http://www.stillbook.org/stories/Fri, 19 Oct 2012 12:21:32 +0000en-USSquarespace V5 Site Server v5.13.166 (http://www.squarespace.com)StillbookWed, 03 Mar 2010 00:07:00 +0000http://www.stillbook.org/stories/2010/3/2/afternoon.html134959:6100593:6889487
While his thoughts spun wildly out of control, his walk was familiar. About four blocks stood between him and his lunch. There were many sites to see along the way. A small, yet scenic college campus, an 84-year-old house, a crack in the sidewalk, and sometimes, even another person, walking a dog or parking a car.

Automobiles seemed like such curious objects to him. While their primary purpose was transportation, their various secondary purposes seemed far from secondary. As he walked by each parked car along the way, he often glanced in through the windows and wondered about the owners. Whether a car was clean, dusty, tidy, or unkempt could mean a variety of different things. Who knows? Perhaps the owner of that dusty red Prelude was named Stephanie. With all of the fast food debris strewn around the passenger seat, he imagined that she was in her early twenties. Maybe her father had purchased the car for her on her sixteenth birthday, and since it was no longer the latest model, she had grown bored with it. After all, it probably did not attract the eyes of all the boys like it used to; and, due to the recent jerk she had dated, she did not care much about boys anyway. He pictured Stephanie as a brunette, with stylish platform shoes and a tattoo on her lower back, or maybe just above her left breast. Surely her parents did not approve of her tattoo, or her navel ring for that matter. Perhaps this was why the complexion of her car had been neglected. Or, then again, perhaps her parents were divorced when she was young, and her life had always felt disorganized and filled with chaos, both emotional and otherwise. So many hints, so many worlds, he thought.

There were not many mini-vans in his neighborhood, which meant few children could be found. For the most part, he thought this was unfortunate. Children always seemed to have a wonderful way of injecting life into living. Whenever he remembered such things, he would adjust his behavior accordingly. Every once in a while, he would kick a small pebble on the ground until he reached an intersection, or he would walk along the edge of the curb, as though it were a balance beam. The good thing about his neighborhood was its personality, its history. Because of its in-town location, it had been protected from suburbia and the ugliness of the corresponding generic strip malls. Whenever he remembered this, he tended to smile and look up at the trees.

He often ate lunch around 2 or 2:30 in the afternoon. This way, he could avoid the hectic atmosphere of the traditional noontime lunch hour. One of his favorite lunch spots was the local Pizzeria. The food was tasty and inexpensive, and the servers, like the neighborhood, exuded a unique character. The owner was very selective with his kindness. His gruff voice was matched only by his loyal, protective eyes. He often spoke Italian, which seemed to perplex and confuse the usually young, demanding customers. He had two primary assistants behind the counter. One was a younger, sincere, and outgoing gentleman who obviously enjoyed his work. And, the other was a single, hard working mother. Both a survivor and an optimist, she often spoke of her son and her dogs. To her, the local customers were people, with hopes and dreams and problems, like her own. To be in her presence was to feel human.

He usually carried a book with him, a companion for his meal. Being a philosopher by nature, a copy of “Walden” and two slices of pepperoni pizza were perfect for filling his mind and stomach. Occasionally between chapters he would quietly listen to the voices around him. Men typically spoke of work, women, and sports, while women tended to exchange stories about friends, men, and clothes. Although each conversation varied in length and pitch, few varied in content.

He was slow and methodical with his meal. Making sure not to accidentally spill any food on his clothes or on his book, he often cut his slices of pizza with a small plastic knife and fork. Occasionally, another customer would try to catch a peak at the title of his book, and sometimes, young women would walk swiftly by his table in an attempt to pull his eyes away from his reading and chewing. On this particular day, out of the corner of his eye, he happened to notice a pair of trendy platform shoes shuffling toward the table behind him. He couldn’t help but laugh to himself, as he remembered the story he had imagined earlier about Stephanie and the messy red sports car.

Sometimes, he thought, these coincidences might mean something, but other times, he figured, it was just the rambling of his active imagination. In any case, upon finishing his meal, he decided to push his thoughts and empty paper plate aside. While he could hear some faint whispering and giggling coming from the table behind him, he still closed his book, walked to the door, and pulled it open. As the sun glistened off of the metal door frame, he squinted his eyes. Adjusting to sudden changes was never one of his strengths.

