad wanted him to place the order. That was too much pressure. They were doing it to test him. To see how good he was. It wasn’t very nice. He knew they could do it better. They just wanted to force him into doing something he didn’t want to do. He knew it. They said they were just trying to get him used to doing things on his own but he knew they were just messing with him. The dread built inside him, clawing at his innards and gorging on his psyche like a pack of ravenous wolves. The thought consumed him. He rejected everything else. What else could he do? The bad thoughts wouldn’t go away. His heart pounded and thundered in his chest. His palms began to sweat. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of perspiration.

In his mind, all he could think of was the last time they went. It was a Sunday. Two weeks ago at 6:23 P.M. He was already irritated because they went on a school night and he wanted time to simply relax and pace the living room and watch a few vids before bed. They didn’t even tell him they expected him to place the order. The three of them walked in and were greeted by the lady he was supposed to say “Hello” to even though they had met her before. Dad turned to him at the counter and said, “Alright, tell her what you want.”

Brian didn’t know what to do. He looked to his dad for an answer. It was an outrage. Didn’t they always get a large pepperoni pizza? They got it every single time, why would Dad ask him? He should know. In fact, he knew his dad knew what to order. But when the lady at the counter looked to him expectedly, Brian couldn’t find the words. He didn’t like the way the lady looked into his eyes. It made him uncomfortable. He adverted her gaze and rocked back and forth on his feet, his hand held out in front of his forehead as if preparing to deflect a blow. The woman was still waiting for him. They all were. His mom began to urge him to say something. His dad had that look in his eyes. Brian never knew if it was impatience, or if it was sad, or if it was him apologizing to the woman. Brian could never really tell with facial expressions. And the lady at the counter had the strangest look in her eyes. And if she were smiling, why did he get the feeling it wasn’t a good smile?

The thought snapped from within, a concussion reverberating within the confines of his skull and he winced as the shrapnel pinged and sheared against his brain. “I don’t know” was all he could think to say. And when the anger got the better of him, he snarled at his parents. “Why can’t you do it? Why do I have to? You’re the ones who should do it. You know what we get. Why should I do it? I shouldn’t be expected to do it”. And as he looked on, there was something inside telling him his reaction was irregular. Facial expressions were hard in general, but even Brian could tell his parents didn’t like his response. And the lady at the counter even looked scared. If someone’s eyes were suddenly big enough, Brian could tell they were scared.

Brian thought back on the long discussion they had when they got home. How his parents explained what they were trying to do. He was glad they understood why he was angry, but upset that they didn’t think they did anything wrong. He didn’t like it when they told him he has to really think about his thoughts and determine if what he as thinking was rational or irrational. When he did this, it all made sense. But only when he had enough time to think about it.

As soon as the clock struck 5:30, Brian began to pace the living room. He hopped and squeaked and rocked back and forth over and over again. He didn’t even think to count how many times he did it to be safe and make sure nothing bad happened. It felt hard to breathe. Something pressed against the inside of his chest. He could feel it there, but couldn’t get it out.

The front door opened and Brian could hear his mom walk in with groceries. He helped her place everything in the kitchen pantry and the fridge. 10 minutes later his dad returned with some tools and books from Grandma’s. The family got in the car and drove 10 minutes to Pete’s Pizza. By 5:51 they were inside and at the counter.

Brian clenched his hands. He tried not to, tried with all his might and fortitude to suppress it, but the squeaks came and he hopped up and down 5 times. People were staring again. He hated that. He didn’t see anything wrong with what he was doing. How could something that makes him feel better be a bad thing?

The same lady stood at the counter, ready to take their order at the cash register. Brian looked to his parents and knew instantly. They wanted him to try again. He knew it. He knew they would do this to him again. Everyone forced him to do things he didn’t want to do. Always testing him. Why should he have to order when the lady would understand them better than she would understand him?

As Brian stood there, rocking back and forth. Squeaking like a small duck or rusted flute, his hand rose back over his forehead. Just like last time. He took three small hops and squeaked a little louder. He closed and eyes so the lady couldn’t look into them. To his right, he heard someone laugh. It sounded like a little kid. Somewhere in the room Brian heard a little girl say, “Mom, why is that boy like that?” The woman told her daughter not to look at him.

“Brian?” Dad said.

“She’s waiting for you, Brian. You can do it.” Mom said.

Brian opened his eyes and peered around his hand covering part of his face just enough to see his parents and the lady at the counter. They stared at him. Those expressions the same as last time. What did they mean? Angry? Sad? Were they getting impatient or annoyed at how long it was taking him?

In his parent's eyes Brian could see that there was indeed something sad. He had never noticed it before. The rest of their faces looked normal. They even smiled at him. But something was different. Something he couldn’t see. Like a black hole. He looked to the lady at the counter and saw a similar look. Hers wasn’t like his parents. Hers was different, a deeper façade he couldn’t quite place. The revelation struck him like a blow. The expression he saw was that of one who is uncomfortable. Yes, that was it. And his parents, concerned.

The lady at the counter continued to stare with that horrible look in her eyes. The type of uncertainty and pity that had its way of slithering and breaching the surface of social protocol and etiquette. And Brian hated it. He winced and threw his hands up over his head again and tugged at his hair as another thought sprung to life in a single cathartic moment.

Brian didn’t hate her. And he wasn’t really upset with his parents. The order was simple. I want a large pepperoni pizza for here, please. And thank you. That’s all there was. Why so hard? Why couldn’t he do it? His mind wouldn’t let him.

