Chaconne, Partita No. 2

I spent the first few hours of Christmas Day 2016 muzzily buzzed in a hotel bar overlooking the Santa Monica Pier.

"Very bougie," he said.

"The Ferris wheel is Christmas-themed," I repeated.

It lit up with a swirling red-nosed reindeer.

"Hah," he said, finishing off his second eighteen-dollar martini.

We spent the next few hours of Christmas Day 2016 in a 24-hour diner with cheap beer and some sort of food. He put his arm around me, and I leaned in because I felt like he needed it more than I did. I'm lying, of course.

"Stay over tonight," he said in the car between muttered ohgodshits and fuckfuckfucks.

"But all my stuff is already in your car," I said.

We stopped outside his apartment, and we didn't look at each other.

"I'll drop you off at your place," he said.

Ohgodshit. Fuckfuckfuck.

Outside my empty apartment building, I grabbed my guitar from the backseat, and he grabbed my bags from the trunk. We hugged.

"I love you," he said.

"I know," I said.

I started crying before I even got to my door. It's the first time I've been able to cry like that, loudly, and even then, I wondered at how strange I sounded, distant sobbing, choking breaths, just tears and tears in the worn family fabric that hadn't ever been whole to begin with.

Selfish tears.

It's still Christmas morning, though not for long.

Nothing much has changed.

I took my bike on a spin through Brentwood, and there was a little boy climbing onto a little red bike, his father carefully holding him steady.

"Nice bike," I said.

The father looked up, smiled. The boy, white knuckled, didn't.

I turned away.

Good Grief

What's gonna be left of the world if you're not in it?

It could have been a love song, Lucas thought as he crested the bridge, breathing ragged, wind gusting in his face.

He could feel the cord of his earphones sticking to his spine beneath his shirt, follow its cold lines splitting over the back of his neck to nestle in his ears. He usually ran without music, mind wandering, reaching out past the quiet strain of his lungs to a place of absent detachment.

But this morning, he'd awakened in an unfamiliar bed well before sunrise and lain awake, suffocating in the silence, and felt a crushing sense of loss that was as unsettling as the place of his birth.

Every minute of every hour, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.

His solution, as always, had been to run. Pausing only to pull on a pair of socks and his trainers, he had, at the last moment, snatched his phone from the desk, threading the cord down his back in the grey light of the foyer before yanking the door open and sprinting out into a graveyard world.

The River Cam stretched out beside him, dark and silent, an unwanted reminder of just how far he'd come. There were no rowers this time of the day, no quiet whir of cyclists braving the chill.

He ran aimlessly, following the river north, gaining speed across the fields, nearly slipping at the footbridge over the tracks still standing only by the anger of its graffiti. Shadows loomed through the fog, foreboding monoliths before the sudden switch of a tail.

They'd come here often in the summer, gone for leisurely cycle rides up NCR 51 through Bottisham and Burwell and all the little villages on the way to Ely.

He gathered pace.

Every minute of every hour, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.

They'd picked blackberries in the fall, stacked crates and crates of them on their bikes and sold them to the old man at Market Square for just enough to buy a pair of tickets to the latest festival. But they'd keep a small box for themselves, nick a couple of fizzy pops from Sainsbury's, and float down the river by moonlight in a stolen punt.

He crossed the river at the Green Dragon, ears pounding.

Every minute of every hour, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.

He remembered how, in the winter, the sun would rise over the frosted scrub at Fen Ditton, scattering golden mist around his feet.

His trainers slipped on the dirt track, and he flung out a hand to steady himself.

Every minute of every hour, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.
Every stumble and each misfire, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.

It was impossible to sum up their relationship. Then and now. Father? Best friend?

A sudden gust of wind rattled the houseboats in their moorings.

Either way, it was over now. Dead and buried like so many other things.

Every minute of every hour, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.
Every stumble and each misfire, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.

But at the same time, he wanted to know.


Had that been family? Those four years of content? Was that family was? Contentment?

"I'm sorry," he gasped.

Every minute of every hour, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.
Every stumble and each misfire, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.

Gravel shuddered aside as he flew north past the lock, past the broad intersection to Milton, north and north and farther north he ran.

Every minute of every hour, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.

Not knowing was better.

He wished they'd never met.

Not knowing had always been better because not knowing had never come with this solid pain in his chest, this heaviness in his legs that would tug him back out across the sea.

Every minute of every hour, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.

He couldn't get the track to change, stuck on endless repeat, tinny and small compared to the roaring fullness of his heart.

The truth was, he'd always known. Then and now.

