New Short Story: Blackbird 10.12

     Somber tones from a piano compete against the frantic hustle and bustle of the Eastboro Shopping Mall on a cold night in northern Connecticut. Holiday decorations cover the length of the mall, and the aggressive – or rather, “jolly” - attitudes of the crowd mingle into a collective mindset of task-orientation. Every single shopper seems to charge into a perfectly calculated route, with half-thought out smiles on their faces.

Perhaps the only person standing still in the entire complex - an older man - sits at a piano; trails of cigarette smoke linger around his head like a halo before disappearing. His suit, a sort of pin-striped black, with a white undershirt, stands out against the backdrops of green and red painted in every direction. His five o-clock shadow and calloused hands seem an odd combination for a piano player, but you'd never guess from the sound pouring from the instrument.
     It's actually kind of funny, how hundreds of massing people hearing the piano, but not a single one of them listening. If any of them were, you could easily pick them out of a crowd, because they surely would have stopped to stare. The music was haunting in a way that was more beautiful than I could ever possibly describe. Hearing the holiday songs being played with such melancholy notes was like seeing a man trying his best to smile while delivering the news of a recent job-loss to a wife, or a doctor having to break terminal news to a unfortunate patient somewhere. There's a lesson in all this though, no matter how loud you speak, no one is ever listening. At least not for Freddy, the “Holiday night-shift pianist for the Eastboro Shopping Mall in Connecticut”. It was a cruel joke that his honorific was almost as grand as his own piano.

     When the mall finally closed up, he strolled into a back room, and was waved over by a small man in a Santa Claus outfit holding an envelope in his hands.“125 bucks, just like I promised Freddy.” said the man at the table. Walking to the table, the piano player took the envelope, and tucked it into his coat pocket before turning around to leave. Stopping at the doorway, he looked back at the man, and gave a weak smile, before turning to head through the doorway.

“Freddy... “, the man asked after a moment of hesitation. “What do you plan on doing with that money?”
“I 'spose I'll buy a little holiday cheer on my way home, boss”
“Alfred Turner. I told you this was the last time I could throw you a bone. There won't be any more money after this one!”
“I know Greg, I may not be all that bright, but my hearins' fine.” Freddy said from behind a coy smile.

“Damnit Freddy, when are you going to pick yourself back up? We've been out of Germany for 8 years now.”
“Goodbye Greg, give my regards to the missus.”

     One arm thrown in the air in dismissal, Freddy turned to leave, but was stopped at the doorway. “Freddy” Greg said in a low voice. Turning in the doorway, his monstrous stature nearly filling it, he turned and looked at Greg. “Yeah?” Freddy asked. ”Nothing, nevermind. Take care, ya bum.”

     Heading towards the exit of the mall, Freddy paused as he walked by his piano. Stepping over to the instrument, he sat down, and pulled up the fall board. Running his fingers down the span of the keys, the sad sounds of the piano matched his smile. He played for what seemed hours, and didn't stop until the glare of a passing janitor caught him. “Get out of here, Freddy” the janitor hollered from a back door; “Everyone's already left. Go home and enjoy the holiday!”. “Don't sweat it, I'll lock her up tonight,” Freddy called back. Shaking his head, the janitor strolled out of the building without a second glance.
     “Goodbye ole girl” he said to himself as he looked up at the vaulted ceiling of the shopping mall, and back down to the grand piano in front of him. Tracing his hand along the bottom board of the instrument, his hands fell on a crude carving of a blackbird in the mahogany frame. “I can't sing with you anymore darlin', and I'm afraid I'm not strong enough to let somebody else sing for me.”

     Walking out of the building, his breath turned to sheets of mist in front of his face, Freddy got in his old pickup truck, and slammed the door, only waiting a few brief moments before reaching for the glove box. Pulling out a large, unmarked amber bottle, he started to drink heavily from it, only setting it down when only a little to a fifth was left. Rubbing his eyes to try and knock out the double vision he was seeing, he looked out of his rear window for a few moments before stumbling out of the vehicle. Pulling up a corner of a beige cloth tarp lashed over the bed of his truck, Freddy clung to the side, and leaned into the vehicle to get a closer look at the contents.
     Twelve jerrycans of gasoline sat in the bed, and a small bundle of clothe inside of a plastic bag stinking of gasoline sat on the bed. Strapping the tarp roughly back into place, he staggered back into the vehicle, and started the engine up with a loud roar and sputter. Moreso swerving than driving, Freddy made his way through the parking lot up to the large window that overlooked the lobby where his piano sat. His hand reaches for the still open door of his truck, and comes up short, falling straight onto his face. A bloody nose scribbles a quick message onto the concrete.

     Picking himself up, He shook his head, and nearly fell back down as a irrational laughing fit took over him. Finally making his way into the still running vehicle, he clung to the steering wheel with one hand, and threw his arm about in frantic waves until he found the door to pull shut. His laughing is silenced as he presses the gas, and turns the vehicle towards the window. Slamming the pedal into the dirty floor mats of the truck, the vehicle bursts through the glass, and skids to the side for a few feet before tipping sideways, and falling onto the freshly waxed tile of the mall floor. Crawling out from the busted driver side window, one arm dangling weakly as a large shard of glass sticks out from his shoulder, he tumbles from the truck, and trudges his way over to the bed of the vehicle.
     Most of the gas tanks lay busted and strewn upon the floor, with only three seen to be fully intact. Stuffing the plastic bag under his coat, and grabbing the three, he made his way to the piano. Soaking the instrument in an entire can of gas, he took the other two, and made trails to the walls, where bulky curtains, decorated for the season, sat in the shadows. Soaking the bottoms of the curtains in gas, and then laying the cans tangled up in their folds, he walks back to the piano, and falls to the bench, blood loss turning the edges of his vision black.
     Opening the bag, he pulls out the material, and flings it in the air, exposing it to be a dark brown scarf, covered in years of soot and grim. Holding it in both hands, gasoline dripped from its length and fell onto the keys. Clutching the scarf to his face, Freddy started sobbing, the tears having nothing to do with the fumes stinging his eyes. “I'm so sorry” he sobs into the material. “I'm so damn sorry”.
Tying the scarf to the lid prop and striking a zippo lighter, Freddy set the scarf on fire and sat back down on the bench. The cuts all over his body throbbed in pain as the gas covering his own jacket found its way into the wounds. Wincing, he dropped his feeble injured arm, and his still functioning one onto the keys, and started to play a song.

     “Symphony of an Old Soldier” he howled to himself, as laughter and erratic tones floated around the empty mall. As the fire reached the truck behind him, the explosion would silence both offenders who ruined this silent night, but as the fire tore into the building, everything from the tearing of curtains, to the popping of moisture trapped in the piano all created both a terrible, and wonderful melody. For the finale, a quartet of sirens in the background fell upon Freddy's ears. “Beautiful” he thought to himself in his last fleeting moments; “A masterpiece”. The charred remains of the scarf where picked up by a gust that blew in from the broken window, and swept them out into the night sky where they disappeared, probably settling in a nearby field somewhere. Just like Freddy, they too would find rest.

     Now that I have told you how Alfred James Turner died, allow me to tell you the story of when he stopped living, and why a scarf and a blackbird could leave the charred skeleton of a busy shopping mall, on a cold night in northern Connecticut.

     Erratic caws from a group of bloated crows compete against the frantic shrieking of gunshots and humans of the Katyn Forest on a cold morning in northern Poland. Steel-marred trees stand quivering in the cold winter wind that whips scraps of torn clothing around motionless bodies littering the forest floor like leaves. Soldiers walk in front, and disappear behind trees, making them appear as monsters from local folklore, combing the landscape. Every single soldier seems to march in a perfectly calculated route, faces set in grim determination.
     Laying low in a natural dip in the forest floor, two men clutch rifles to their chests as they gasp for air. One is bandaged – a drying stream of blood runs from his mouth - but the other seems generally untouched. Despite showing no visible wounds, he looks out wild-eyed with the same attentiveness of a caged-animal. Peeking up over the small mound they are hiding behind, the soldier reaches down and shakes his bloodied companion. “Clancy, stay with me, we have to keep moving.” Looking back down, he shakes the other man a little rougher and whispers “Clancy! Stay with me boy! Hold on,” but the hoarse rise and fall of the other man's chest is no longer showing signs of strain. His body lay limp and drained of color. Shouting the man's name, the living soldier experiences a sharp strain to the back of his head before everything goes black.

