"Fantasy" Does Not Have To Mean "Bad Storytelling"

This is an idea I presented to the one and only writer’s workshop that I’ve completed. I was commenting on a young man’s steampunk story that he had submitted to the class. I must have been in “the zone” during my impromptu speech, because when I finished articulating my point a round of applause from the class took me by surprise.

I think this means one of two things: either A) I have a very big head and the reports of clapping are greatly exaggerated, or B) a lot of young writers in my generation love fantasy/sci-fi and have cut their teeth on it their entire lives, they just have trouble writing it well.

Backing up to the beginning of that influential pass/fail creative writing course, on syllabus day the teacher led us through a passage which read something to the effect of “you WILL NOT submit sci-fi or fantasy stories of any kind.” I later learned this was getting off easy, as the next year’s workshop that I started and subsequently quit had a syllabus passage that read “you will not submit any fiction that begins: He was the son of Darathor the Mighty, King of the Elven Lands,” or some such derogatory warning. Naturally, I took it as a challenge.

As a class, we were able to persuade our teacher to allow sci-fi/fantasy short stories, on the condition that he would be merciless with them. And to my surprise, in a setting I thought would be full of snobby literary hipsters dressed all in black who would snap their fingers after each reading, about half of the submissions were in some way fantastical or magical. Both of mine were.

And about halfway through the semester, everyone had a workshopped story under their belts, and we sat in our circle of desks and picked apart the young man’s steampunk story. I remember the setting clearly: a sea of clouds, floating continents and islands, and steam-powered airships that sailed the skies. I remember the characters only in that the protagonist was a young male who worked as a postman, who sailed a small ship between the islands delivering packages for a stern boss who had a pretty daughter. The plot I do not remember at all, and therein lies the point that I spent several minutes presenting to the class. The writer had spent nearly all of his page count describing a beautiful world, with nothing in it.

Those weren’t the words I used then, as I was careful not to hurt his feelings since he was rather shy, earnest, and after all I didn’t want to discourage him from writing. The story he’d written wasn’t really a story, it was just a setting. He had exhausted himself creating the islands and the ships that didn’t exist, and was spent by the time he got to the actual story, the characters. The summation of my point as closely as I can remember it was this: realistic fiction is about events that may happen, and fantasy is about events that will never happen. Fiction writers get a head start by using a world that already exists. Fantasy writers have to do double duty by first creating a new world that makes sense, make it make sense to the reader, and then populate it with characters who play out a story. Many undertakers of a more fantastic story just don’t make it to that last step, or when they do, significantly less time and energy is left to spend there.

And this is why workshop syllabi contain these rude warnings. Writers, especially new ones, are entranced by the idea of writing in the genre they love most, but don’t realize how daunting a task it really is. So workshop leaders end up with piles of settings, devoid of any real story. It didn’t stop at the steampunk story in the case of my class. Both before and after the story in question had come up, we were encountered with stories about swamp demons, ice queens, zombie apocalypses, and medieval towns being attacked by barbarians. Many of which, though not all, turned out in the same fashion as the steampunk story.

So it’s easy to see why teachers learn to view fantasy as bad, when the truth is that fantasy is hard. If you’re someone with a powerful enough imagination to get interested in writing fantasy, let alone writing, it really is hard to put the “boring” parts of a story first and focus on the characters. You want to write more about the way the frost-enchanted sword shimmers, about the repulsor system that keeps the starship aloft in gravity. It’s a little easier to take the magical-realism route, to use smaller pops of fantasy in an otherwise realistic setting, which is the approach I took with both of my stories for the workshop. But in essence, isn’t it all really just fantasy on the same spectrum? A scale with stories that end up in the sci-fi section of the bookstore like Rocannon’s World at one end, stories with a completely fabricated planet, species, and language for setting, and at the other, something that ends up in the literature section like The Metamorphosis where the fantasy is limited to just one splash, what if a man woke up and was a giant roach?

Both of those stories are inarguably fantastical in nature. And yet they end up as different genres. I think the deciding factor is the amount of world building done. Kafka spent more time on stream of consciousness and LeGuin spent more time on entire societies. Both are well written stories, but clearly there is a bias that stories about new worlds are more often considered “something else” besides literature. I know that marketing is a large part of where things are shelved, but I can’t help but feel like a lot of people like my writing teachers are missing out on a lot of good stories sitting in the sci-fi/fantasy section because they only subscribe to “literary fiction.” Books like Neil Gaiman’s The Ocean at the End of the Lane and Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Buried Giant feature excellently written characters and plots, as well as monsters. The key for both of those stories’ success is that the focus is put on the former, not the latter.

So the point is, don’t scrap your alternate history-WWII-elven-mecha-pilot story, just spend an equal amount of time making that elf-pilot as believable and human as you can. Make him change, make him feel something, and you’ll have a story worth reading. And send me a draft, because it sounds pretty awesome.