Every minute of every hour, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.
Every stumble and each misfire, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more.

It probably was a love song, Lucas thought as he came to a stop, hands on hips, straining for breath.

Warmth

When I joined the Air Force, the world started ending.

I'm sitting here with my hot toddy, thinking back. Hot toddies tend to do that, you know. Send you back somewhere warm, somewhere sweet, with bite.

I can see how it could have been selfish of me.

To throw my hands up in the air and say, "I give up! I'm sorry, but I'm through trying to be better." To give up pretending that everything was alright, and in doing so, obliterate the fragile thing that might have been a home.

But that's not quite right, is it?

"We worked so hard for you, and this is what you've done."

I left the Air Force for a number of reasons. Some were true. Most were not. I still can't sort it out.

All I know is that it's left me with a gaping what-if the size of a B-52.

And for that, there is anger. A feeling of entitlement, that something I was had been stolen.

"What do you have to say for yourself?"

Before the Air Force, things weren't great, and it's not as if I didn't know that. But I'd found safety in my little world of responsibility, dutifully straightening myself out, congratulating myself for my responsibility and dutiful straightening out. I was a good person. Everyone was good people.

I'd thought I'd made the right decision, absolving obligation.

"There's nothing for you here."

But I'd failed to realize that that obligation was the cornerstone upon which the house stood. With that gone, how then could I possibly make the house a home?

"Why?"

So I went, heaping burning coals.

"Who gave you the right to ask questions?"

Righteously, I kept to the straight and narrower because I knew that if I even paused to think about the hurt, I'd never start again. I'd set myself on this path. I had. Alone. This was mine, all mine.

But, of course, things never work out that way.

Over the course of a few days, everything and nothing had changed. I was just a college student, grafting for the grade, keeping my head down, avoiding the track on Tuesday and Friday mornings, looking away when I passed anyone in BDUs.

I still exist in this strange in-between. It's easy to convince myself that nothing's changed. I get up early, shake off melancholy, go run, do my sets at the gym to AFPFT standards, do my weights, come back, check my email, ignore some, respond to some, and then go about my day.

But at night, I sit here with my hot toddy and dream about other things as the whiskey burns its way past a thousand pinched mirrors. I'm still trying to repay a debt I never owed.

And so the world's ended, and I'm left sorting through the fragments of what's left, salvaging what I might once have been. I might have liked writing at one point. Had I been a writer? I consume music like I run, endlessly, for no reason, with an unapologetic disregard for everything else. Had I been a musician? A runner? Or am I just another drunk, weaving through yesterday's headlines?

I have a responsibility here. Duty. An obligation. Somewhere.


"My mother always told me that when you have children, they will grow up and stab you in the back. And she was right. That's exactly what you've done."

Ease

My brother handed me my first drink. It was a gin-and-something.

I said no, thanks, because that's what I'd been taught to say during Red Ribbon Week in first grade when we'd strangled the chain link around the playground with scraps of red caution tape.

But

"Try it," he said with a grin.

"No, I don't want to," I said.

"Come on," he said.

"Okay," I said.

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We used to smoke pot in the storm drain while other local idiots went and tagged the walls, the bald concrete melting our brains under scorching October sun. It was the cool thing to do--hitch a ride with someone who had a permit, Eminem shouting about his closet and rattling around in our empty chests, filling them with an anger that gave us a searing purpose beyond our despised upper middle class privilege.

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On lazy Saturday mornings before we'd discovered anger, I'd crack open the door to his bedroom. He'd be awake, of course, waiting for me, the sunlight setting the beige walls glowing so it almost felt like the happy homes we'd see on Hallmark cards at Christmas. I'd crawl into bed with him, and we'd snuggle together under the covers for just a little bit, not talking, just resting, all angles and soft corners.

"Can we play Aliens?" I'd ask.

He'd pull the covers up over our heads, burying us in red-orange constellations.

"There's one over there!" he whispered loudly, pointing to something that might, in another world, have been an ink stain.

"Pew!" I whistled, thumb and forefinger extended, "Got it! Oh no, another one!"

"Don't worry," he said, "I'll help you."

----------------------------------------

I was embarrassed the first time condoms fell out of his wallet, like somehow I'd walked into the wrong room, that this wasn't the boy I'd shared a bed with, who'd taught me how to shoot a basketball, who'd animated our forks and spoons at mealtimes and made them masters of the pantomime.

"Smoked too much weed last night," he sighed, tossing it all into his top desk drawer and slamming it  shut.

I smiled weakly, turned around, and left, something acrid coiling around my nose hairs.