     Officer Alfred James Turner was a fine soldier, as loyal and strong as they come, but humans are not made of stone the way the statues commemorating the dead are in this country. We are instead closer in similarity to rubber bands; we are constantly changing our shape and bending, but a breaking point always exists. When Alfred broke, he walked around for many years trying to fix himself, to no avail. No matter how hard he tried, he could no longer bend, he could no longer change. Alfred James Turner was garbage that wouldn't be thrown out for many years to come. Many unhappy, unbending, and unchanging years.

     Screams from an adult male escape from small slits in a concrete bunker, tucked away in the woods. Inside, Alfred sits strapped to a chair as a man in a black buttoned-up medical coat crouches in front of him, a steel rod red with heat pressed onto the webbing of his toes. Howling in pain, Alfred's convulsing body collapses into a sweating, panting pile as the instrument is pulled away. The door into the small room is thrown open, and in walks a man in a high-ranking black suit, with tall, turned-down boots, and a double handful of metal badges decorating his collar.

     Senior Command Leader Gustav Amsel strolled leisurely into the room with his arms tucked casually behind his back. “Guten Morgan, Herr Turner. How are we doing today?” he said while looking over a small script of paper sitting on the lone table in the room. Although faint, the German of his accent poked through, signifying a man who is probably educated, and spent some time abroad learning the language. Ever the soldier, turner unconsciously tucked away this information, hoping to one day use it to help him escape.

     Opening his mouth and spitting at the man, Gustav blocked the saliva, and delivered a head-jarring backhand in one swift motion to Alfred's face. “You're getting sloppy mein friend, but you're not defeated that easily are you?” he says to the hanging head of Alfred. Clapping his leather gloves together, the doctor in the room grips the man by the hair, and wrenches his head back, so as to face Gustav. “No, I can only assume this to be a ploy at some ridiculous escape attempt. “You Americans are quite cunning, and you are one of the best I've seen yet,” he says while pacing back and forth. Gustav's face appears the model of serenity: cold, calculated, and unchanging. “Do you have anything you'd like to say?”

     Alfred's throat muscles clench in preparation to spit again, and finally managed to get what he achieved for. A irritated twitch of the Commander's eye is all that broke free from his ironclad composure, but it was enough for Alfred. A howling enters the room again, but this time in the form of laughter. Unfortunately, victory is short-lived, as a boot quickly plants itself fiercely into his chest, sending both the chair and himself crashing to the ground.

     Regaining his breath, and running his hand through the hair recently fallen onto his face, Gustav stands over Alfred, and crouches down to the side so that he may look him in the eye. “tsk, tsk, tsk Alfie. I had hoped to receive ze location of your battalion the easy way” Gustav says sarcastically. A blissful smile peeks onto his face – similar to a child awoken in the middle of a Christmas night by rustling in the living room. Looking Alfred in the eyes, he says “When was the last time you had a meal?” Try as he might, the mention of food made Alfred dry swallow, and a terrible noise rose from his stomach. Standing up and clapping his hands together, Gustav let out a terrible laugh. “Gut! Good, good, good. I thought as much. We're going to play a game, you and I. The good news is that win or lose, you'll be receiving a feast.”

     Alfred can only see a small portion of the room now, but watches as Gustav walks near the edge of his vision, and whispers to the doctor. Nodding his head in agreement, he hollers in German into a small tin radio, and the sound of marching feet echo in the hallway. “Bis gleich, mein freund” Gustav says as he strolls from the room, laughing light-heartedly. Alfred was a strong man, but weakness overcame him. Quivering on the floor – be it from fear, or malnutrition – Officer Alfred James Turner passed out as the boots of soldiers came stomping into the room.

     It felt as if hours for Alfred, as he sat floating through a never ending expanse of ink. “I've finally died haven't I... and this is heaven? Perhaps... perhaps it is, for a soldier. Fitting.” he said to nobody in particular. Exhaling, he rests his head back, and surrenders to the feeling, allows himself to just float through the darkness that surrounded him.

     Things went on in this manner for what felt like an eternity, when suddenly a jolt ran through Alfred's spine. Familiar scents started to flood his nose: the smoky scent of thick-cut sausages, the aroma of bread with the smooth smell of butter. Savory stews, fresh picked fruits and vegetables, and the hopsy scent of cold ale flooded light through the shadows.
     “Ah, good morning Alfred,” a voice chimed. Everything was a blur to him, but slowly, shapes started to focus and fall into place. He didn't need his eyes to know if was Gutav speaking to him now, though. He cautiously tried to take in his surroundings, but was pulled instantly to the table in front of him. It had to be his hunger, but the steam of fresh and hot food felt like the delicate outstretched fingers of a woman, as it softly touched his cheek, and passed across his lips. Taking in a deep breath, his hands jumped forward of their own accord. It was at this moment he realized he was tied to a chair, and the explosion of laughter from the Germans sent him into an embarrassing fit of wailing, as blubbery tears raced down his face.

     After the Nazis had their fill of laughter, Gustav's hand yet again gripped Alfred by the hair, and pulled his head back, so as they could see eye to eye. “Here is the deal,” Gustav said, his voice so cold, you could have believed the man had never laughed in his life, even after hearing his deep laughter only moment ago. His accent was now impossible to pick out, as calculating eyes bore holes into Alfred's head. “We are at the house” - the sneer he made at the word “house” suggesting what he actually thought of the poor, thrown together building - “of the Boskos, a little family from this area,” he spoke. “Tell me friend, do they teach you the etymology of surnames before they let you loose on our soil?” he asked, the mocking tone of his voice clearly speaking rhetorically. He continued, not allowing Alfred a chance to speak, although both men knew the tied up soldier had been broken at this point.

     “Bosko” comes from the Slavic word “bossy” which means “barefoot”. “Fitting, isn't it, that such a poor family would carry such a poor last name?” It's at this moment, Alfred heard a whimper, and craned his neck around to focus on a family huddled in the corner. If it wasn't for the flickering eyes, he may have passed them off as nothing more than ap ile of filthy rags. The father had his head hung in humiliation, and the mother sat staring off into nothing in particular. The worst sight, however, was the children shivering, while trying to hide inside their mother's bulky skirts. Occasionally, one of the children would peer at the food hopefully, only to bury their faces once again. The look on Alfred's face set such a fire inside Gustav, that his voice started to slip back once again into accent.

     “Now zat you are caught up to speed, allow me to tell you the game we'll be playing. The food you see in front of you is all this family has to last them through ze bulk of winter. Whatever you don't eat, they may have,” Gustav said, his grin nearly reaching his eyes. Shaking, Alfred tried to turn his head away, but his eyes turned sharp and predatory, while unconsciously licking his lips. Gustav continued talking, but it was all mute noise to Alfred's ears, as he felt the braces on his arm open up. He threw himself at the table, and began wolfing down as much food as he could possibly gather. It all seemed a blur, and when he finally took control, he sat back in the chair, and looked at his hands for a long time.

     The greasy collection of colors and textures on his hands spoke of a feast for a king, and when he looked at the table, the mess he left seemed a corpse, picked over by scavengers. With his mouth quivering, he turned his head to the family in the corner, the father now openly weeping into his palms, and the mother's lips twitching into a smile as she stared into that nothingness she had been looking at earlier. What words could possibly make up for what he had done? What kind of an apology could possibly excuse his crimes? Setting his head onto the wooden table, Alfred cried, but not as he had before. It was no longer a loud, wailing noise. No, it was now soft, and slow. It was nothing – Alfred felt, Alfred thought. Alfred was nothing.