]]>http://www.stillbook.org/stories/rss-comments-entry-6889487.xmlStillbookWed, 03 Mar 2010 00:02:22 +0000http://www.stillbook.org/stories/2010/3/2/evening.html134959:6100593:6889472
“It’s kind of dark” he said as he unlocked the door. “Wait here, and I’ll go turn on the lights.”

A little perplexed, she agreed and tried to hide her curiosity. Although she generally thought she knew him well, he would surprise her from time to time with an unexpected piece of personal history, or even better, a witty remark about life or traffic. To him, opposites fit perfectly together. He always tried to be playful and wise, sensitive and sarcastic, gentle and brave. She, on the other hand, tended to believe that a person was essentially one way or the other. He suspected this difference between them to be the most likely reason for their current status as "friends." He also thought, however, that certain things were better left unstated, better left to be discovered over time.

As he finally opened the door, she opened her eyes wide. The gallery lights were dim, and his art was arranged like most other aspects of his life - with meticulous consideration. His heart pounded as she began to look around. Within a few seconds, he excused himself and disappeared through a different, interior doorway. The thought of quietly and awkwardly standing around while she inspected his work was simply out of the question.

A few minutes passed. When he eventually returned through the same interior doorway, he began to feel more at ease. It seemed obvious from her body language that she was filled with interest. Regardless of what she had originally expected, it was clear to him that she would not continue to underestimate this aspect of his life. Her voice was filled with sincerity, her eyes with honesty, as she proclaimed,

“This is a REAL gallery. You need to get more people in here. How do you make these? What about those?”

His heart smiled as he began his brief explanations. Although he usually felt uncomfortable discussing his creative process, he felt more at ease with her. The tone of her voice had given away the depth of her interest, and he knew that regardless of what he said, it would not spoil the quality of her first impression. Her initial reaction was the very kind that artists live for, the kind which make them feel that their impractical, dreamy careers are indeed worthwhile.

“Do you want to see the rest of the building.... the unfinished parts?” he asked with raised eyebrows.

Anticipating more surprises, she agreed, and they found their way back into a large and dusty storage area, where the lights were even less revealing. While his voice echoed beneath the old and weathered tin ceiling, her inquiring eyes and inquisitive neck peered around each shadowy corner. They really were a lot alike, he thought, as she pondered the age of the building and as he explained his arrangement with the landlord. Although their hearts had always been in different places, the similarity of their curious minds made him feel less odd, less alone.

Continuing to sense her fascination with the building itself, he decided to try to coax her into other areas, where the building's age and mystery were even more prominent. Unsure of her comfort threshold, he suggested they ascend a remote stairway, down a dark hallway near the back door. Noticing her indecision, he smiled and pulled his keys out of his right front pocket. With a slight twist of his wrist, a small beam of light appeared from the end of a thimble-sized flashlight. She cautiously followed.

As they reached the base of the stairway, he thought of taking her hand, and then reconsidered. Instead he pointed the golden beam of light behind himself, alighting the first stair beneath her feet.

“Do you go up here by yourself?.... at night?” she asked in amazement.

He smiled again and nodded, and they stepped gingerly upward among the dirt and dust, among the flakes of dry paint which had peeled away and fallen from the walls. As the stairway turned to the right, he pointed to a broken window where only the exterior, protective bars remained. They each glanced out toward the dim light of the moon and the empty alley behind the building before turning upwards again, toward the darkness at the top of the stairs.

“Did you hear that!?.... that noise?” she asked in a broken whisper.

Just as the words “it’s nothing” came from his mouth, a flurry of flapping wings descended upon their ears and upon their confidence. Startled, she fled back down the stairs immediately, guarding her head with each frightened step. Perplexed, he paused and aimed his small flashlight toward another window above, where two gray and speckled pigeons perched, then fluttered again.

“Are those bats?!” She yelled. “What are you still doing up there?”

Insensitively, he burst into laughter and slowly made his way to the bottom of the stairs. Still laughing, he checked to see that she was alright, to see if she had regained her composure. Unfortunately, he certainly had not, and his laughing continued to the point of embarrassment, to the point of contagion.

Once she finally began laughing herself, it became clear to each of them that the tension of the evening had finally subsided. He couldn't imagine a greater feeling of relief, except perhaps in the hearts of the pigeons.

“Go ahead,” he suggested, “I’ll turn everything off after you’re outside.”