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My first beer was a Guinness. I bought it with what might have been a fake ID, but then again, I might not have bought it at all. I chipped the edge of my desk trying to get the bottle open without a lever. I've always seen my life as a movie.

Hands shaking, I moved to the counter and sliced my thumb open on the cap when it came off. I ignored the blood when it oozed down the neck to my lips as I took the first pull.

There I had it. Independence.

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I bought my first knife when I was twelve. It was the cool thing to do. Carry it around in my pocket at school, furtively pull it out in class and show my gang. The day I figured out how to carry it in my pocketless gym shorts was a proud one.

----------------------------------------

I sat crying on the floor in the handicapped stall for about five minutes, then got up, washed my face, and went back to class.

I walked in a haze for about three years, then decided enough was enough, before realizing that, no, it wasn't.

----------------------------------------

Heaviness is how I'd describe it. A heavy weightlessness chasing vapid dreams of satisfaction.

When I decided to go clean and straight, I knew I wouldn't be able to manage it. I knew from the start that I'd fail, like most other things. But I've lasted so long I'd let myself start hoping.

When I got the news at the train station, I knew that, yes, this was the end. I sat outside watching the afternoon sun die and knew my freedom was over. My train left, and by that time, I was miles away, searching out the last vestiges of genuine humanity in a bombed-out world of wars for the soul.

----------------------------------------

And how does it feel when someone lets you down

You've got a head full of thorns

When you should really be wearing a crown

But at least a crowded room will never seem empty

With a conscience always siding against me

Don't Look Back in Anger

The rain fell.
__________________________________________________


"How's the weather!?"

"Just right!!"

__________________________________________________


Lucas furiously blinked precipitation from his eyes.

__________________________________________________


"What's our favorite color!?"

"Clear!!!"

__________________________________________________


His borrowed dress shirt was too loose at the collar and fell over his wrists. His father would have disapproved of its faded polyester blend.

His other father, at least, the one he hadn't seen in nearly seven years.

His real father had pulled it off the clearance rack at Ross with a shout of victory.

__________________________________________________


"Does this mean I have to call you 'Dad' now?"

"I think we both know that's never going to happen."

"Okay, so why don't I just--"

"--I might not actually be your dad, but I sure am old enough to be. We are not going to be on a first-name basis."

__________________________________________________


His socks were soaked through, but he paid no attention.

He had endured worse insults to the body.

__________________________________________________


"These are ridiculous. What am I--how am I...? There must be some mistake."

"Nope."

"But these are girls' shorts! You can't possibly expect me to--"

"Man up, Luc."

"I am defending my masculinity and my modesty. These leave terribly little to the imagination."

"Well, it's not like there's much to see anyways."

"Coach--"

"--stop whining and get changed. God knows your pasty English chicken legs could use some sun."

"Contrary to popular belief, ultraviolet exposure--"

"--Course records weren't set in basketball shorts. Put those on, or you'll be racing in your boxers. I don't think anyone wants to see that."

__________________________________________________


But at the same time, he was aware of a distance, an opening chasm.

__________________________________________________


"Lucas, let me in!"

"Sod off!"

"Quit holding the door shut. It's not your fault, Luc."

"Bloody buggering-- How is this not my fault? I'm a smart person, or I thought I was, but I'm not. I'm just normal. Stupid. Stupid."

"This has nothing to do with being smart, Luc. Being smart doesn't mean you automatically understand everything, especially not people. You can't troubleshoot people."

"I disagree. People have inputs and outputs, just as does any black box. We don't necessarily require understanding of the internal computational processes, but we should be able to, within a reasonable margin of error, predict its activity. I should know this, and I should sodding be capable of evaluating and selecting appropriate response patterns without experiencing a bloody system overload!"

"Luc, just sit down for a minute, will you? Here. I'll shut the door. Let's talk, just you and me."

__________________________________________________


He'd never really known anybody to die before. Except his mother, of course, but it wasn't as if he'd had the opportunity to make introductions on the operating table.

He felt the presence of Anne Riley and her two children behind him, respectfully or resentfully allowing him to stand on his own before the open grave of someone who had loved him enough to let him be.

__________________________________________________


"I don't understand."

"Well, I can't say that I'm an expert on this topic."

"No, not about that. I meant--"

"--I know what you meant, Luc. I was trying a little humor to lighten the mood."

"Oh."

"Not funny?"

"...Well, I can't say that I'm an expert on this topic."

"That's my boy."

__________________________________________________


It was precisely this love that had gotten him killed.

__________________________________________________

"She kissed me," he blurted.

Uncle Rick raised his bushy eyebrows.