     Alfred felt a tugging at his sleeve, but couldn't up the courage to look. Whatever his captors were up to, let them have him he thought. Finally turning his head around, his eyes fell on the youngest son of the family. The boy held a smile that roared passionately of the heroes from stories, those brave men who never faltered, and would never stop fighting for what was right. This young child walked over with all the power and innocence of youth, and held a scarf out to Alfred, directing it to his filthy hands. Alfred just stared at him, while slowly grabbing the scarf – a grimy, brown thing – and started to scrub it around his hands. “Thank you,” he spoke, the child nodding without actually having to understand English to get the message. Few things are as universal as genuine appreciation.

     The look in Alfred's eyes were in stark contrast to Gustav's. Whereas his own eyes rippled like that of a calm pound, light reflecting off its surface – Gustav's was a roaring fire. The click of a gun is heard, and a scream tearing from Alfred's throat is drowned by the heavy explosion of a bullet tearing through the barrel of a pistol, followed by a sickly sounding pop as the child's head splashes onto a nearby wall. Alfred's face was now covered in blood, and the mother began to shriek, never moving her head from the corner of the room she was staring at. “rennen sie alle!” Gustav shouted, and whipped out of the room in a flurry, the multitudes of his jacket whipping about. His soldiers trailed after him, and closing the door, the sound of a heavy metal bolt falling into place announced that they were locked in. 

     The accusatory glare of the father would be found at the bottom of every bottle, until the end of Alfred's days, and he knew this. Alfred James Turner welcomed the fire, relishing in the heat and heavy smoke that started filling the room. “A butcher being cooked, now this is a wonderful joke” he said, laughing to himself. His howling drowned out the noise of the daughter banging her fist against the walls, and of the father throwing his body against the door.

     Coughing, Alfred opened his eyes, and sat staring at the sky in confusion. A cold wind swept handfuls of ash and soot in front of him, and the sharp caws of crows rang in his ears. Sitting up, he looked around, and realized where he was for the first time. He lay alone on the floor of the forest, looking around for a sign of human life – of which there was none. A coughing fit took him, and for a few moments, aggressive barks poured from his throat, and emptied onto the ground, sending out dusts of soot. Another sharp cackle of a crow brought his eyes to one of the birds picking at a charred mound. It took a moment, but he finally realized what it was he was looking at: that small child that had given him the scarf. Throwing a plank of wood, Alfred caught the bird mid-flight as it tried to run, sending is sprawling to the ground. Puncing on the bird, and hammering it into the ground, a scream to come out of his mouth, but only produced a wheeze from his smoke-damaged lungs.

     Flinging the black and red bundle of a crow behind him, Alfred took up the child and tried to brush the hair out of his face – hair that snapped like straw and wilted away from the gray and porous skin on the child's face. The sun had moved methodically across the sky before Alfred stopped sobbing, and held the child in his arms. A trained soldier, he started south, heading towards the direction his platoon would be.

Perhaps miles had passed before he found an area that wouldn't contain the heavy roots of the old-growth forest around him, and he set the child down, softly of course, and began to scoop dirt from the ground with his hands. Evening came before the hole was ready; Alfred's hands bloodied and black, he sat in the hole for awhile, wondering if he should just stay in. “No, you've taken enough from the boy, don't take this too, you son of a bitch!” That was right, wasn't it? Alfred was a son of a bitch, a monster, any sort of despicable creature from Hollywood, as bad as any German soldier. Shaking his head, he climbed on out. “Don't you feel sorry for yourself, you piece of shit.”

     Lowering the child into the hole, he tried his best to give a fitting eulogy. Alfred sank to his knees, and spoke to the patch of turned soil on the forest floor. “I have no doubt you'll be embraced with open-arms in the afterlife. You were braver than I have ever been. I know a hole in the ground isn't a gift, but it's all I can do. I'm sorry... even if sorry isn't good enough, know it's there. Know that it will always be there. I'm so damn sorry”. With that, Alfred turned around, and headed through the forest. In a few days, he would stumble upon his old platoon, and they'd cheer and drink heavily in glee that one of their own made it back. Not everyone at the celebration was smiling.

     He was awarded many medals, but whenever mentioned, he would start to cry, eventually resulting in a debriefing and discharge. From that moment on, any city Alfred lived in would see a sharp spike in alcohol sales until he was run out of town. Alfred James Turner knew exactly who he was, and never changed. It was to everyones mutual benefit that he died, all perhaps except for that small, nameless boy. If he were alive, he could perhaps tell him “it wasn't your fault. Sometimes things happen. Please, you need to live on, honor me in this way, live enough for the both of it!”. Alfred would never hear this though, because of him, that boy wasn't around to tell him so.

     The sun rose that morning, and just like that awful day ten years ago, the wind swept ash and soot across the sky. A murder of crows sat perched on a telephone wire and eyed the charred remains of a mall, and the circus of men and women cleaning up the mess. A van drove past, and a woman looked out from the passenger seat at the ruins. “Heard it was a suicide” the husband said matter-of-factly. “Now where are we supposed to go shopping?” the wife said, clicking her tongue in exasperation. “What kind of a person would do something like that around Christmas?”

“What kind of a person?”

“What kind of a person?”

“What kind of a person?”

Hoping For a Symphony, Hearing a Funeral March Edit Prep 2012

Working Title: Hoping For a Symphony, Hearing a Funeral March. 

     Thick walls of solid oak do well to mute most of the noise kicked up by the wind outside. The house is cancerous; its furnishings and decor whispering of a long since missing period of good fortune, at least financially. Now the rotting floorboards and stained walls appear as through stricken with some strange plague. Dark water marks make abstract messages on the wall.     

     A green, circular splotch on the wall - it's insides smeared and surging to the floorboards - reads "you're all alone", not needing language to convey the words. Holes punched in the ceiling - gray liquid lining its edges - tells a tale of missing the past. An old table - pocked by clustered communities of furry, black mold - sighs, not even bothering to try anymore. In stark contrast to the tables apathy, you can hear sobbing coming from the skeletal remains of a chimney; if you listen hard enough, that is. A cracked window stares as though the glazed eyes of a fresh corpse. There is no hope hiding in the cracks and corners of this house.   

     In the middle of this living room, a ragged man sits on a leather-backed chair, its stitches all frayed and its stuffing oozing out. His patchwork robe hands from his rail-thin body, its material just as grimy as the man it sticks to. Its dark colors hint at perhaps a lighter color, many years ago. A patchy beard mirrors the robe. His eyes reflect no color. Unwashed skin filled in the bare patches of his facial hair, wrinkles dance across the majority. The man appears to be in his late 40s. He is 25.     

     He has a blank stare directed towards a wall, not looking at all the phantom images flickering in and out of the room. A mother dragging a toy back to its proper place; a father striking up a match for his pipe, its smokey, familiar scent haunting his nose. A sister crying over a minor scrape on her right knee, probably picked up from climbing the apple tree in the back yard. A dog, laying near the chimney, softly moaning and kicking in his sleep. He doesn't look at any of them.     

     Its been around 15 years since the world was wiped out: invisible burials. The man woke up on a warm spring morning, and everyone was just gone. We take for granted how beautiful communication can be. The subtle bits of slang and accent, the varying degrees of emphasis and punctuation. The astronomical combination and choices of words. Every living person has such a unique and incredible voice. 15 long, quiet years missing that is just too damn terrible to wish on even the worst of enemies. You cannot possibly imagine after being defeated for so long, what a voice sounded like when it met his ears on the evening to this story.     

     "Gilman", the voice calls, slipping through the cracks of the broken window. As I mentioned before, there is no hope in this house, but the man does stand up, slowly. Everything is done slowly. His legs quiver as they make their way to the front door. His hands are shaking so hard, the rusty old handle of the door snaps off, its of its clockwork insides falling to the floor. Stepping out onto the front porch, he stares down the hill his house was built on, and watches the trees at the bottom. They sway and shudder just as he does in the cold, evening wind.    

     Again, that voice is heard, only this time, its from right behind him. Turning to greet whoever is playing this grand symphony for him, he doesn't even blink in disappointment. Similar to the past 15 years of his life, no one is there. Those of us who have been broken do not let disappointment linger. It is is seen briefly, much like a flame, flickering on a candle. We acknowledge it, draw ourselves near, and we swallow it whole. Needless to say, it leaves a small burning in the person chest, but you can get used to it. You can get used to all sorts of awful things.