Bonus: Some further reading on genre from the same two authors mentioned above http://www.newstatesman.com/2015/05/neil-gaiman-kazuo-ishiguro-interview-literature-genre-machines-can-toil-they-can-t-imagine

Image Credit: http://snowskadi.deviantart.com/

Observation on the Promotion of a Fast Food Employee

Trevor made manager in less than six months. I remember him as a lad. A McDonald's trainee with a disclaimer on his chest, not to take him too seriously lest he say something incorrect. If this person upsets you, do not blame us. It is his fault for having something called a "lack of experience." How long did he wear that badge of shame before he was allowed to doff it? How many snide and derisive comments did he have to withstand and how many McFlurries did he have to make again because there were not enough Oreo's the first time? Now I see him and the nervous smile is gone. His cautious optimism is wiped out. He looks at me with stern eyes and a sharper haircut. A tie is tucked into his buttoned shirt to avoid grease, fire, and contamination. I wonder how much of the change is due to the simple change of attire, and how much is due to his six months' experience in this restaurant. Before he had to beg and bother his betters timidly for a password to authorize a coupon. Now he can do it all on his own. Promotion to Management: the privilege not to have to grovel like a dog in order to accept coupons. No, Trevor, now you're on your way to groveling for bigger and better things. Congratulations, son, you've made it.

Why You Should Read DC Comics' Kingdom Come

So I've just started getting into DC comics for the first time. And true to my nature, it is because of a video game; the recently released DC Injustice (which is an amazing game, by the way.) The first comic I looked for after falling in love with Aquaman's play-style (poke, poke, poke) was of course his own printed adventures. But what I found at Edward Mckay's Used Books and More was instead; Kingdom Come.

SHAZAM!

I'd seen posters and action figures from the series before and, again true to my nature, I was intrigued by the art style. So I picked it up for a paltry $7.50 and I've just finished reading it today. And let me tell you, it's given me more fuel for my own creative process where super-powered and/or magical beings are concerned in my writing than anything else I've read so far. Without giving too much away, it deals with the dichotomy of super-powered people and their human sides. What happens when you separate the two? After I'd read about the first chapter or so of the book, I was thinking about the obvious parallels to Marvel's Civil War. It's one side of good guys with some bad guys who are all for regulating super-people, vs the other side of good guys and bad guys who aren't. Of course that's watering it down a lot, and when you've read both you realize they go in very different directions.

Not THAT similar, but still good guy vs good guy

Whereas Civil War deals with freedom and how much of it you're willing to give up in exchange for security, Kingdom Come is more about our relationship as humans with the powers that be. In terms of storytelling and character creation, this book has helped me tremendously with ideas on how to design a character with fantastic abilities. I think the key is in rooting them as a human. Superman is Kryptonian by birth, but he's a country boy by his upbringing. Imagine if he came to Earth after a life of Kryptonian privilege? While I'm sure this has already been explored by writers in the past, I'm willing to bet that the strictly alien Kal-El wasn't as much of a hero as Clark Kent.

X-Rays, DRANK. Frost Breath, DRANK. 

All in all, Kingdgom Come has inspired a lot of new thought concerning my own characters that have been in incubation for years, as well as spurring me to explore the DC universe even further. One thing I like about it is that the capes and heroism aspect feels more played up than the Marvel I've read. I've seen so many gritty and relatively down-to-earth stories recently that seeing idealistic crusaders and all the juxtaposition that can go with it is fascinating. But that's another post for another day. In short, read Kingdom Come, you won't be sorry.

The Groof

             Larson leaned his chair back and forth. He set his pen parallel to the notepad in front of him. The clock on his cellphone read 6:58. Larson uncrossed his legs, turned away from his desk, and placed elbows on his knees. He rocked his feet to and fro from balls to heels, and the cellphone showed 7:00. He collected wallet, phone, and keys and left his office.

            He stepped out into the hall and heard a voice from the living room.

            “Dad, where’s the Groof?”

            “I put him in the box with your all your other old toys last night,” Larson said, checking his necktie in the hall mirror.

            “Why?” asked his son, arms crossed.

            “Because you’re a big boy now, Lenny, and it’s time you let go of kid stuff like that.”

            Lenny ran down the hallway and Larson could hear the bedroom door click open, followed by the creak of the old toy chest. Apparently he hadn’t piled enough toys on top of the stuffed animal, because Lenny reemerged into the dark hall clutching a doll a third of his size that resembled a cross between a man and a flightless bird, like a kiwi. Larson turned from the mirror.

            “Why do you think you still need him?”

            “Because,” said Lenny.

            “That’s not an answer. Why won’t you make real friends at school?”

            “The Groof IS real! And just because you go out all the time with a new friend doesn’t mean I have to, too!” The bedroom door slammed after the boy, and Larson rubbed the bridge of his nose. He heard tires crunching on gravel in the front yard, and walked to the window.