"I would congratulate you, but I don't think that would help right at this moment," he said.

Lucas moved his fingers restlessly. Thumb on forefinger. Thumb on forefinger.

"I don't--" he choked, drawing further into himself, feeling the traitorous tears well up again, the hopeless frustration, the shame.

Uncle Rick sat carefully in the large chair next to Lucas's. He waited, casually glancing around at the clutter of his office, the lines of golden trophies and banners draped across the shelves.

"I can't--"

Shouts from out the window facing the muddy dirt track, laughter.

Lucas slammed a fist into the arm of the chair.

"Why is this so difficult for me!?" he shouted, "Why can't I just--" he broke off, fingers twitching furiously, "Too much is happening right now."

They sat in near-silence for several long minutes.

Lucas drew a deep, shuddering breath and wrapped his arms around his legs, burying his face in his knees.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"There's nothing to be sorry about. I'm glad you came here."

Lucas scrubbed a trembling hand across his face.

"What am I supposed to say to her?"

Uncle Rick sat back in his chair.

"Cat's a smart, sensitive girl. I don't think you need to say anything, but it'll help her feel better if you do. She probably feels terrible."

Lucas winced.

"Our first kiss, and I ran away screaming."

Uncle Rick laughed, "Was it at least a good one?"

Lucas shot him a withering look.

"My brain short-circuited for most of it, and besides, it's not as if I've experienced anything comparable."

"That bad, huh?"

Lucas rolled his eyes weakly, slowly unfolding himself from the chair.

"I should probably go talk to her?" he phrased the statement as a request for reassurance.

"That would probably be a good idea," Uncle Rick replied.

Lucas trudged to the door, and right at that moment, the fire alarm began screaming.

__________________________________________________


Though unaccustomed to death, he was no stranger to violence. One of his earliest memories involved his father beating a shabbily-dressed man from the front walk of their sprawling house in Windsor with a red-hot poker.

Then, when he'd come to America, he'd put his boxing lessons to good use in fisticuffs and found himself summarily thrown out of boarding school and into juvenile hall.

But since he'd arrived in the sleepy suburbia that Richard Riley called home, he'd felt the fear leech from his bones, and with it had gone the anger, leaving only frustration and resentment, which were tamer beasts by far.

Now, however, fear snaked back down his collar like so many burst dams, like rain the color of red with a little blue.

__________________________________________________

The ceiling sprinklers kicked on, drenching them in seconds.

Cracking through the shrieking alarm came one pop, two pops, three pops, like bang snaps on the Fourth of July, but louder and faster and coming closer.

It wasn't Lucas's first time hearing gunfire. Neither was it Uncle Rick's.

"Get away from the door," Uncle Rick snapped, grabbing him--hard--by the arm and yanking him back.

His blue eyes flashed, and Lucas stumbled back against a shelf. Several trophies clattered loudly to the floor. Lucas froze.

"Under the desk," Uncle Rick hissed, shaking wet hair out of his eyes, "Now."

Lucas couldn't move. Uncle Rick shoved him to the floor. He dragged Lucas's chair, still warm from unspeakable frustration, to the door and wedged it under the door handle.

Because, Lucas knew, there was no lock.

Uncle Rick snatched up a massive trophy from the floor, trailing a spray of glittering droplets. Lucas remembered proudly hefting it above his head last season at the state meet. It was heavy, but Uncle Rick held it with one hand over one shoulder.

He used his other hand to push his own chair straight up against the desk, hiding Lucas from view.

Beneath the shrill alarm and the storming sprinklers, the door handle rattled furiously.

Lucas curled up tightly against the bulk of the desk and asked himself why Uncle Rick wasn't next to him under the desk and away from the door. He knew the answer, of course.

He tugged his phone from his pocket and dialed 911.

Angry pops shattered the little window on the door and fractured the window behind him. He heard tinkling glass, heavy feet squeaking through the rain.

"911, what's your emergency?" someone somewhere far away said in his ear.

"Help," he breathed.

The chair wedged under the door handle toppled over.

He held his breath.

The door drifted open.

__________________________________________________


He'd never heard a grown man scream before.

__________________________________________________


Uncle Rick didn't scream when he slipped in the false downpour and the gun coughed once, twice, three times. He didn't scream when the impact sent him to the ground, gasping for breath. He didn't scream when the gunman turned away, towards the fractured window behind the desk.

But the gunman pulled aside the chair in front of the desk, and Uncle Rick screamed, wordless denial.

Lucas looked up at the grey man with the gun and, without recognition, sobbed, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

The ceiling sprinklers hissed.

Lucas closed his eyes.