     The man starts to head back inside, when he realizes the door is now covered in boards, haphazardly nailed on, keeping him form entering the house. Craning his neck around, he sees all the trees are now withering memories of the beautiful giants he saw only moments ago. Everything looks so much bigger now, and to that extent, lonelier.

     Sinking to his knees, Gilman stretches his body out on the porch, pressing his face to the wooden planks, his eyes starting to stream. His expression is the same as when we first met him, rotting on that chair. A strange rasp escapes from his throat - it no longer remembering how to form audible words - and mouths "please let me in". Over and over, he begs, the only answer is a loud groaning from the house.     

     Even as the ceilings start to save in, and the walls begin to crumble, he stays there: begging to fall with it. The house implodes, turning into a dusty pile of brick and splinter. Nothing is left standing, except for that door. That damn door stands straight up, as though a gravestone.     

     He just laid there, his eyes closed, and never got up again. He heard that voice calling to him until the very end. The wind picked up his clothes, and carried them down the hill, to dance among the remaining trees. I'm sure it must have felt peaceful. I’m sure of it.

     “Gilman”, a frail old voice calls from the plain concrete porch of apartment 212. A large sign stands in the background, “Lemongrass Meadows” it read. This apartment complex was a copy and paste sort of place. “Store bought”, “cookie cutter”, and “soulless” are all adequate descriptions. “212” was the only thing that separated Gilman from any other body in this building.

     Mrs. Krasinski, the owner of that voice, called “Gilman” over and over again. She was the gossip of the entire complex, but specialized in Building D: rooms 205-252 at Lemongrass.  It had been 7 years since her husband passed, her powers of amateur sleuthing and exaggeration progressively improving and refining over the years. Actually, reporting Gilman’s recent absence to the landlord would be the first time her nosey personality did some good. Subsequently solidifying an arrogance - and thus defense - that would help to promote her idiosyncrasies, and  steel her hands while digging through peoples proverbial garbage until the end of her days.      

     Mr. Johnson was a bloated man, who rubbed his eyes sleepily as he worked his thick fingers through his set of keys to unlock the door to apartment 212. He nearly fainted when he found the state of Mr. Gilman Chatsworth. Gilman had lain in the middle of his small living room, and curled into a fetal position. A small piece of rubber tubing was wrapped around his arm, and an empty needle lay on the ground, near an unmarked orange bottle of pills, now empty. It wasn’t the sight of these miscellaneous instruments of the man’s death that sent Mr. Johnson running out of the room, but rather the humming of flies that flocked around the man’s body.  Most unnerving of all, though, was the genuine smile on the face of Gilman. This was all too much for Mr. Johnson’s delicate stomach.     

     The apartment itself was - oddly enough - in pristine condition. The only peculiarity, if it could be called that, was that all the picture frames in the room has been placed face down. Police reports would later provide signed papers from a certain Elizabeth Finch from a few months prior. The documents were the final stages of a hasty divorce.

     Gilman’s cold body offset the room that may have otherwise felt warm as you walked in. Potted plants, tacky framed art, and a beautiful mahogany table sat in what would have been a dining room in a larger house. Dusted shelves full of miscellaneous decorations lined the walls, and a large bookcase sat in the corner. Lemongrass Meadow’s flier boasting a 350+ residency, with a communal pool, tennis courts, and laundry room. Even with all these people, Gilman still felt alone in this world.

     There is a saying I sometimes recall my grandmother telling us kids, when we would gather around on the holidays and watch her cook up a pot of her famous gnocchi soup. “Why not buy the carrots bagged like everyone else, mom!” our father would call from the living room. “You’re too old to keep growing your own vegetables”. “You watch your talk now, boy!” she’d holler while waving the spoon towards the room. However, she’d always have a smile on her face, trading being the butt-end of a joke for the sake of the company.      

     It was always some sort of prodding that would have her swinging that spoon like some barbaric weapon, but shortly after, she’d lean down and whisper for us to come in for a secret. “Your daddy never understood it, but I’ll tell you kids right now, everything in life is about quality, not quantity”, and with that, she’d produce a small piece of homemade toffee for each of us, and we’d scamper off, her laughter fading behind us. It had never even occurred to me before this incident that none of us kids ever asked for a second piece. Without even knowing it, our grandmother force fed us her philosophy inside those delicious pieces of candy, and I owe much of my good fortune in life to that sweet lesson.    

     For whatever reason Mr. Chatsworth lost his wife, a thousand people couldn’t fill the the part of his life she has helped him make. Having seen that swarm of flies around his body myself, if only for just a split second, it made me sad that I couldn’t have helped him out. If only I could have told him that you need not think in numbers when you say “you want more”. I suppose that’s neither here, nor there though.  Shrugging off the guilt like that makes me sound like a bad person, and I’m ashamed to be writing these words to you now. However, I am human, and that is a very important part of our natural defenses. I couldn’t tell you if that defese came from the heart, or the brain though. Like everything else I've come to learn, probably both.     

     We sometimes make the mistake in thinking that time is cruel to us. I’ve come to believe this to only be a half-truth. We assume that time is cruel to us, and to those we have come to love, but time only exists so that it may be equally cruel to everyone. Some of us just have the luck - I’m neither sure if that luck is good or bad - to not realize this. As sad as it sounds to put those words on paper, it is also liberating in a way I cannot tell to you. I can only hope the show you through this story how wonderful life is when you realize you're not alone in your suffering.

     You may be a victim, but so is every damn person on this planet. That man sitting across from you  on the subway, what manner of tragedy has befallen his family? The woman ahead of you in the grocery store check out line, what sort of fear eats at her stomach at night? The taxi driver that didn't stop for you, that teenaged employee at the resteraunt last Wednesday, those old couples that throw stale food to appreciative pigeons at the park? Can't you hear the heavy steps of all your brothers and sisters in this city? Can't you marvel at how they all walk the same as you, just one foot in front of the other?

     It's for all of these reasons that I believe that if Gilman had understood this small lesson, he wouldn’t have wept and shattered over the hole left in his life. Instead, he may have chosen to find the most beautiful soil around to fill with, and spent his days admiring what sort of plants - vibrant flowers and their opposing weeds - would bloom.      

     “But what would I know?”, right? I haven’t even introduced myself yet. My name is George; how do you do? I collect coins, vintage typewriters, and old clocks. I am left-handed, in my mid-40s, and am one of the many channels through which Mrs. Kravinski nurses her addiction. I am also - and perhaps most importantly - married to my wife Kathleen, for 18 wonderful years now. I make an honest living as an editor of a local newspaper, but this is not how I define myself. I consider myself a master gardener, and I love the many shapes and colors my life has shown me so far.

     When you are faced with difficulties in life - of which I’m certain you will - I hope you can think back to my voice now, and choose to enjoy it. Enjoy the good moments, along with the bad, so you don’t have to end up curled up on a floor somewhere, with puncture marks in your arms, and an invisible hole in your chest. I hope the last noise you hear is a the beauty of life, and not whatever it is death must sound like. I hope you hear the symphony, not the funeral march.

“You are all alone”, a voice said.

“You don’t have to be” said another.

Only the first was heard.

Fortune Favors Those That Die Young Edit Prep 2012

Fortune Favors Those Who Die Young

     “It feels just like yesterday,” an old man says to himself while staring at his gnarled old hands. “ I can sometimes still feel the grain of bark against my young hands, or the smooth touch of my first love. Those are long gone now though.” he says, sinking back into the warm water of his bathtub. He pulls his head under as he once did when he was a child, and exhaled into the water, shooting a stream of bubbles to the surface. His smile is quickly replaced by a frown when the joints in his hips ache from the position he's laying in. Emerging, he whispers “fortune favors those who die young”, and slips into his robe and walks to his bedroom; trumpets sound a song of defeat.