            Outside, a Ford Focus had pulled in into the driveway next to Larson’s Buick. A young woman emerged, slung a backpack over her shoulder and rummaged, bent over, in her messy car. Larson went outside to greet her, tried not to look at her behind, and fidgeted with his tie instead: he could not get the length right.

            “Found it!” said Margie, hefting a chemistry textbook over her head.

            “He’s in a mood tonight,” Larson warned. “We had an argument.”

            “Good thing I brought Nemo, then,” she winked.

            “You’re so good with him,” Larson said, exhaling. “Why can’t it be that easy for me?”

            “Don’t worry about it Mr. Larson. Now you go have fun tonight, you deserve it,” Margie said, and hugged him. He did not expect the hug, and so he stumbled backwards a bit, making the hug off-balance. They both chuckled, and to Larson's dismay made brief eye contact, and then she went inside while he got into the Buick.

            Larson lived in a small town of no significant name, far removed from the city, and had to drive nearly ten miles to get to the highway. He wound through roads flagged by pines and could not settle on a radio station. It was a full moon in a clear sky that night and the moonlight opened the woods and reflected in the eyes of deer who wanted to challenge Larson’s authority of the road but didn’t.

            He relaxed, he was almost to the highway, and maybe he’d pressed his suit correctly after all. Then, Larson ran out of gas. The sound came first, as if his car were grumbling and nodding off to sleep. Luckily, Larson was able to steer the car to the shoulder of the road before it did so. He deflated in the driver’s seat, any buoyancy gained in the ride now lost, and stared at the gas gauge, dipped below “E”, willing it to rise, even if just by a little.

            His Plan B was to retrieve his cellphone, and the absence of bars in the corner of the screen did not surprise him. He flipped it closed, turned on his flashing lights, and sat on the hood of the old, black car. A pair of headlights leered around the bend ahead, but promptly ignored Larson as they passed. The second pair slowed, yet only for a moment before going on, and by the passing of the third pair he had slid down from the hood of the car and yelled an obscenity. He kicked at the dirt which scuffed a shoe, which brought another obscenity, but then he began to calm down. Fed up with the lack of roadside generosity, he stamped his feet and holstered his hands in armpits to stave off the cold.

            He peered around the woods occupying either side of the road, looking for any sign of light from houses down private roads. He knew he’d seen many such roads around here before. Larson turned off the flashers, took his keys and phone, and set off south, since he was sure he’d seen houses closer to the highway. It wasn’t long before he caught sight of a glow in the woods in the distance. He blew into his cupped hands and decided to brave whatever denizens of the woods owned the light source.

            Larson followed the main road until he came to a private dirt path. There was a road sign, but it was engulfed in the overgrowth that formed a tunnel extending twenty or so feet like a hallway into the woods, the sides of the passage gnarled and impassable tree branches and trunks.

            He stood there and weighed the chances of entering the tunnel. The light at the end was welcoming like a campfire, and besides, he needed to make it to this date. He didn’t know how many more times he could be set up by family or friends from the office. At some point their address books and friend lists would run dry of women his age, and what would he do then, dating sites?

            Larson straightened his tie once more, buttoned his suit jacket, and started down the wooded path. He had to duck at some points and the brush forced him to crouch here and there as he walked. And as he went on the foliage became so thick that he had to navigate by touch, pushing the leaves out of the way to be able to make out the light. Eventually it became so much that he was unsure whether the tunnel was going straight, or had he changed directions? He hunched down low to get his head out of the branches, and sniffed a kerosene scent straight ahead of him. He followed the smell, and the vegetation became less and less, and soon he could make out a front porch where a large oil lamp hung from the ceiling.

            He emerged into the driveway of a small, white, one-story house. The front porch of which was wide with several rocking chairs and a couch laden with pillows, all bathed in the orange light of the lamp. A garage was open on the left side of the house, revealing a Volkswagen Beetle circa the nineteen forties. The car was white and half-covered with tarps, surrounded by heaps of helpless lawn furniture, backyard toys, and tools. Between the garage and the porch was a red door with a half-circle window at the top. Larson could see a shape moving in what would be the small foyer and decided to approach the house before he looked any more suspicious.

            The outside of the house looked friendly enough, so he told himself that the residents must be the same. He climbed the stoop and rapped the door twice. He was checking the time on his cellphone—7:45 and still no bars—when he heard heavy footsteps up to the other side of the door. Larson let the phone slide into his pocket as the door opened and he looked up into the face of a seven, maybe eight foot tall man-creature covered in brown, needle-thin feathers.

            “Hello,” it said, removing a pipe from its thin, curved beak. “I’m the Groof. And you are?”

            Larson stepped backward down the stoop slowly and stared back up with wide eyes.

“Ran out of gas.”

“Is that a local name?” asked the Groof, replacing his pipe and puffing.