When he opened them, he was alone, and the dead rain on the ground was the color of red.

__________________________________________________

SLAIN HIGH SCHOOL TEACHER REMEMBERED FOR (adj), (adj)

Today, at (cemetery name) in (city name), a small suburb of Los Angeles, a private ceremony was held for Richard Riley, history teacher and cross country coach, who was shot and killed in his office at (high school) by (an as-yet unidentified gunman? check with ABC aff.). There were no other casualties.

Mr. Riley was described by students and staff as (adj) and (adj), with an eagerness to teach that "brought out the best" in those he mentored. Last year, he coached the boys' cross country team to the state title, which, in an interview with the student paper, he called his "proudest moment." 

Local chief of police Alfred Munch(sp?) said that Mr. Riley's actions had "definitely prevented something worse from happening" and reported that, even after sustaining three gunshot wounds to the chest, Mr. Riley had used a "blunt instrument" to knock the gunman unconscious, a feat described by the coroner as "superhuman."

School officials have issued a statement saying that commencement will continue as planned next Thursday evening at (venue).

Mr. Riley is survived by his sister, Anne.

He had no children.

__________________________________________________

The Ninety-Pound Center

"You can't be serious."

"Hey! You don’t have to act so surprised."

Lucas swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, pushing his laptop to the side.

"You're going to get yourself killed."

Jack rolled his eyes, crossing his arms and heaving a long-suffering sigh.

"Will you stop being such a drama queen? It's just football."

"Exactly," Lucas pointed out, "It's American football, ergo, homicidal,” he made a face, “Does your mom know about this?"

“Um…” Jack mumbled, bringing a hand up to rub the back of his neck, “Not really.”

Lucas snorted, “Good luck with that.”

“Luc, come on. I’d letter my first year!”

“That would be impressive if only one could somehow disregard the glaring fact that we haven’t won a single game in five years. There’s a reason you’d be on varsity, and it’s not because you’re a phenomenal athlete. Have you ever even played football before?”

“Of course,” Jack snapped, “I’m an American. It goes right with tailgating and beer pong.”

“Pop Warner when you were six does not count as having played ‘football,’” Lucas made a pair of skeptical air quotes around the word, “What would you even be playing, anyways? Third-string punter?”

“Starting center,” Jack held his chin up defiantly.

Lucas pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Starting center,” he repeated.

“Yeah.”

“How much do you weigh? Ninety pounds?”

“One-ten.”

“Yes, and I am Winston Churchill.”

Jack glared.

“One-oh-five.”

“On a wet day, I’m assuming.”

“Does it matter how much I weigh?” Jack burst out, “I’m a good snapper.”

“And a better doormat, I’m sure,” Lucas muttered under his breath. He stood and brushed past Jack, stalking off down the hall.

“Luuuc,” Jack pulled out the name, hurrying after him, “Help me convince Mom to let me play. She’ll listen to you.”

Lucas snorted again, loping down the stairs, “Your faith in me is a little misplaced, I think. Why are you so bent on playing football, anyways? I thought you wanted to do baseball this year.”

“Yeah, but that’s not until the spring,” Jack replied, hopping down, birdlike, behind him, “I need something to do to keep in shape until then.”

“There are an infinite number of far more logical alternatives,” Lucas said, spinning around the bannister and making a beeline for the kitchen, “The most obvious being cross country. It’s non-contact, skill-level inclusive, and perfectly suited for cardiovascular conditioning.”

“I don’t want to run cross country,” Jack wrinkled his nose, “It’s so boring.”

“I’d rather you be bored than concussed.”

“I can take care of myself,” Jack bristled indignantly.

“I’m not saying you can’t,” Lucas replied, yanking open the fridge and staring at its contents for several long moments before turning on his heel and heading for the pantry. “What about tennis? Tennis is a fall sport, and it’s pretty close to baseball.” He made a vague waving motion with his hand, “Swinging a stick-like object to hit a spherical object. It suits your metaphorical skillset.”

“I’ve never played tennis before.”

“You’ve never played football before either.”

“I mean, the tennis team won CIF last year, and most of the guys are returners. I don’t think I have much of a chance of making even the frosh-soph team.”

“I don’t think you have much of a chance of playing starting center and making it out alive. Run cross country. Our first meet isn’t until next Saturday. That’s plenty of time to get in shape.”

“Yeah, and get up at, like, six in the morning. To run.”

Lucas snatched open the pantry doors and stared inside.

“I could make a number of rather more astute observations about the sport of American football, the first of which involves spandex and jock itch.” He reached into the pantry and pulled out a banana, which he offered to Jack.