     Sitting in a tall-backed chair in front of the fireplace, he stares at the smoldering embers, and says “That's right. Today is my birthday isn't it? I suppose I'm too old to break tradition now”. He pulls out his leather-bound book, and picks up his pen to start writing under a large header of “Year 72”. After only three lines, he places the pen back inside the spine of the book, and sets it down next to his chair. The motion of setting the book down brushes the pages from beginning to end showing a flip-book of gradual apathy. The first few pages are written in full, but page after page – year after year- they grow smaller in substance and meaning. He doesn't even bother to try at this point. Closing his eyes, he falls asleep, his head full of the thoughts that have haunted him since he could remember: inevitability.

     His dreams are the same as every night since he could remember. He was a young man again, flying a P-51 Mustang over the coast of Western France during the second World War. A browned picture of a beautiful woman with loose rings of black hair sits in his steering wheel, so that if he went down, she would be the last thing he saw. With every metal tooth he sunk into the hides of opposing German planes, he would tuck away the thought of running his strong hands up her smooth thigh, as he kissed her passionately on the neck. Outside of returning to a woman, what other reason would a man have to paint the sky with blood and metal day in and day out?

     The war was long and bloody, and the boys who walked into it with youthful courage, left sullenly as men, carrying in the bags on their backs a lifetimes worth of demons. The war was over, and when his boat pulled into the harbor at New York, some of the soldiers would holler and laugh as the enormous crowds of the city cheered to them. Too many soldiers just sullenly watched as the others waved. Jumping in a cab near the dock, Will gave his address to the driver, and sat back to stare out of the window at a city that had changed entirely in his short while away. The ride took a good twenty minutes, but he was used to long distances of traveling while being left to his own thoughts. If his tone didn't block any advances of conversation from the driver, his sullen face did. It wouldn't be until they pulled up outside the third story apartment he shared with Alice that the reflection on the window would show a smile. “I'm home Alice” he muttered to himself, giving the driver too much money, and pushing back the drivers hand when offered change.

     Walking to the front door, Will patted his coat pocket to make sure the ring was still safely tucked away inside. He smiled to himself, and laughed when he realized it was the first time being nervous wouldn't lead to fearing he would never see his Alice again. He almost reached the door, and frowned when he saw a Chrysler Saratoga parked on the side of the road. “Whose car could that be?” he thought to himself as he pushed open the door. For many years, doubt had fought with young Will, trying to worm itself into his head. How funny that it would take a world wide war ending, to finally find a way into Will Pascal. His pace quickened as he walked the stairs to his old room, and his heart was pounding louder than anything except for his own fist on the door. The sound of romance filled the outside hallway.

     Opening the door, Will found a man with a greasy smile, and oil-slicked hair buttoning up his pants, while Alice sat with the bed sheet pulled up to cover her breasts. The woman turns to will, and shouts “What's the big idea? Bargin' in here like tha-” and is cut off when the light of a passing car shows his face to her. “Will” she whispers, “I figured you would have been long dead by now”. The man, looking between the two of them did not understand the situation, and puffed up his chest as he walked over to Will. “Listen here army boy, Alice is with me now, so scram.” Alice's scream muffles the sound of Will's .45 caliber that illuminated the room for a split second. Clutching his chest, the man sinks to his knees, and is casually pushed out of the way.

     Turning to Alice, Will's face contorted between the horror of what he had just done, and anger at why it had happened in the first place. “Will.. do- don't kill me, please. I'm sorry” she murmurs through a wall of tears. “Sorry!” Will demands. “Every day out there, every day butchering men, and hoping I could make it home to see you. Every day, staring at your picture, the thought of coming home to marry you being the only thing keeping me together! And I come home to this? The ghosts of my past are going to haunt me for the rest of my life, just so I could see you!”. Turning to the door, Will looks over his shoulder at her and says “how could I have misjudged a whore like you.” and strolls from the room laughing as if finally understanding some great cynical joke. She sees him put the silhouette of a ring back into his pocket as he strolls from the room. Two different Alices began to weep in that room, dimly lit by moon.

     Waking up, Will sees a flash of faceless men, bloodied by his own actions, and vomits into a small pot near his chair. Wiping off his mouth, he picks up his book, and tosses it into the fire. Ominous, in that he wouldn't live to write another chapter anyway. The last two months of Will's life were bitter, and full of wishing to try his youth all over again. To stop being haunted by the ghosts of all those he killed, and so that he could finally wash the memory of Alice's naked body from his hands. In those last days of his, the thought of that woman would lead him to scrubbing his hands together until the skin cracked and bled.

     Will died alone, not because life was harsh to him, because it is harsh to everyone. Will died alone because he lost most of himself in the skies above Europe, and the rest of him was left in the stained floorboards of that third story apartment bed. Had he only been an adult when he started to kill for his nation instead of a boy. Oh god, one can only weep for the dead bodies of children like Will that would walk around not knowing it for the rest of their lives.

- Bellum Paenitere

Comedy Edit Prep 20120

Comedy

To Miss Marie,

     I have received the letter regarding your uncle, and I would be more than happy to respond. However, unless you have the misfortune of sharing his troubles, it would be impossible for me to tell you what Edgar Valentine was going through when he killed himself. It is a sad reality that people have committed suicide for a long while now. Depression and circumstance have long been the tipping point for many a poor soul. However, at the time of your uncle's death, no one had ever climbed to the top of the world, only to jump. Since I cannot possibly tell you how he felt, let me tell you more about the man himself; perhaps knowing these things will help you feel for him as he deserved.

     Edgar Valentine was the child of a minister in a small Indiana town that you couldn't even hide a cough in. He had seven brothers and sisters, and an overprotective mother. Like the countless numbers of fictional characters Edgar read about, he set off for Hollywood at a young age to make his way in the world. They say that things don't always turn out like they do in the stories, but the truth of the matter is slightly different, in that even those few lives that do manage to mimic stories aren't all full of good luck and smiles. Those kind of stories are still read from oily pages covered in grime and sweat.
     He would one day come to be recognized as the single greatest comedic actor the world had ever seen, but it wasn't always that way. No, at first he was like the rest of those heavyhearted, but high-hoped youth that crawled the town. He drank heavily, he fought often, and he auditioned constantly, but he did very little acting. In fact, it wouldn't be until a casting director heard a quirk of his that he got any real work at all. When Edgar would sneeze, it would come out as a shrill “achoo”, followed by the throwing of his body in motion to the sneeze. If you have seen any of his movies – as I hope you have - you'll know it as his signature joke.
     For all of his success later in life, he was always known as a recluse, and a shy man off of the set. He would spend hours in his room drinking after the day was done, but everyone thought that the “world’s funniest man” just enjoyed a drink or ten to relieve stress. I suppose we can't really blame them without blaming ourselves as well though, now can we? Some say that if Edgar were alive in the present day acting scene, things would have gone differently, but that is neither here nor there. The point of this letter to you is so that you may understand that Edgar tried his hardest to fix what was broken inside of him, and if he were alive today, he would still be trying his best to make people laugh just as hard as he himself could not.
     The last conversation recorded with Edgar was with a reporter that is notorious for this interview. After what happened, he was promptly fired, and hated by one and all for the rest of his life. I do hope you won't hold what happened against this young reporter though. To be fair, this man was just the last jet of oxygen inside of a balloon before it popped. It wasn't his fault, but I will still tell you what happened.
     After his third installment of “The Kensington Thief” series, your uncle truly was king of the world in the media. Besides himself, there wasn't a person alive who didn't love your uncle; but looking back, we all should have seen how he was behaving that day. He was so very nervous, and he appeared to be on the verge of tears all day. He was required by contract to perform an interview with Douglas Black of the “Hollywood Delve” magazine in regard to his career so far. The lights were dim, and none of us could see the tears that dampened his face until it was too late.
     Looking back though, never having dealt with this kind of thing before, perhaps it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. I had lost so much sleep over it - nights of tossing and turning and crying and wishing - but I finally learned to live with the fact that none of us had any idea such a thing was possible, and perhaps somehow your Uncle helped out Hollywood more than he thought by presenting the possibility to us.