“No, it’s Larson,” he replied, rudely looking the oversized kiwi-person up and down.

“Well come in, then, and we’ll see if we can’t do anything about that name,” the Groof said as he turned and went into the house.

            Larson followed into the entryway and stood with arms dangling at his sides, mouth lolling slightly open. There was an oriental rug on the hardwood floor, and a small desk filled with stationery and strewn with letters.

            “My son,” Larson managed to say, “my son has a doll. It’s you, you’re it.”

            “I’m sure he does,” the Groof said, fumbling in the kitchen. “Whenever a human sees one of us, he runs off selling merchandise and photographs. I even pose for them sometimes, I don’t know why nobody ever believes them.”

            The Groof went on to tell Larson how lucky he was to have found him that night, for the homes of Groofs are always moving, and he told him about how Groofs live, all while Larson tried to collect himself in the chair by the tiny stationery desk.

            “And I get all I need from friends in the woods. Food, firewood, and water I can find from around wherever I happen to find myself, but I rely on woodland creatures to bring me things from town. As you can see, Groofs have grown very fond of human customs over the years.”

            “That’s all very interesting, Mr. Groof,” Larson said, rising.

            “Just Groof is fine, thanks.”

            “But I’m late for a date, and as much as I’d love to hear more stories for my son, do you think you could give me a lift into town or let me use your phone for a cab?”

            “They’re stories for you, too, Mr. Larson.”

            “Call me Larson.”

            “Very good. I believe I’ve got a tank of gasoline you can use in the garage, no cab needed.”

            “Thank you so much, Groof,” Larson said.

            “The pleasure is all mine,” said the Groof, wiping his talons on a towel as he finished putting the tea on. “Please, follow me to the den.”

            “But what about the gas?”

            “Already? But I’ve just put tea on, and it’s nearly done!” the Groof clucked.

            “I’ll have to come back another time.”

            “Oh, no, that won’t do. I’ll be on my way by then,” the Groof said, making Larson a place in a rocking chair near the fireplace of the den. “Stay for tea and then I’ll give you the gasoline after, hm?”

            Larson couldn’t believe that he was being blackmailed into tea time by a giant bird, much less that he had accepted the offer, rolling of eyes or not. He sat, and inspected a chess set on a high table, high enough for a Groof, wherein each piece resembled something bird-like or owlish in nature, the kings being miniature reproductions of Groofs wearing crowns.

            The life-sized Groof reentered the den, carrying a tray with teapot and cups, sugars and milk. They poured their tea and before the Groof could settle into his monolithic, red armchair, Larson had gulped half of his tea down. The Groof had only begun sipping with his pointed beak, not unlike a humming bird, when Larson set his saucer and cup down and stood to button his jacket.

            “You make a fine cup of tea, Groof, but I’m afraid I must be on my way.”

            “On your way where? We aren’t yet finished,” said the Groof, balancing his teacup between his talons.

            “Oh, I’m afraid I‘m quite sated.”

            “Well I can see that, but I’ve only just started.”

            Larson looked the Groof squarely in his golden eyes.

            “Look, you promised to help me, and I’ve met your conditions. This is ridiculous, I have a date tonight, a chance to make something real happen for me and for my son, and instead here I am, having tea with an imaginary friend.”

            The Groof’s avian eyes wandered in his teacup.

            “Very well, I’ll finish quickly,” he said and shuffled his chair away from Larson to face the chess board.

            Larson stood, watching the Groof go over what looked like a memorized game for a moment before sinking back into his seat. The clock on the wall ticked and the fire crackled as the Groof moved his pieces. Larson’s gaze washed around the room, trying not to look in his host’s direction, when his eyes settled on a photograph on the shelf. It showed the Groof accompanied by a smaller version of himself, with the white house in the background, although instead of pines, the trees were oaks.

            Larson cleared his throat and said: “Is this your son?”

            “Hm? Oh, yes,” said the Groof, setting down a knight shaped like a falcon. “I haven’t seen him in years.”

            “Why not?” asked Larson. “Where is he?”

            “Groofing about somewhere with a house of his own, I’m sure. You see, Groofs are a solitary species after reaching adulthood.”

            “But what about your wife, or I mean, his mother?” Larson asked, holding the picture frame.

            “Groofwives also set out on their own after the Grooflings are all raised,” the Groof said, back at his game.

            “That sounds lonely.”

            “It is. But such is the life of a Groof. And such is our desire for good company from time to time.”

            Larson put the picture back in its place, and looked up and down the lineage of Groofs in portrait, some gray, some black, some chestnut or downy white. He picked up his chair and took it over to this Groof at the other end of the chess set.

            “Would you like to play a game?” Larson asked.

            “I would!” the Groof hooted. “Let me put on another pot of tea.”