Without argument, she agreed and made her way through the dark hallway, through the gallery, and onto the sidewalk. After the gallery lights had been finally extinguished, he too found his way outside. Though the temperature was still cool, the laughter between them continued, and they slowly walked away from his gallery and the old building containing it.

With their hearts still in different places, he thought, on this particular evening, it didn’t really feel that way. It seemed rather, that something between them had deepened, and as they walked beneath the warm glow of a nearby streetlight, he smiled and noticed how their shadows had overlapped and disappeared into the sidewalk.

]]>http://www.stillbook.org/stories/rss-comments-entry-6889472.xmlStillbookTue, 02 Mar 2010 23:57:53 +0000http://www.stillbook.org/stories/2010/3/2/night.html134959:6100593:6889446
On top of the chest sat a few dusty guitar picks, a tin container of breath mints, and a few candles. Some of the candles were old and half burnt and others were new. Some looked like miniature lanterns used for camping. It seemed like he was always lighting candles at night.

Next to the matches sat a number of books. He had decided to leave them there for easy access. Most of his books were on a shelf next to his bed in the upstairs loft, but a few, his most recent favorites, always seemed to hover conveniently around his keys, wallet, and notepads. Most of the things he used during his waking hours tended to find themselves on the chest, near the candles, which sat maybe six to eight feet from the door.

The blue couch behind the chest was covered with an assortment of coats and hats. He simply had too many outer garments to worry about hanging everything up all the time. It seemed inefficient to walk clear across the room to hang things up every morning and evening. And, he never did find a good place to keep his motorcycle gloves and helmet. Given the relative infrequency of visitors, the couch just seemed like the most logical place for such things.

About five feet from the front edge of the chest sat his rocking chair. Square and low to the ground, the seat cushion was heavily worn. A couple of remote control keypads, a pair of headphones, and a coaster for tea or hot chocolate had been married to the chair for as long as he could remember. A larger flat pillow was tossed beneath the legs, but was pulled out nightly and used as a footrest.

He never thought it overly important to hang too many things on the walls. A few well-centered and original pieces of artwork seemed to suffice for his wandering eyes. While the lights were off and the candles burned, it wasn’t particularly important to focus on the pictures anyway. Too many things meant too many distractions, and he always lamented the wasted moments of his life. He wanted to accomplish so much, yet he often felt tired and unable to summon the much-needed energy to complete his most treasured goals.

While sitting in his rocking chair, however, he thought of Vermeer and Salinger, and he remembered that he would never be a prolific artist or writer. A small body of work, a few well-considered, focused accomplishments were enough. Although he could take hundreds of photographs during a series of two-hour walks through the woods, he only ever felt proud of maybe one or two carefully crafted compositions. Perhaps his creative impulse resembled a peace lily, a plant that sends out only an occasional flower when all appropriate environmental conditions had been achieved. Just a single disturbance in his life and his creativity seemed to wither.

He was powerfully secretive about his deepest strengths and weaknesses. Few people knew what he was best at and what he was worried about. In his twenties, he had realized that he was often too influenced by the people around him, so in order to maintain his essence, he had learned how to be alone and to accept, even embrace, the importance of solitude. It wasn’t that he didn’t love his friends and family; it was only that he tended to lose himself in their company. To be alone was to uncover his own nature, and to be with others was to experience theirs.

Most nights he tended to reflect on the events of the day. He often analyzed his own trials and tribulations at work. He measured his ability to remain settled during unsettling situations and to not become frustrated with people who didn’t understand certain things he considered obvious. Sometimes he felt proud of himself for being nice to people who were habitually negative, and other times he felt ashamed that he had allowed himself to be drug down into the mud, to wrestle with the pigs. He never did understand people who wanted and needed to control others. He had a hard enough time controlling himself, so he had no idea how people found the time or had the inclination to selfishly manipulate the people around them. Their nature was a true mystery to him and an exhausting existence to encounter. He thought perhaps controlling personalities were more dependent upon others in order to experience themselves. While these people tended to unsettle him throughout the day, they simply tended to awaken his pity at night.