Brian hopped and squeaked and rocked 5 times. 10 times. Faster. Faster. Faster to escape it. Dad placed a hand on his shoulder. Mom placed a hand on his back and rubbed it reassuringly.

“It’s okay, bud. Next time.” Dad said.

“I want a large pepperoni pizza, please. For here. And thank you.” Brian said.

Welcome Home Dad

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 06 Oct 2012 10:36:00 +0000

Welcome Home Dad

By Ryan L.

Rated: G

I wake up early in the morning before the sunlight seeps through my window. I’m very excited today and hardly slept the whole night. Today is the day we've been waiting for. It’s been a long time since we've seen him.

Dad sent me some letters while he was away in a place with a funny name I have a hard time saying.

Dear Sam,

Here I am on the other side of the world. It’s very cold here, but I’m happy knowing you and Mom are nice and warm in your blankets back home. Yesterday, some of the boys and I received the care packages from our friends back home. Nothing beats the taste of candy. When I get back I’ll take you to Susie’s on 5^th and Henry Street. I know how much you love their candy and malts. Have you been taking care of mom like we talked about? I know you are. I’m proud of you, son. I have a gift for you when I get back, but you’ll have to wait until you’re old enough. Tell Mom and Grandpa I love them. All my love and affection,

Dad

That was only one letter he’s sent me. It’s nice isn't it? Some even have pictures. There are strange men in dirty clothes with smiles and metal hats. He looks happy too. I’m not sure what it is, but they’re sitting on a big metal box with wheels. There’s something very scary about it.

We get to the big garden. There are many people staring in the same direction along the cobble street. I’m not sure what everyone is waiting for. All I know is my Dad will be walking up the road with his friends in the funny hats and dirty clothes.

I feel silly and uncomfortable in my big boy suit. Mom and Grandma say I have to wear it so everyone can see how fine I look. That I’m almost a grown up. I think if I have to wear these clothes to be a grown up then it’s worth it. All the other boys and men are dressed like me. Are we all grown up if we wear black?

Someone in the crowd gasps and points down the road. Now everyone is looking. I have a hard time seeing anything. There are too many grown ups. I push my way through the crowd. No one seems to notice me. But I remember my manners and say “Excuse me” and “Pardon me” every time I brush against someone.

I see it at last. A line of men in fancy uniforms. They’re carrying a box with a flag on it. I try to poke my head out of the crowd to see if Dad is almost here. I don’t see him. So I try a little more and take a few tentative steps into the street. Before I can call for him, Mom snags me back out of the street. She’s standing behind me. And even thought I can’t see her, I can feel her body trembling. Grandma comes forward and wraps her arm around her. I've never heard Grandma cry before.

The rest is a haze. The flag is folded in a particular way. Every fold and crease is made just so. The man says some words to Mom. She takes the flag in her hands. I can tell she’s trying hard not to cry now. I wonder why now and not before.

A short while later some men in fancy uniforms say more things I don’t understand. Where’s my Dad? Mom and Grandma said he’d be here. We came here just to see him. I see a man standing next to six men holding something in their hands. The man sounds off. His grey eyes find mine and shear into me. Cold steel seeps into my soul.

The man shouts.

Bang

I jump back and bump into Mom. She’s crying even more now. Is she crying because of the loud noise? I get ready to tell the scary man to stop.

Bang

My heart leaps into my throat where it flounders and sputters.

Bang

I’m crying now. I’m not sure why. All I know is my Dad isn't here.

Back at home Grandma falls asleep in the kitchen chair. She forgot to drink her coffee. Mom pulls a blanket over her and kisses her cheek. She sees me watching. She smiles. Such a sad thing. I’m not sure why. Mom picks me up and takes me upstairs to my room. She takes off my shoes and jacket. As she holds me tight in bed she tells me Dad isn't coming back. Mom presents the gift Dad wanted me to have when I’m old enough. Dad’s combat knife. She tells me she’ll keep it safe for me until I’m all grown up.

I wake up early in the morning. Before the sun’s first light seeps through my window. I check the clock on the wall. 5:03. I slept in too long. I will myself out of bed and dress. Place my shirt and pants on. Strap on my boots. Grab my papers. I walk to my side drawer by my bed and retrieve my treasure beneath the useless junk I forgot was even in there. I open a small box and pull out Dad’s combat knife. I think back on the day of his funeral.

Bang

I look to the desktop by the lamp for one last look at Grandma’s picture. It’s been hard since her passing.

Bang

As I creep through the hall and wince at each creek of the wooden floorboards, I stop just outside Mom’s room. I stand there, torn and unsure. I decide to risk it. I gently open the door and make my way to Mom, sleeping sound beneath the covers. Silent, I place the letter on her bible where I know she will see it. I go to turn and stop, suddenly afraid. I’m shaking. My hand clenches the knife tighter and tighter until my knuckles turn white. My heart pounds against my chest. It’s a wonder Mom doesn't awaken with such a thunderous sound beside her. I twist my head and stare at her. There is a part of me that wants nothing more than to wake her up. I know she will stop me if I do. I look to Dad’s knife in my hand. Place it on top of the farewell letter.

Bang

As a shadow, I take my leave and gingerly close the door behind me and make my way outside.

I adjust my pack and stand waiting for the taxi that will take me where I need to go.

Somewhere over the seas men fight and die. I’m off to join them.

You’ll keep me safe. Right, Dad?