            The Groof told Larson of his family as they played, nieces and nephews and uncles. He told him about Groofish cuisine, and important Groofs from history who had influenced the human world. All this and more Larson listened to as they played, but before long, the Groof had tired himself out in his excitement and dozed off, warbling as he slept in the big red armchair.

            Larson finished his second cup of tea and set it down. The fire had been reduced to cinders in the fireplace, and when Larson checked his phone it read 9:00. They had missed the movie, but perhaps there was still time to get dinner if he hurried. The Groof still murmured in his sleep, his great plumed chest heaving up and down as he snored. Larson crept out of the den, but hesitated at the front door, and scrawled a quick “thank you” on a note lying on the small desk before leaving.

            He found the gas canister in the garage buried under unused pool toys, even a small trampoline. He took what gas he needed and returned the rest, leaving the orange glow of the little white house behind as he drove into the city.

            Larson was two hours late in picking up Sophie, and if he thought the car ride was bad, her face when they pulled into the parking lot of the Olive Garden was something far worse.

            “Look, everything else was booked up after our reservation expired. That’s finding a last minute babysitter for you,” he said.

            “Let’s just eat, ok?” she said as she got out of the car, red dress and all.

            Inside Larson poked at his pasta and listened to the family with kids seated nearby. His date was eating at a steady pace and avoiding eye contact.

            “So how well do you know Mike and Laurie?” he attempted.

            “They’re good people. Been trying to set me up for a while now. I’ve known them since college. Real good at finding babysitters on time, too.”

            He nodded, and set his fork down when the waiter came with the check.

            “Ok, look. I made the babysitter thing up.”

            “Oh, really?”

            “What if I told you what held me up tonight was something amazing. That I ran out of gas and had tea with a giant man-bird at his house in the woods?”

            “I’d tell you to save stories like that for your kid,” said Sophie, finishing her chicken carbonara. “Look, I’m sure you have a perfectly good reason for keeping me waiting for two hours. I get it, I really do. But I don’t have time for this, I have to get up in the morning. Would you take me home, please?”

            “But you don’t understand, I—”

            “Just save it, Larson, for both our sakes.”

            It was midnight when Larson got home. Margie was asleep on the couch, surrounded by chemistry notes. When Larson woke her he started to explain his lateness, but she shushed him and gave a congratulatory punch on the shoulder. He went to Lenny’s room, and on the way he found his Groof doll, left behind in the hallway. Its beaded golden eyes stared back at him. He picked it up, and entered his son’s room.

            “Lenny, wake up,” he said, gently shaking his shoulder.

            “Mmm, what is it? Dad?” he said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

            “Guess what? I was wrong, Lenny, the Groof is real. You were right!”

            “What? What do you mean?” the boy sat up in his pyjamas.

            “Come on, I’ll show you. Get dressed, quick!” Larson went downstairs to find a gift for the Groof, he settled on donuts. Lenny was by the door, doll in hand.

            “Where is he? Did you meet him?” asked Lenny.

            “He lives in the woods, you’ll see.”

            They drove down the highway to where the wooded tunnel had been, but when they arrived, there were only normal trees.

            “It was right here, I promise. The Groofhole must have moved like he said,” Larson said, pulled back onto the road, and checked up and down the wooded road. But he found nothing, and stopped again in the shoulder.

            “I’m sorry, Lenny, about what I said before I left,” Larson said, laying his head on the steering wheel. “And about this too, I swear I met him. And he had a car, and pictures and a chess set, and—”

            “It’s ok, Dad. I believe you,” Lenny said, as he climbed into his father’s lap. And he sat there, a miniature version of a huge bird monster stuffed between them.

            “I love you, son. Do you know that?” asked Larson.

            “I know, dad. I love you too.”

Truck

             When I woke, I had to call for the nurse. That was one thing I wouldn’t expect—usually in the movies the nurse is standing over the soldier right when they wake up. So I laid there in some striped smock, yelling, “Nurse!” because that’s what the war veterans moan when they wake up after their legs have been blown off, right? I counted limbs, fingers, and toes as I heard footsteps approaching my bed. Four, ten, and ten. Good.

            “Well, that didn’t take long!” said the woman in kitten-patterned scrubs after she pulled the curtains back. She grabbed the chart off the end of my bed and wrote something on it.

            “What didn’t?” I asked.

            “You were only out for just under two hours. Tell me, what was the last thing you remember?”

            I looked around the hospital room: it was calm. There were other beds up and down the long room, but they were all empty. And the only people around were orderlies or other nurses cleaning up or passing through.

            “I was trying to cross the street, on my way home from campus, to go to the post office, and I think I tripped and hit my head,” I said. The nurse laughed.

            “You got it half right. How do you feel?” the nurse asked.

            “I have a headache but other than that I think I’m okay. What do you mean half?”

            “Honey, you were hit by a truck. Hit and run.”

I had to laugh at that. “You mean, like, the truck stopped a little bit short and knocked me over, or what?”