Sometimes while he rocked back and forth and listened to his favorite songs, his eyelids would begin to fall, and his thoughts would turn to one of the many beautiful women he knew. He sometimes wondered if he could be a good man for woman A or if he made enough money for woman B. He knew however that his indecision spoke volumes, so he tended not to act on any of his late night reflections. Certain late nights had hurt people in the past, and he knew he didn’t want to go down that road again. He often wondered why he never seemed to put his whole heart into the pursuit or why he was so often attracted to women who seemed to add stress to his life – instead of relieving it. He wondered if partners existed in the world in order to actually comfort each other. Or, if the role of each partner was to challenge the other and purposefully burden them with worry and trivialities. Perhaps he had grown too comfortable with his independence, or perhaps he hadn’t yet met the right woman. Regardless of the reason or combination of reasons, he was often perplexed how he could find so many women so attractive, and yet, he never seemed to make things work out with any of them. He did have a few friends who complimented his personality, but he couldn’t remember a girlfriend who was able to brighten his life in the same way.

He loved the way the candle flames flickered and seemed to wave back and forth within the holders containing them. They never seemed to be in synch, which was both beautiful and intriguing, and they often created the most interesting shadows on the wall above his couch and pile of coats and hats. The way the shadows illuminated the shape of his dusty guitar held a certain charm as well, and it often brought a smile to his eyes.

Every night, at some point, the back of his rocking chair would begin to knock on the wall and the stairwell behind him. Whether he wanted to get up or not, the knocking usually interrupted his wandering mind, and he would lean forward and out of the chair. Sometimes he forgot that he was wearing headphones and the cord would tug at the sides of his head. Sometimes he remembered to put his cup in the kitchen sink, and other times he left it to sit empty on its coaster. Each night, however, he always remembered to blow out whichever candles remained burning. The smell of the smoke was the last best thing he felt, before he walked upward into the loft, toward the place where his thoughts would finally subside.

After brushing his teeth and pulling the shades down over the large wooden windows looking out over the street, he eventually found his way underneath the layers of blankets covering his bed. As he rolled over onto his side, rubbed his feet together, and closed his eyes, he thought about the black chest in the room beneath him. It was definitely the perfect home for his books and candles. He just couldn’t remember what was inside. He wasn’t sure why this tended to make him laugh, but the corners of his mouth curved upwards nonetheless, and when he finally yawned, exhaled, and fell asleep, both of his hands relaxed and found their way into the warm hollow between his neck and left shoulder.

]]>http://www.stillbook.org/stories/rss-comments-entry-6889446.xmlStillbookTue, 02 Mar 2010 23:45:00 +0000http://www.stillbook.org/stories/2010/3/2/morning.html134959:6100593:7544583
He had driven hundreds of miles north, across strange highways and bridges and along beautiful winding roads and desolated tracts of land. And, though he had always loved to drive and explore, this particular sojourn north, however well-planned, had begun in a way he simply hadn’t expected.

Twenty-four hours earlier, the sky had changed from blue to gray, and a long hard rain had begun to beat down on his windshield. It was neither a drizzle nor a raging storm, just a consistent and unwavering pulse that weighed heavy on his tired eyes in the most definitive manner. He had planned to reach the campground before dark, but the road to it was thick with mud and grooved, which made him question the agility of his 2-wheel-drive truck. He had eventually decided to pull over, consult his map, and consider another route before the sun disappeared and the sky grew more dark and confusing. For whatever reason, the unknown had always seemed to both attract and unsettle him.

Perhaps last night had been his first test, he thought, as he sat up out of his sleeping bag and rested his elbow on the pillow he had held close while falling asleep six hours earlier. It didn’t matter how excited he was while he packed his truck before he left home. It didn’t matter that he had always dreamt of driving across the country on his own. Yesterday, he decided, was simply a healthy dose of reality and a reminder that nothing real, nothing worthwhile, was ever easy.

“If you want to grow and evolve, you better get used to a little fear” he mumbled to himself, as the tailgate of his truck dropped open and he pulled a heavy sweatshirt over his head. Reaching around a small camping stove and over a pair of wet boots, he grabbed his wallet and keys that had been sitting on top of the wheel-well above the right rear tire. He also noticed the lantern and book he had placed next to them before falling asleep, and he smiled, realizing that he had already created a bedside table for the next two months.

Despite the heavy rain and darkness of the night before, he had carefully packed two cameras and several pieces of fruit in his backpack. He decided to double-check their contents before zipping everything back up again and pulling the arm-straps over his shoulders. Bending over slightly, he pulled his hat down over his ears and laced up a second, dry pair of shoes. As the gravel crunched beneath his feet, he walked around the truck and down a short drive toward a clearing and empty parking area. Through the trees to his right, he could see a couple of tents in a couple of different campsites, but no movement within or around them.