     “Mr. Valentine, thank you- may I call you Edgar?” Douglas asked sitting across from the man. Responding to the nod from Edgar, Douglas continued. “Thank you for showing up here today. This is a very important article for us, and we hope for you as well,” he said while scribbling notes onto a pad of paper. “My first question is what do you think of your own movies? Do you ever watch them and laugh yourself?”. Edgar shifted his weight on the chair, and exhaled slowly before answering. Carefully stepping around the second question, Edgar responded with a simple “I think people enjoy them”. The reporter didn't even give the situation a second thought as he laughed to himself, and replied with a “I'd say so, what with your Thief series being the all time biggest movie success yet!”. Edgar only shrugged his shoulders, and spoke a quick agreement. The reporter still went on though with these useless questions that Edgar had already answers in countless other newspapers and magazines.
     After about fifteen minutes into the conversation, we began to worry over Edgar. He was shaking in his chair, and only answering questions with single word answers. We finally decided that enough was enough, and instructed Douglas to wrap things up. To this day, I wish we didn’t allow him to ask “just one more question”. That “just one more” damn question was the killing blow to your uncle, and later that evening, the final straw on a long list of grievances against his own life. The reporter placed his notepad on his lap, and leaned down over it, peering towards Edgar in the dim light, and tightened his eyes for what he knew to be a serious question.
     “Why don't you try serious acting,” he asked, “why do you only make comedy movies?”. Unknown to us, this question finally pushed poor, sweet Ed over the edge. Jumping out of his seat, and throwing his chair across the room, Edgar grabbed the reporter by the shirt, and pulled him in close. “Because I don't want to be serious!” Edgar screamed. Letting the reporter, now wide-eyed, fall back into his chair, Edgar stared off at nothing particular, and whispered “Because I need comedy like a drowning man needs oxygen,” and with that, he slowly walked out of the room, and went home. To this day, it still gives me chills seeing how ominous his analogy of a dying man would be.

     Only a few of us heard what he said, and because of this, the newspapers fought over what had really happened at that interview, and how it connected to his death later that night. Being your uncle’s best friend, I regret to inform you that the newspapers all had it wrong. It wasn't some mistake made by a brain heavily drowned in alcohol. It wasn't an accident by not paying attention to what he was doing. Your uncle sat down in his bed, swallowed half a bottle of Seconal, and passed away in his sleep; the poor bastard wasn't even smiling! Perhaps what hurt the most, is that even in giving up the weight that for so long pushed down his shoulders, he still couldn't find joy. I can't begin to tell you on paper how very much knowing that would come to hurt me over the next few years.
     For the longest time, I thought he left very little of himself in this world. A hastily scrawled will, dispersing his assets to friends and family, a media war that would rage for years, and a body were all that I thought he left behind. It wasn’t until very recently that I realized he left behind something infinitely more important than anything you and I will ever hope to contribute.
     He left behind him a legacy of movies that gave people what he so desperately needed in life. A sincere smile, lacking condition, that appeared on a face wholeheartedly, and without regret. A red face, and a hand raised to a mouth. A nod in agreement, a slap on a knee, a pat on a young child's head, and most importantly a laugh. Throughout his entire life, all he ever wanted to do was to make sure no one had to feel as he did, and that by watching his movies, they could remember to laugh.

     I guess what I'm trying to say, whatever the reason you sent me this letter, I hope upon reading this, your reaction isn't an obsessive one, drunk on the idea of finding out who your uncle was. Even if you never met him in person, the only thing you ever needed to do to know who he was is watch his movies. Everything he would have wanted you to see rests in them, and that digging through the hows and whys of his life would only cause him to be upset. Just laugh, that is all you need to do to show your uncle how much you loved him. All you need to do is laugh.
                                              
- Richmond Alexander: producer, director, and friend.

The Astounding Death of Gregory Fault Edit Prep 2012

The Astounding Death of Gregory Faust

     When I mention classic Hollywood, what is the first image to pop into your head? Rugged men in suits, and fragile women in dresses, floating through heavy hazes of cigarette smoke? In these early days of the American film industry, celebrities acted differently than their predecessors today. Some say they had more morals, and others that they were just more talented. I've always thought the truth to simply be that mystery shadowed their every step. They seemed less people, and more so something unexplainable. Of all these stars, a man named Gregory Faust shone the brightest.
    Gregory Faust was Hollywood personified. He came from old money, had a seemingly endless supply of talent, and had such a charisma that people who would never meet him in person still felt a sort of bond to him. He was known for being "dashingly handsome, and devilishly sly". I apologize for paraphrasing such a cliché, but women wanted him, and men wanted to be him. Even at the top of the world, Gregory was still looking up; however, much like another popular cliché, “all good things must come to an end”. Perhaps “what comes up, must come down” is more fitting. Whatever your preference to outdated sayings, Gregory fell hard, and when he hit rock bottom, all of Tinseltown winced for a brief second before going back to their lives, as required of their status.
    We could sit around all day, and listen to the rise and fall of Gregory Faust, and all of the splendor that came with it, but as the title suggests, I'm here to tell you of something much more poetic – his death. Even to this day, nobody can justly describe what happened, but the most respected, important, cherished, and even loved man in the entire world went out in a way that was infinitely more beautiful than the amazing life he had already lived. Here is the story of the astounding death of Gregory Faust.

    “Willem! Damnit Willem, where are you!” a man roars into the darkness of a moonlit room.

    A pool of light from a candle seeps into the room from the space under a closed door.

    “Coming sir,” a strained, but eloquent voice responds.

    The door opens, and the introduction of the candle's flame blinds the lying man for a second. A tall fellow, with a straight back, and a wearied face collecting wrinkles shuffles in and sets the candle on a small table next to the man’s large canopy bed.

    “What can I help you with Mr. Faust?” Willem softly speaks.

    “I had another damn nightmare again! This time, I was a young man, walking down the streets, and the masses are showering me with admiration, but all I do is stare straight ahead, never gracing them with a response. This goes on for a while, until I walk by a mirror, and in the reflection is a defeated old man; the old, wrinkled, pathetic face that I now carry with me. When I look back, the streets are cold and empty. I walk around calling out for help, but nobody responds. I walk back to that mirror, and I see nothing. Even my reflection won't show itself to me. I lay there on the ground, alone and beaten, and the world folds and collapses in on me Willem”.

    Grabbing the butler by the collar of his sleepwear, he pulls himself up to see him eye to eye, and shouts “Tell me I matter Willem! For God sake, tell me I am still as much Gregory Faust as I ever was Willem!”

    With that, his hands let go of the jacket, and he fell back onto the bed. In an instance, he was back to snoring as all old men do. Tucking him in, the weary old butler allows a quiet sigh.

    “We do not age like wine my old friend.” Willem whispers as he looks out the nearest window. Blowing out the candle, he gets up and starts to head back to his room. These nightly visits have been a recurring habit for the past ten years. In a matter of moments, he is safely lying in his own bed even without the help of candlelight, and falls into dreams of when he himself was the young assistant of the world’s biggest star. Dreams of all of the love his career had laid in his hands, and of all the regrets that he had piled up with them as time slipped on by.
    Over the years, Gregory's life had turned into a single recurring schedule. Up by 9:00 AM, and back down by 10:00 PM, filled with the same habits of eating, reading, smoking, and reminiscing about the old days scattered in between. However, the next morning would prove to be something entirely new. The morning light would show suprising boldness, as it entered the room from under the blinds to rest on a clock that read 6:14 AM. Sitting upright with a stunned look on his face, almost as if having an epiphany, Gregory climbs out of his bed, and makes his way downstairs.
    Rubbing his eyes, Willem looks over at his clock, and reads 6:16 AM. Chuckling to himself, he rolls back over, and closes his eyes, knowing he still has three hours before Gregory awakes. Shooting up out of bed, he hears the distant noise of a car sputtering. 56 years could never erase the noise of Mr. Faust's 1923 custom Desmond Model 7, a car that had about as much status as the man who bought it did. It was rightfully named Norma, and was the only vehicle of its kind. All the years spent in the mansion have allowed him to masterfully weave throughout the house, arriving at the garage in a matter of seconds; even at his old age. Breathing heavily, Willem bursts through the door, his old bones shouting at him to take a breather. “About time you woke up Willem. Make us some breakfast, and get ready to take me to town, I've an audition today,” a voice says from under the hood of the vehicle.
    Wringing his hands together fitfully, Willem raises his hand to speak, but lets it fall several times before finally clearing his throat to continue. Not a single word comes out before he is cut off by Gregory.