            “No, the EMTs say people on the street saw it run smack into you. Must have been going forty, fifty miles, they said.” Then I decided to expand my health check from fingers and limbs to frantically running my hands over my sides and stomach. The nurse laughed again.

            “Where did it hit me?”

            “Lower abdomen is what we heard from the bystanders. But we ran x-rays and nothing’s broken. No bruises, nothing aside from the lacerations on your face.” I reached up and felt the gauze still taped to my cheek. I remembered the asphalt coming up to greet me. But I thought that I would have remembered a box of metal on wheels flying into me.

            “You’re shitting me,” I said.

            “Look, honey, I’ve seen stranger things working around here. You can believe me or not, but count this as a blessing. You got to have someone up there looking after you.” She finished writing and marched off down the hall, cats of all different colors prancing on the back of her shirt. I looked over and saw my clothes neatly arranged on a chair next to my bed, my shoes and just jeans and a t-shirt, but I started to panic when the blue Duke University sweatshirt I had been wearing wasn’t there. I tore the pile of clothes apart and found it neatly folded under my bra and underwear, and sighed with relief.

            I got dressed and had to sign a couple of papers before they would let me go. Nurses here and there who must have had heard about my accident looked me up and down suspiciously. I left the hospital and realized I’d never been there before, and had no idea how to get home. I went back inside and asked an orderly how to get to my street, and I knew none of the street names that came out in jumbles and nodded as if I did know and then went outside again.

            After wandering down the street I decided to follow people who looked like they knew where they were going, men in suits mostly. This led me to the bus station, and I found my way onto a bus home from there. The bus was cold and I stuffed my hands into the overlong sleeves of the blue sweatshirt for warmth. It had been my mother’s father’s, and I wore it whenever the weather allowed. To me it felt warmer than a down coat.

            I came into my apartment and everything looked the same as I had left it that morning. I don’t know why I expected anything to have changed. But when you’re in an accident like that and you have to come home from having woken up somewhere else, you feel surprised to see your room and your things again. And it’s almost as if you can tell they’re surprised to see you, too.

            I wasn’t sure what to do next. What’s the first thing to take care of after surviving a car crash? I had gotten sleepy on the bus ride, so I lay down on my bed. I tried to remember the truck hitting me, and as I dusted off the memory of falling in the street, like an archaeologist brushing dirt off an old bone, I started to make out the truck slamming into my side. I couldn’t remember any pain, but I saw the face of the man driving, shaggy, blonde bangs, lower lip trembling as if he were about to burst into tears, mortified.

            Then everything was hard to picture, it was as if my vision was obscured by some sort of mesh in front of my face, like a bee keeper’s mask. I stumbled around in the street as cars swerved around me and voices called, “This way!” and “Over here!” but I couldn’t find my way out of the intersection. I reached out with both hands to feel someone or something, but the voices ebbed away, and I was being consumed by the whirring white noise of cars roaring on all sides.

            I woke up to my phone ringing. I answered, and it was my mother.

            “Baby, are you okay?” said the fuzzy approximation of her voice through the speaker.

            “Yes, Mamma, I’m fine.”

            “The hospital called when they brought you in. I about had a heart attack! What happened? Are you going to press charges?”

            “No, Mamma, the man barely tapped me. I just fell and hit my head, that’s all,” I lied. “He came to hospital and apologized over and over again. I just told him to go home.”

            “Well, Alice from work says even if you feel fine now the pain might could come later. You could have whiplash and not even know it!”

            “I’m fine. I’ll let you know if anything does happen, I promise.” The phone was silent.

            “Okay. I’m just glad you’re okay.” She paused. “Did you get the package yet?”

            “No, I didn’t get the package,” I said, getting off the bed and walking into the kitchen. “I got hit by a truck. What’s in it anyway?”

            “Just some old things I thought might help you find some direction,” she said.

            “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, sitting at the kitchen table.

            “Baby, you’re so lost these days, always switching up your major. And I can’t help but feel it’s my fault.”

            “What?” I asked, ready for a consolation trip.

            “It’s just that ever since we moved across the state you’ve cut off from your heritage, my family and not to mention your daddy’s,” my mother said. “Why, you never even got to meet your own granddaddy.”

            “That’s not your fault, Mamma.”

            “I know, baby. I just think you need to find out where you’re from to find where you’re going.”

            “Let me decide what I need,” I said, rubbing my eyes.

            “Okay. Are you going to get the package now? Should you be driving?”

            “The doctor said it was okay.”

            “All-right, then. I love you. I’m glad you’re okay.”

            “I know, Mamma. I love you too.”

            I got up from the table and got my keys. I left the apartment, got into my car, and headed to the post office, one hospital trip later than I’d meant to. I never had to go to the post office before, but this time they’d tried to deliver my package to my apartment while I wasn’t there one too many times and finally told me just to pick it up at the shipping facility.