The campground was located next to a small river that flowed into the lake, so he decided to walk along the riverbank until he reached the beach. It was surprising how the water spread out over the sand, becoming almost still as it emptied itself into the waves. It looked kind of like a thousand flickering mirrors had been carefully arranged and spread out in front of him. The sun really was a bizarre thing, he thought, while squinting into his camera and trying his best to capture the morning light.

Removing a map from his left front pocket, he looked both directions and decided to start walking northeast along the shore. Realizing he was completely alone, and had the beach all to himself, he paused and then exhaled deeply. He looked out over the horizon. The waves seemed quiet and considerate as they curled and fell into themselves on the sand. The beach held the weight of hundreds of large stones, rubbed smooth by the water over the years, and the trees to his right seemed to anchor him to something that felt vaguely familiar.

With his hands still cold from the chill in the air and his legs not quite used to the give of the sand beneath his feet, his stride felt clumsy at first. As he walked and slowly realized where he was and how he had arrived, for some reason, tears gradually collected in his eyes. He ignored them for a while and continued to walk forward, but when they eventually escaped and rolled down his face into the corners of his mouth, he paused and decided not to blink. Instead, he held his eyes open wide and looked upward toward the sky.

As the wind picked up a little, he looked back over his shoulder and noticed a seagull out over the water. He thought maybe it wanted some food and would disappear after a minute or two. However, several minutes came and went, and as he began to walk again, the seagull remained. Sometimes it would fly beside him just above the waves, and other times it would fly ahead and perch on a stone until he got too close. After about an hour of walking, he realized that he had made a new friend.

When he came upon the remnants of a sunken ship sticking out of the water, he couldn't help but stop to inspect it. Large beams penetrated by steel rods and mesh brackets peeked out from beneath each approaching wave. He wondered about the age of the ship and how many people had been aboard during the wreck. Allowing himself to daydream a bit, he imagined the names of the captain and the crew. He suspected that a few men died in the cold water and a few escaped to shore. He figured they were probably French-Canadian and wondered how many mariners were bachelors, like himself. He also wondered how many were married men who left their wives and families behind.

While he walked, he occasionally hopped from one large stone to another, and sometimes he stopped to study the sand and stones up close. He liked how his backpack seemed lighter whenever he leaned forward and picked up something on the beach. Many of the stones were gray, washed almost black by the water, while others were orange and tan. The prettiest stones, he thought, always seemed smooth like marble and were a deep, dark midnight blue. He tried skipping a few over the waves, but to no avail. The waves seemed to protest somehow, by making themselves just too high to allow anything to tread upon them.

The sky was changing colors as the morning progressed. The trees along the beach were becoming a lighter shade of green as their shadows grew shorter and the light around them became less dramatic. The sand and stones were warming as well. He could feel the sun starting to burn his face, when he decided to adjust his route. If he ventured off of the beach, up into the woods, he could eventually make it to the lighthouse and the dunes several miles further north.

Behind him, a few hundred yards away, he noticed what looked like a couple walking together along the water's edge. So, before they approached, he thought, it might be a good time to disappear and let them enjoy the beach together in private.

Scratching his chin then cupping his jaw in the palm of his hand, he looked into the trees to determine the best place to enter. There was what seemed like a walking path to his right and another opening to the left of that. He kept looking however, and decided he would climb a small outcropping of rocks to his far left. It didn’t look like a particularly easy way to enter the woods, but something about it drew him closer.

He smiled, adjusted his backpack, and walked to the base of the rocks. As he reached up and began pulling himself over the first large stone, his foot slipped, and he came down hard on his left wrist. He got up quickly, however, ignoring the pain and pretending nothing had happened. He then looked back over to his right at the open path leading into the woods. Letting out a sigh, he paused and looked back up toward the tall stones in front of him.

It took him about five minutes to navigate his way up and over the rocks. Both winded and proud, he eventually pulled himself into the shade of the trees. When he stood up and looked back down toward the beach, he noticed that his friend, the seagull, had left him and was flying out over the water. He watched and waited until she disappeared before steadying himself and turning again to the north. After a few strides, he almost started pulling the map out of his left front pocket, but then he reconsidered. The lighthouse was just a few miles away, he thought, and it was still morning.

]]>http://www.stillbook.org/stories/rss-comments-entry-7544583.xml