Jack shook his head, face red.

“Really, what’s gotten into you lately?” Lucas asked, deftly peeling the banana and popping half of it into his mouth in one bite, “It’s just your second year of high school and you’ve already started taking AP’s—you can afford to relax a little before you pile on all the extracurriculars.”

Jack shrugged.

Lucas squinted at him, chewing slowly. After a moment, he frowned.

“Jack—” he began.

The front door rattled open.

“Hey Uncle Rick!” Jack shouted.

“You again!” Richard Riley boomed, towering into view around the stairs, “I’m going to have to start charging you room and board.”

“Could I get a family discount on that?” Jack shot back.

“You,” Uncle Rick levelled a finger at Lucas, “Are rubbing off on him. He used to be a respectable young man.”

“I doubt that,” Lucas mumbled around the rest of his banana.

His phone chirped, and he pulled it out of his back pocket.

“Cat’s asking if she can come over,” he said.

Jack shot him a look.

“Are you actually asking me for permission?” Uncle Rick grunted, “Why start now?”

The front door rattled open again.

“Hey Uncle Rick!”

Uncle Rick paused, hand on the refrigerator door.

“Well,” he muttered, “Never mind.”

“Hey guys,” Cat popped her head into the kitchen, smiling cheekily at Lucas, who shifted uncomfortably, “Mom says dinner’s in ten minutes.”

“You couldn’t have, I don’t know, just texted us or something?” Jack asked, askance.

“We live next door, Jack. It’s not like I ran cross-country to get here.”

Jack turned to glower at Lucas.

“I didn’t say anything,” Lucas protested.

“Do I want to know what you three are going on about?” Uncle Rick rumbled, placing a large bowl of salad down on the counter.

 “Jack made the varsity football team,” Cat sang, twirling her way into the kitchen.

“My God. I’m so sorry,” Uncle Rick said, turning back to the fridge and handing Lucas a large glass jug.

Jack scowled, “Why do you all think it’s such a bad idea? A letter’s a letter. So what I get thrown around a little? The football season only lasts seven weeks. I can last at least that long, don’t you think?”

“He’d be their starting center,” Cat whispered loudly to Uncle Rick.

Lucas shifted the jug to his other arm and neatly lobbed his banana peel into the trash, shooting another look at Cat, who frowned slightly.

Uncle Rick raised his bushy eyebrows and whistled lowly.

“I’ll tell your mom to look into upgrading her health insurance plan.”

“Speaking of whom,” Cat jumped in quickly, “We should get back to help her with dinner. C’mon, Jack.”

Lucas caught Uncle Rick’s eye.

“We’ll be there in a few,” Uncle Rick said, “I, uh, have to warm up the cider first.”

“Great!” Cat pulled Jack almost bodily out to the door, which, as she stood nearly a head taller than he, really was no great task.

After the front door had slammed shut, Lucas raised an eyebrow and said, “You ‘have to warm up the cider’? I haven’t heard that one before.”

“You gave me The Look. I freely admit I briefly went into panic mode,” Uncle Rick replied with a faint smile, crossing his arms and leaning back against the counter, “So what’s up?”

Lucas fidgeted with the glass jug and set it down on the counter.

“I’m… not sure,” he admitted at last, “But Jack…” he ran a frustrated hand through his hair, “Don’t you think he’s been acting rather… odd lately?”

“I think I’m going to plead the fifth on that one.”

Lucas huffed a laugh that sounded more like a sigh, “Well, I think I’ve kind of figured out why, or at least some part of it. The part that doesn’t have to do with a genetic predisposition toward sainthood, that is.”

Uncle Rick raised his eyebrows and waited.

“I feel like… I’m getting in the way,” Lucas began uncomfortably. He continued in a rush, “I mean, he’s been trying so hard to do so many things, things he doesn’t even like, like play football and take physics when I know he hates physics, and it seems as if he’s just doing everything to compete with me, or impress me, or whatever, but I don’t know why because he’s always been the one trying to set an example for me, and, and—bloody hell I’m not making any sense!” he hissed, screeching to a halt, “I’m sorry, I’m being ridiculous. Forget it.” He snatched up the cider jug.

“Hey, hey, hey, hold on a second,” Uncle Rick held up a hand. He pointed at the jug. “Put that down. We need to talk about this.”

“Coach, really, it’s not import—”

“—Yes, it is,” Uncle Rick cut him off sharply.

Lucas set the jug back down on the counter.