            It was dark when I got on the road and I had to follow directions I’d scribbled down from the internet onto a sticky note. They took me down the back roads behind campus, past the train tracks and into where it was mostly warehouses. The roads had few streetlights and many transfer trucks were parked all around the black parking lots. My headlights shone onto and reflected off of the sides of the trucks as I drove, and as I squinted at the street signs I found myself on a road with the post office at the end of it, lit up alone in the night.

            I parked and inside the post office it was all yellow light and brown boxes. There was a kind of conveyor belt like in an airport where the baggage comes out, but it was stopped, and an old lady stood arguing with a middle-aged woman in a blue uniform. The old lady needed her husband’s medicine, but either it hadn’t arrived yet or she didn’t have her husband’s I.D. to be able to take the package anyway. I think it was a little of both.

            They came to an agreement to wait for the last truck to come back before the office closed, and then they would see what they would see, and it was my turn to ask for a package. The old lady hobbled over to a seat along the wall. I approached the woman in uniform who had frizzy red hair and bags under her eyes and asked for my package. She went in the back and I sat down next the old lady.

            “Good gracious, sweetie, what happened to your face?” the lady asked. “Oh, look at me, mouthing off, no manners at all. Please, don’t answer that. I’ve had a long day, is all.”

            “No, it’s alright,” I said. “I was hit by truck today.” The lady pulled backwards and removed her eyeglasses, as if to inspect me more thoroughly.

            “A truck?! Now, I never seen nobody walk up into a post office like that after a car accident,” she said. She wore a kerchief over what little hair she had left.

            “You’re telling me. I remember going down and the next thing I know I’m in a hospital, nurse telling me I’m fine, all but the scratch on my cheek.”

            “Nothing but a little scratch, huh?” she said. She pulled at the sleeve of my sweatshirt, stained and with a cigarette burn on the cuff. “How long you had this old thing?”

            “This? It was my grandfather’s before he died,” I said.

            “Mhmm. I thought so, this old rag’s got power in it. He’s looking out for you, girl.”

I laughed. “Power? What does that mean?”

            “Love! Who else wore that shirt before you? Your mamma or daddy?” She settled back into her chair and closed her eyes. “I can feel it, ain’t nothing could hurt someone wearing something with that much love left on it.”

            I squeezed the fabric of the sweatshirt in between my fingers, as if maybe the power she spoke of made it thicker, like armor.

            “Shoot, we all got to have someone looking out for us. Like my husband, if I weren’t running all over town trying to get his damn pills—oh, excuse my language darling.” She blushed.

            The woman came back from around the corner holding a small package, about the size of a shoebox.

            “Sign here,” she said, and I did. I took the box and opened it right there. Inside was an old cigar box, inside that a pile of old letters and pictures, a small journal at the bottom. I picked one of the photos up. It’s strange to see someone you’ve never met who looks so much like you. Maybe because they resembled you so much they might have thought the same way, or had the same problems as you. But how would you ever know?

            “Is that him?” the old lady next to me asked.

            “Mhmm.”

            “See? He’s looking out for you.” She winked at me.

            I put the picture and the box away and got up.

            “I hope you get your husband’s medicine,” I said.

            “Oh, don’t worry about that,” she said. “I always get my way in the end.” I smiled at her and told her goodnight.

            Outside the post office I looked through the photos again. I found one of my grandfather holding my mother as a baby. They were on the porch swing at the old house, and my mother was pulling the glasses off of his face. He was laughing and looking right at the camera, at me.

            I heard brakes and the slamming of a car door near me, and saw a faded blue truck with a large dent in the right side of the bumper. A blonde man was standing, staring at me with a look on his face as if he’d seen a ghost.

            “Oh god, it’s—how are you—I’m so sorry,” he said.

            “How the hell do you think I am after getting run over?” I said, crushing the shipping package in my fingers.

            “Well, you look, uh…”

            “Yeah, I’m fine, for God knows what reason. And now I have to pay a bill for an x-ray that showed my spine is stronger than your busted-ass truck anyway,” I said pointing the box at the pickup.

            “Look, please just don’t call the cops,” he said, eyes tearing up. “I can’t handle that right now. I didn’t see you, I swear. I fucked up again, I’m sorry.”

            He was crying now, and I thought about the story of when my grandfather ended up giving a job to the man that tried to steal the brand-new lawnmower out of his shed. I don’t remember all the details, and they change every time my mother tells the story anyway. But the man was on his knees slobbering as I thought, and I walked towards him, extended a hand, and awkwardly patted his shoulder.

            “Look, I’m not going to tell anybody. Just get out of here,” I said.

            “Really?” he asked, getting to his feet and wiping his nose.

            “Yeah, just get lost. After you get your package or whatever.”