    “No Willem, I will not be talked out of it, and no this isn't me finally going mad. I have decided to get back out in the acting business. The world doesn't remember me, but they will my friend. I'm Gregory Faust, damnit! If I want to come back to this world, I will make them welcome me with open arms”. “So be a good man, and get ready to leave, time is of the essence!” Gregory says as he slams the hood down. “Ahh, good as new. I'll be in the cab waiting for you, hurry now.”

    Gloves, scarf, and goggles all equipped, Willem fires up the engine, and closes his eyes for a few seconds. A flood of memories of driving around town as a young buck washes over him, and surprisingly puts a bit of energy into his old bones.

    “This was a great idea sir” Willem shouts over his shoulder.
    “This is nothing Willem, wait until we're back on top,” Gregory says with a smirk on his face.

They continue driving along, until Gregory sits forward, and points to a certain street.

    “Turn right here Willem, onto Sunset Boulevard. That's where the studio for my audition is at,” Gregory exclaims, child-like anxiety creeping from his voice.

    Arriving at the studio, Willem turns and stops Gregory by the sleeve of his jacket as he steps out of the vehicle.

    “Sir, I don't mean to dampen your mood, but if things go awry, please don't take it personally,” Willem says. Steeling his face, he looks Gregory directly in the eyes. “You have been my boss, and closest friend for 56 years, and if you feel it so to fire me for this, I understand. But sir, you are pushing 73 years old! You've had more in your life than a thousand men combined, and as much as I would give anything to have it back, wishes are a pallet of pastels that paint over your eyes and blind you to what is reality. What is reality, sir, is that maybe we're just too old for this, and we should enjoy the years we have left.” Willem keeps staring at him, and feels a tightening of his chest as Gregory starts to show his age again; the spark of youth is yet again gone.
    Jerking away his coat sleeve, Gregory puts on a small frown, and stares at Willem. “I'm Gregory Faust, damnit! I've beaten everything else in life, why should old age be any different?” With that, he put on a small smile, and in a much softer voice said “Don't worry so much old friend, you'll see”. As Gregory walked away, Willem sat in the driver’s seat, and pulled out a cigarette. In spite of himself, he laughed about it too. “I guess I’ve been in this job too long to start doubting him now,” he chuckled to himself. Taking a final drag, and flicking the barely started cigarette out of the window, Willem locked up the car, and started to shuffle inside the studio, curiously enough feeling a little kick in his step.
    Backstage, Gregory stands in front of a mirror looking at himself. How many times had he been standing like this backstage in his life? The numbers in his head were warped and running together, and he tossed the thought aside and focused himself. “What do you plan to do you old fool, just wing it like the old times?” he chuckled. With his fingers, he slowly traced the lines on his face for a few minutes. “What am I doing here,” he muttered to himself a couple of times before being cut off by a loud voice shouting “we're ready for you Mr. Faust!”
    Walking out onto the stage, Gregory felt something in him growing incredibly anxious. A seasoned actor such as himself knew a trick or two about calming his butterflies, but this was something different. He felt what could only be described as feeling out of place, but that surely couldn't have been it. This was his world, he wrote the rules, and set impossible to break standards. He could see nothing but the pitch black of the studio, and the only thing that assured him people were out there was the soft scurrying of men and women busy at work.
    After a few seconds, a voice asked “are you ready, sir?” and bright lights flaring up around the stage followed his own affirmation. Holding his hands to shield the light, he peered out into the audience, and stared in horror at the faces. All of the young faces that looked right through him. His nightmare was here in the flesh; his world had forgotten him. He stood for a second, before calming himself, and lowering his hand. To this day, the members of the audience will only say that he looked like a man who had finally found the missing piece of a puzzle long since started.
    When he finally spoke, his trained voice started off soft, and quickly rose to reverberate through the studio. “These lights... They seem so cold and unfamiliar to me now. I know this may sound strange, but there was a time in my life where I thought of them as close friends of mine. To be honest, I felt more warmth from those lights than I did for all but a few choice individuals.”
    As he spoke, he stared ahead at no one in particular, and sadly started to pace on the stage. “What did I expect to happen today? I'm not entirely sure. Perhaps I had hoped that some of that old synergy would be waiting for me with open arms like those of a long lost friend, but I guess it goes without saying that inanimate objects and superstitions are poor excuses for company”.
    Laughing to himself, he stopped his pacing, and turned to the people. “I look around and see all of your young faces, and for the first time in my life, I think that I truly feel out of place; for once, I can feel the age in me. You know, Tom Hopper sat in that directors chair almost 50 years ago at my very first audition. None of you probably remember it, but I decided I wanted to play the lead, Pietro, in the movie Breath of Air, and at the urging of some friends, I decided to show up.” Staring at the ground, Gregory clasped his hands together, his knuckles showing white.
    “This was the very first movie for the man who would single-handedly conquer all of show business, but do you know what that old Tom said to me that day? Something incredibly moving, or a melodramatic speech of epic proportions perhaps? Maybe some single, poetic line of acceptance? No, Tom lowered the lights after the audition, and after a few silent moments of staring at me, he said “I am impressed”, and started to laugh.
    Of all the things I've forgotten in life, I can still remember this moment perfectly. At the time, something so small amazed me at the impact it had. I had just impressed a famous, classically trained director with my first audition. I took it optimistically, and it was fuel that added to the fire of my career. Looking back however, I realize that pessimistically, I would never feel what he felt that day, because I was only offered the best in life. I had never experienced sublime beauty. I am glad to say that after today, I may finally have figured out what that feels like.”
    Wiping tears from his cheek, Gregory stared out into the darkness of the studio for a few moments before starting again. “Coming onto this stage today, I now realize that I retired a long time ago. I assume most of you know who I am, but I am completely unaware as to who you all are. It pains me to say, but this is no longer my world. Now that you know a little more about me than you did this morning, would you be impressed if this was the last performance of Gregory Faust? Lord, for you all and myself, I do so hope so. In my parting words, allow me to lament for one last moment.”
    Standing up straight, Gregory showed a certain fierceness to his eyes, and took on a stance that suggested youth. He looked proud, strong, and wise up there on that stage that day, with nothing more than a bright light blinding him, and blurry faces watching him from the shadows. “I guess if your life's plan goes right even half of the time, you're much better off than most. Lord knows mine is in contention for the best, but I'm afraid to admit that growing old was never part of my plan.”
    Turning around and starting to walk off stage, Gregory stops for a second, and lifts his head up. “I guess I'm human after all, eh?” With that, he started to laugh as he retreated from the stage, and left the men and women of the studio with their thoughts. “I'm going home,” he says to himself. “I've made a big enough fool of myself for one day”.
    Willem is surprised to feel tears fresh on his cheek. “Mr. Faust, you fool. You poor, stupid, brave, brilliant fool”. As a few of the lights turned back on, he looked around at all of the faces in the small audience gathered around the stage. A few old faces matched up with old memories, and they too had tear strewn faces, staring straight ahead in a sort of trance. Willem scrubbed his sleeve under his eyes to dry them, and laughed at the irony of the situation. Gregory Faust could walk onto a stage and tell you that he was disappointed that the world he once controlled no longer acknowledged him, and that he would never act again, and still put on the performance of a life time. Even just talking to himself, the man could still control a room with no effort.