“You’ve been with us—officially, at least—for about two years now, so it’s about time we had this conversation anyways,” Uncle Rick paused, staring levelly at Lucas, “You know I’ve fostered several kids before, some for several months, some a few weeks. They’re all great kids, and I keep in touch with most of them, whether they’ve been adopted, aged out, transferred, whatever. My point is, Luc, that you’re still here. Just you. Every month when I get that letter from the agency, I file it away. You want to know why?”

Lucas looked down at his feet, hands fisted in the pockets of his jeans,

“Luc, come on, look at me.”

Slowly, he raised his eyes, jaw clenched.

“I want you here, Luc,” Uncle Rick said, “God knows why, but I do. I really do.”

Lucas swallowed.

“I know you’re worried about aging out—no, don’t give me that look. I know you’re worried; your birthday’s coming up next month. But think about it, Luc. You’re practically Anne’s third kid, and Jack, genetic predisposition to sainthood aside, really looks up to you. He’s trying to impress you with this whole football business, and you’re worried he’s starting to see you as too much of a big brother when you might be leaving before the end of the year.”

Lucas flinched, blinking.

“I know you haven’t told him about aging out because he came and asked me about it over the summer when you were out with Cat,” Uncle Rick hesitated again, then continued, quietly, “I’ve had the papers for a while, almost a year, Luc. And I would have asked. I probably should have asked. But I see you with Cat, and I’m pretty sure I know what you’d say.”

The late evening sun blurred against the linoleum counter.

“Franklin Delano Roosevelt married his fifth cousin,” Lucas choked out, “And that turned out mostly alright.”

Richard Riley gathered him up in familiar, comforting arms.

“I would have said yes,” Lucas sobbed, “If you’d asked, I would’ve said yes.”

“I know,” Richard Riley replied, “I was afraid of that.”

An Introduction (Many Meetings)

Sometimes, I wonder why I keep writing in this stupid thing. Every day, it's just kind of the same thing--"Oh, this morning I woke up, had my two boiled eggs for breakfast, and ran to class. But you know what? The strangest thing happened: I only dozed off during lecture twice. Pretty crazy, right?" 

Right.

Maybe I'm writing just because I've always written. And you know me--once I start, stopping is nothing short of a cardinal sin. A moral failure. A scarlet letter. Et cetera, et cetera, ad nauseam.

I'm starting a new paragraph now so it'll look like I've filled my Diary Line Quota for the day like the--what was it?--half-page we had to write every day in third grade. Or fourth grade. Something like that.

There.

More space.

That about does it. 

I'm tired. Good night.


Jack's eyes drifted shut, the pages of the book in his lap lazily fanning out in the warm glow of the floor lamp at his shoulder.

The doorbell chimed.

Eyes still closed, he reached out with a hand, twisting the light off with an irritable snap and plunging the room into cold moonlight.

The doorbell chimed again.

"I," he said, "am asleep."

He snapped his book shut emphatically.

The doorbell chimed.

It could be one of his clients. He hadn't so much as looked at his phone all day. Maybe it was an emergency. Active suicidal ideation or something. Or maybe it was the FBI or CIA or NSA or some other form of law enforcement after him about his jury summons, which he'd summarily shredded the day he'd found them on his doormat. That had been several months ago. Was shirking jury duty a felony? Well, too late for that now.

The doorbell chimed.

Maybe it was a bunch of Mormons. Maybe it was the UPS guy with a very important package from Cambridge. Maybe it was the ghost of his mother, trolling him from beyond the grave.

The doorbell chimed.

"Fine," he muttered.

Stiffly, he levered himself out of the armchair his father's father's father's father had had shipped from Ireland back when shipping had actually involved ships and picked his way through the files and reference volumes that formed a rather academically-inclined rug. He wrapped his bathrobe tightly around himself and hoped he looked more on the irritated side of murderous.

The doorbell chimed again just as he yanked the front door open with as much exasperated professionalism as he could muster.

"It's two-thirty in the morning," he said, blinking rapidly several times at the blur of streetlights before remembering he didn't have his glasses on and instead settling for squinting in a vaguely threatening manner.

"I know. I'm sorry."

Jack peered at the tall, thin man standing on his front stoop at two-thirty on a Saturday morning.

"Do I know you?" he demanded, suddenly realizing that opening one's door at two-thirty on a Saturday morning to find a strange, hooded man outside was probably not on the neighborhood watch's "List of Practical Procedures: Friendly Tips to Keep Our Neighborhood Safe!".

"Look," the man said impatiently, or aggressively, or desperately, "would you mind if we spoke inside?"

"Yes. Yes, I very much would mind if we spoke inside. I don't even know who you are--"

"Jack."