            “Oh, thank you. Thank you so much!” he said, grabbing me in a hug. “You know, you must do a damn good job eating your vegetables. Getting up after a hit like that.”

            “No,” I said, after he let me go and I got out my car keys. “I’ve just got someone looking out for me.”

The Arcade: Chapter 3

 Ok, so the first thing you're going to notice about this one is that it is in third-person omniscient point-of-view. There was a huge gap of time in between when I wrote parts 1 and 2, and then part 3, so I kind of forgot that they were supposed to be in first person. 

So just forget about that and enjoy it!

---           

“Prepare for atmospheric reentry,” cooed the computer system onboard the escape pod which was plummeting towards the surface of an Earth-like planet. The small, spherical, waiting room-like craft began to rock violently as blue ocean turned into the whiteness of clouds ripping past. Just as Steve grabbed at his seat’s harness in an attempt to stabilize the status of his stomach, which was quickly approaching barf levels, the pod announced in a waitressy tone:

            “Enabling comfort protocols,” and the thrashing suddenly ceased, the sound of rattling components replaced by smooth jazz. The image of the ever-quickening approach of the planet’s surface on the video screen over the shoulder of Steve’s robotic companion, JORDI, turned into one of kittens playing.

            “Coffee, sir?” asked JORDI, extending in his metallic hand a plastic cup he’d retrieved fresh from a dispenser on the wall.

            “Sure, thanks,” obliged Steve, noticing that JORDI was actually tapping his metal fingers against one knee to the rhythm of the muzak. There was a soft thud underneath Steve’s feet not unlike that of an elevator reaching ground floor, and the hatch slid open, revealing a green countryside complete with picturesque village in the distance.

            “So up next is Harkenshire,” Steve mused.

            “You are familiar with this planet, sir?” chirped JORDI, fiddling with an access panel on the side of the pod.

            “You could say that. And I’m sure I know which session this is too,” but before he could continue:

            “Life forms! Seventy meters north!” cried the metal man, and sure enough, a raiding party composed of equal parts ogres and orcs, with a smattering of kobolds for good measure was approaching the village, smashing their crude weapons together in anticipation as they came nearer to the puny town gates.

            “Calm down,” said Steve, easing himself down onto the ramp produced by the empty pod. “There are enough heroes at the inn in town to clean up that mess. Rob’s character has a new staff full of charges to try out.”

            The monsters in the distance were joyfully ripping logs from the village’s shield wall, climbing over each other for a chance at the terrified townsfolk. Helpless villagers. Then Steve remembered exactly what was going to happen during this particular session.

            He got up in a hurry, tossing away his second cup of space-coffee. “JORDI, we have to go help them!” Without question the android abandoned his maintenance work and was trotting alongside his captain, restraining his hydraulic strides to match.

            As they closed in on the dilapidated gates they could see the fighting within. The meager untrained forces of the town guard were being eaten alive (in some cases more literally than in others), but in the center of the town square three warriors, obviously player characters due to their ludicrous amount of costume and armor detail, fought off the beasts in a triangle formation.

            Reaching and passing through the broken wall, Steve and his robot entered the fray, Steve staying behind JORDI as he turned snarling, blunt instrument-wielding fiends into piles of dust with his vaporizer. Bolts of arcane energy pierced through the abdomens and heads of orcs, flying from the tip of a robed and bespectacled wizard’s staff. He was smiling as a boy a quarter of his age, blasting away, flanked by an elven huntress, loosing shimmering magical arrow after arrow while her enormous cleavage attempted valiantly to escape its meager restraints.

            On the other side was the character Steve had played, a battle-hardened cleric smashing ogres with morning star and enchanted shield alike. In the midst of the chaos Steve was searching, hoping that the girl was still alive when he saw her: the spitting image of his first girlfriend, Tracy, red hair, freckles and all in the grasp of a particularly bloodthirsty orc by the back on her plain dress. Rob’s wizard was mopping up the remaining opposition with some sort of vortex spell while the cleric finished the last kobold with the sharp edge of his emblemized holy shield, and the huntress kept an arrow knocked and trained on the final orc with his hostage.

            Steve knew how it was about to go down. He’d replayed it dozens of times in his head at night after the infamous dumping after sixth period. The elf woman shouted for the monster to unhand her, to whom it laughed and snorted, and when the glimmering arrow was protruding from the back of the orc’s head, it had already yanked its axe across the girl’s throat. And even though the cleric roared in dismay, her wound too grave even for cure heavy wounds, the sixteen-year-old player who held the dice chuckled and smirked.

            But not this time.

            “JORDI, now!” yelled Steve, and with a speed even faster than that of the huntresses elvish reflexes, the robot aimed and fired his arm-mounted cannon, the orc’s molecular structure destabilizing, its axe falling in the dirt, and the girl unharmed save for a healthy lifelong fear of all orckind.

            “My, what a magnificent golem you have there, young man!” exclaimed the wizard.