    Willem would find his way outside the studio after exchanging a few words with the director, who coincidentally enough wanted Gregory for the part, and was disappointed when Willem declined for him. The drive home would hold no words, but both men held smiles dearly. When they got home, Willem parked the car, and they walked inside the mansion together, like two young friends returning from a joy ride around the block. They put on an old movie of Gregory's, and fell asleep on the stiff leather couches in the small theater he had built in the house. If they still didn't feel their age by this point, they certainly did in the morning.
    Gregory Faust would live for a few more years, and thankfully, they were happy ones. Old friendships were renewed, and even some of his remaining family got to spend valuable moments with him. Gregory was no longer that young hot shot who held the world in his palm, but a wise old man that clawed with tooth and nail to cherish every waking moment that life offered him.
    When Gregory died in his sleep one night, the mansion was alive with people the following morning. Willem walked around, shaking hands with those who had come to mourn for the late Mr. Faust, but he himself, did not weep. Gregory was found in his bed on a bright spring morning, with his hands resting on his chest, and a large smile on his face. For the first time in over 60 years, Gregory had found peace, and found it just in time. The world that he thought had forgotten him, showed its true colors. From the television to the newspapers, the world said their goodbyes to the late, great, Mr. Faust – the finest actor the world had ever seen.
    Willem would return to the cemetery Gregory was buried at in a few weeks, and hold up an umbrella to stop some of the rain from hitting him. Standing in front of the large obelisk Gregory had purchased some years ago, Willem smiled, and spoke of how the world missed him, and how he too had missed his best friend. A coughing fit attacked him, and when he lowered his handkerchief, dark splotches of red clung to the clothe. Smiling in spite of the situation, Willem laid a lily at the foot of the monument, and turned to go.

    “See you soon old friend” he said over his shoulder. The coughing fits grew softer and softer before a car engine started, and the grind of tires on gravel disappeared into the distance.

    When I started to tell you this story of the life and death of Gregory Faust, I told you that his exit was infinitely more astounding than his entry, and I hope that you agree. However, I won't hold it against you if you don't, because no amount of words could ever convey what we felt in that audience that night, watching him grow from a bitter old man into a peaceful one. My name is Willem Black, and the doctors say I've only a few weeks left in me, but I wish it would hurry up. I miss my best friend, and I've grown tired of this world that has long-since forgotten about me. As for you, we all stack up regrets until they show on our bodies like bruises, and we can no longer remember what life is- a journey, have fun.

“I have lived a fulfilling life, and I admit that I am impressed”.
Read from the gravestone of a “Willem Black”. A small gravestone in the shadow of a large obelisk in an old cemetery on the south side of Hollywood.

Starcatcher Edit Prep 2012

Star Catcher: A Tale of Average Proportions

“I sometimes raise my hand to the night sky, and drag my fingers through the lights, hoping to catch one and bring it to me. But the stars never move, do they? Maybe they aren't so beautiful after all.”

     My name is James Morrison Murphy. And before you ask, yes, I was named after the late lead singer of The Doors. My parents grew up in an age where the popular burned away the necessary brain cells to remember all the good times they had. To try and be nice, you could say my parents lived a life larger than their brains could hold. I, however, call them burnouts who mentally peaked at twenty.
     My name is James Morrison Murphy, and unlike the lizard king, I don't have much sex appeal. I am an average man, of average build, with an average face, and an average personality. I could continue, but I'm sure you see the pattern here. For that, I do so solemnly apologize for telling you my name. I know a person with a name like mine sounds like the adventurous sort, but the fact of the matter is that I'm not. Things always have a way of changing though. Here is my story.

     When I turned 24, I was a lighthearted fellow, fresh from college, and just beginning to taste the bitter flavor life has to offer. I had always wanted to write a novel, but the sad reality was that I was just too plain of a person. Taking the wrong way to work, or getting lost for a few minutes was an adventure to me. I decided to be a book publicist instead; working with books, but in a safe environment. It sometimes occurs to me that the only changes I've made in my life are the results of my mistakes. Does everyone experience this? Is this some sort of life lesson we were all supposed to learn in elementary school?
     Working for a book publishing company was my first mistake. My superiors were the same kind of people you could find on any playground, tossing sand and taking toys that weren't theirs. I came to realize then, that when an explosive personality turned on a candle flame, the result is only the absence of a small puddle of light. This is how I felt when I met my superiors at Castel Publishing; I felt like that quivering flame on top of a melting pillar of wax, thinking that I would soon be snuffed out, either by my own design or that of an outside source. I didn't have a backbone to show, so they would push me as far as they wanted. They knew I wouldn't break, and knew that I wouldn't push back. It's a terrible thing, being so average.
     My second mistake was meeting Sarah. Sarah was similar to me in many ways, much in the same way climbing a cliff is similar to falling off of one. Her father was the president of the company, and she took it upon herself to become my backbone. She loved me, for whatever reason, and I suppose I also loved her as well. Whatever it was, it helped me become better at my job and climb the corporate ladder. I was now in charge of the lower level of publishing—the make it or break it for hopeful authors. I remember once being moved by a recording of the brilliant physicist, Robert Oppenheimer, quoting a passage of the Bhagavad Gita. He said “Now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.” In my new position, I felt as if I too had been given that sort of decision. At least in my own petty, watered down way.
     My biggest mistake though, was actually Sarah's. Why would you put someone lacking imagination in a position to turn down ideas? A novel I turned down was instantly picked up elsewhere, and became a best seller. They even made a movie about it, with that pretty brunette from those big mobster movies a few years back. It managed to grab a nomination at the Oscars. Because of this — and several other major errors — the company decided to let me go, but for whatever reason, Sarah told me she wanted to marry me anyway. The headache I got from trying to fathom this was the kind to keep me off my feet for days. You'd think ceilings were mirrors to some magical land of love and wonder, from how long I stared into one.
     When I finally got up, I spent the entire day with Sarah. Perhaps the things we did had been done a thousand times by a thousand people, but for once, something average felt like something more to me. I held Sarah close to me, sitting in a hammock outside, staring up at the moon, and asked her what she wanted. With her eyes closed, and her head on my chest, she playfully told me “The stars, James. Give me the stars.” She fell asleep on me there that night, but I didn't sleep for many hours yet. “The stars, huh?” I whispered to myself. Can I do that? Can someone like me do something like that?
     I spent the next month of my life sleeping outside under the stars; hands gliding through the dark clouds, jumping into infinite pits of complicated questions under that night sky. I told myself that I was done being average. I was going to grab something of the confusion out there, and make it solid. I was going to give Sarah a star, and for once, I was going to view my life from above, looking down at past troubles and laughing. My hands always seemed to fall short though.
     On our one year anniversary, we went out to eat at our favorite restaurant. I had never been a social person, and as such wasn't too great at hiding things. As a publisher herself, it was like being at work for her—from the way she read me as she would a book. Dinner rolled on uneventfully, and we made it back to my home, where we laid down in my hammock for a few silent minutes together. She asked me what was wrong, and I didn't know how to answer her.

“I couldn't get you that star.”
“I didn't think you could.”
“I'm so tired of being average.”
“I'm okay with it.”
“I'm sorry, but I'm not.”

     Looking back, I realize that I lost much more than Sarah that night. I lost a little piece of myself that genuinely loved her, and I lost the future we could have made together. However, like I said earlier, for all of you out there like me who never had the ability to reach into the black curtain of life, and pull out basic truths as children usually do, I had also gained something. I picked up a typewriter sometime between then and now, and I started to write a novel. It was published by a decent company, and actually made me some good money. I didn't get any movie deals, and I didn't win any awards. I never got the girl, and I never found a way to capture the stars—but you know what? When I wake up in the morning, and I look in the mirror, I can tell myself that I am not average. I'm of course no Alexander the Great, nor am I like the brilliant Robert Oppenheimer. I haven't picked the world up on my shoulders, and set it down a little differently.
     I am no one’s messiah, but I did have an average looking person come up to me at a book signing, and you know what they told me? They told me that I gave them hope. She told me that I given her hope. I had given someone else hope.
     I, plain old James Morrison Murphy, the lying lizard king, the school yard Oppenheimer, the heart breaker, the failed starry night sky conqueror, and the man who never had a spine or a shadow, had taken someone up in my arms and told them everything would be alright, and they believed me. I won't soar through the stars in the sky, looking down at my legacy; nor will I again be that candle, so easily put out. I'm stuck somewhere between the two, looking back at my past mistakes, and looking forward to the future ones.

     My name is James Morrison Murphy. And before you ask, yes I was named after the late lead singer of The Doors, and no, I am nothing like him. My name is James Morrison Murphy, and I am just myself — not average, not unique.
     

Just James, and for once, I think I am truly okay with that. I hope you can look back at your life — mistakes included — and be proud of yourself as well. Thank you.

- Pictor Vela