Jack leaned heavily against the half-closed door, eyes closed. He could not do this now. He really couldn't.

When it became clear that Jack wasn't going to speak, the hooded man shuffled back half a step, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"Jack, I'm sorry," he said lowly, "But I really need to talk to you."

"Really."

The man winced, or at least Jack thought he did, looking away.

Jack ran a hand through his hair, wishing he'd thought to grab his glasses, which he'd left on top of the little spiral-bound notebook by his armchair.

Sometimes, I wonder why--

Wordlessly, he stepped back, opening the door. The man stepped inside. Jack shut the door. The foyer was dark. Jack snapped a light on.

"You have a lot of explaining to do," he said, "About eight years' worth."

The man slowly pushed his hood back, and Jack swallowed. He sat heavily at the bottom of the stairs and placed his head in his hands.

"Thanks," the man said, voice echoing from marble to granite to marble to resound painfully in Jack's ears, "I wasn't sure..." He trailed off.

Lacking the energy to do anything more substantive, Jack stared levelly at him.

"Eight years," he repeated.

"I'm sorry."

"Where's your chair?"

"It's a long story."

"Well, I'm sure." Jack snapped, "You're the one that wanted to talk, so you better start soon, or I'll succumb to my dark, repressed Freudian urges and deck you so hard you'll have your jaw wired shut for a month."

The man looked away again, hands restlessly moving. Thumb against forefinger. Thumb against forefinger.

"Lucas."

The man flinched. Slowly, wearily, he sat on the scuffed marble floor, legs spread out before him.

"The Event," he said.

Jack closed his eyes again.

Reset

In the days after the funeral, he'd had serious doubts about medical school.

He thought about Dad and Uncle Rick and Mom and Cat and now, in a different sense, Lucas. One by one, they'd disappeared, suddenly like Dad or slowly, painfully, sometimes too quietly to even notice. Like Cat.

He thought he'd be better off doing something at which he hadn't already completely, repeatedly failed.

But then, in the aftermath of the earthquake, he'd found himself running a makeshift Red Cross clinic out of a half-crumpled motor home just beyond the burned-out shell of the college library and realized that it was just time he started over.

He drove home one weekend in complete silence, ruthlessly suppressing the urge to glance over at the empty passenger seat. Deliberately, he parked in the street by the grassy curb and squinted up at the long, sloping drive. Hands in pockets, he crunched through the gravel and unlocked the front door, tossing his keys into the fake plant beside the cluttered shoe rack.

It took the better part of the following week to box things up, arrange for storage, and post ads online, but he managed alright on his own, and on the following Sunday night, he stood again in the foyer, keys in hand, staring at the crisp dust sheets ghosting over the sweeping banister. Caught in the faint draft from the open door, they fluttered limply, bathed in artificial moonlight.

He stepped outside and shut the door.

A Death in the Family

There's been a lot of dying and nearly-dying and almost-dying going on recently, Cal thinks to himself.

He slumps lower against the wall, pillows propped against his back, feet dangling over the edge of the bed, laptop emitting roughly enough thermal energy to keep his calorically-sufficient dinner tolerably lukewarm.

Hilary Hahn has been playing an E minor since sunset.

Outputting matrices to the console is a simple matter. Nested for loops set to row and column length, one added white-space per loop, set width to make things look pretty.

Hilary Hahn is briefly interrupted by the sound of a continuous moan.

Push back the string onto the vector, which is preferred over the list, for reasons of indexing. Usually. Unless you want 2-D structures. Then go for the array.

Allegretto non troppo. But not too--

--overloading is not a bad thing? It's fairly useful when it comes to operators, actually, and simplifies things a lot, especially when you want to compare classes.

Round--allegro.

My logic is faultless.
if ( ?? )
{
     bool is = true;
}
else
{
     bool is = false;
}

Molto. Molto appassionato.

I have developed a fault.
void (bool is, string name)
{
     return false;
}

Bravura. Bravura!

Seeded in time, after the first declaration.
while (is)
{
     srand((int)time(0));
     is = (rand()%68) + 1;
}

Coda.

while (is)
{
     srand((int)time(0));
     is = (rand()%68) + 1;
}

Coda.

I have developed a fault.

Non troppo. Non troppo.

I have developed a fault.
error: void function cannot specify return value.

Poco agitato. Agitato e con fuoco.

I have developed a fault.
fatal error: cannot locate "system.link//file_matrices.exe"

Un poco agitato, ma andante;

I have developed a fault.

Modulate to F minor; allegro vivace assai;

Cannot execute file.

Requiem;

System failure.

Coda.