Lilac City Fairy Tales

I’m excited to announce my flash fiction “The Floorboards Wail like the Cries of Our Children” will be included in the annual Lilac City Fairy Tales anthology. This year’s theme is “Towers & Dungeons.” I’m happy to be sharing pages with Brian C. Baer, Kathryn Smith, Jess Walter, Devin Devine, and many other great writers.

All the proceeds from book sales go to support Spark Central.

The book is published by Scablands Books.

We Were So Lucky

My story, 'We Were So Lucky' is part of The Spokesman-Review's Summer Stories series. The theme/prompt was "The Woods." Very fun.

You can read it here.

American Panic: Part One

I wrote a novel five or six years ago that followed a character named Tom Wilkins. He was a world war one veteran, and begins having a panic attack twenty years later when he hears Orson Welles' War of the Worlds radio broadcast, thinking it is a true journalistic account, opposed to a fiction. The novel was split into three timelines--one took place during the radio broadcast, another followed his time in the trenches during the war, and the third was his instability back in the states as he tried to reenter society. Two of those parts are pretty bad. Even though I did quite a bit of research, the moment I started writing the war scenes I realized how little I actually knew. I pushed through in my hubris and tried to make a compelling story, but never felt great about it. The scenes set in the 1920's once he came back had a lot of logical/realistic problems, but to get to the story from A to B I needed to fudge things, instead of taking the time to fully develop the story. Recently I've gutted both those parts and left the 1938 storyline. My issue with this section is I've used a lot of the War of the Worlds radio play. Instead of tinkering with this story (there are issues, like any story in existence), and instead of trying to figure out the legalities of trying to publish this with a huge chunk of previously released material I'm just going to leave it here.

So here is the first half of the 1938 section of American Panic.

It is only the dead who see the end of war.

-Plato

October 30, 1938

“In the early years of the twentieth century, this world was being watched by intelligences greater than man’s, but as mortal…”

Tom’s ears perked. In the past fifteen years he had an idea another catastrophe was imminent, and now the radio told him that his suspicions had, in fact, been correct.

“We know now that as humans being busied themselves…”

He walked around the piles of newspapers to his Westinghouse tube radio. If an attack was being prepared—or already in progress—Tom would want to know all the available details. Tom sat down in his old leather recliner while the voice crackled out of the radio. Joanne kept telling him that he needed to get the chair reupholstered, but he didn’t think it would be worth the money. He had a fear that putting a new coat on his favorite chair would morph the indentation he had spent so many years forming. The cracks in the leather widened with the addition of his weight and this slight variation gave him a sense of security. He liked the certainty of being able to go somewhere comfortable at the end of the day.

The voice on the radio caused his eyebrows droop further. His father’s features had been passed down, giving him a constant look of being worried.

“People went to and fro over the earth about their little affairs…”

He turned the volume knob a fraction louder so he would be able to reline while he listened to the report. His hearing hadn’t ever recovered from the trenches. He had been preparing his breakfast for the night. A simple roast beef sandwich with American cheese, mustard, and mayonnaise. It was a nightly attraction. Something he put down without fear of it losing its appreciation. He tried soup for about a week, but it would get cold in between bites. His mind lost in the newspaper, or the low droll of the radio, and his breakfast was forced to lay dormant for a time. The radio was normally used for background noise while he slipped into a daydream, although now it was the main event. The voice from the wooden box had all of his attention.

He tried to avoid putting too much focus on the radio on the days he had to work. Lateness was not an option for Tom. Punctuality was next to godliness and he wanted to be a godly man. He’d set the clock in the kitchen for nine-twenty. That gave him enough time to finish the article he was reading, change into his work clothes, and leave the apartment with enough time to arrive at the shop on time.

His apartment sat directly above the bakery. He didn’t need a big window to arrive on time, but he liked to be early. Sometimes, he missed the days when he was allowed to be reckless and arrive twenty minutes late to an engagement. He'd shrug his shoulders and flash a smile, allowing his malfeasance to be forgiven. Now it was imbedded into his mind to stay on top of his responsibilities. Although, when alone in his small apartment he let his duty of cleaning lax. The thick layer of dust remained on his tube radio and the stacks of newspapers surrounding his recliner only got taller. But as soon as he exited this small haven he became the punctual man the world knew him to be.

The bakery used his services all night, preparing for the next day. He was scheduled to start at ten, but liked to arrive at nine-thirty and work until three or four. Or whenever he finished preparing all the dough to be baked the next day, which much his frustration sometimes crept closer to five. He stuck around while the fermenting process began to take hold and the proofing made the creations rise, but it was mostly to keep Joanne company. The time was more for him than it was for her. But he’d never let her know this secret.

“Serene in the assurance of their dominion over this small spinning fragment…” the voice on the radio continued.

The sandwich now sat on the kitchen counter, half-made. The broadcast caught Tom at a moment of weakness. He had been thinking of Johnny Klatz. Tom knew Johnny back when he was Tommy. Johnny never got the chance to be a John. Tom heard the words of being watched, and knew that’s how most battles started—how wars blossomed. He watched the greatest war in his youth before he was fighting in it.

It all began with watching.

“A slight atmospheric disturbance of undetermined origin is reported over Nova Scotia…” the radio broke Tom out of his daze, he liked the weather report. “Accompanied by winds of light gale force. Maximum temperature 66…”

Had Tom imagined the deeper voice a minute before? Possibly it was an advertisement for a new novel or play. He couldn’t be sure. He waited in his recliner for a moment listening for the first man to come back. To be sure an attack wasn’t on the horizon. He’d been hearing a lot about Adolf Hitler and recently read about the situation in the Czechoslovak. A man can use power to manipulate positive results. Get enough people to follow you and you’ll be able to send them out to bend the will of others. It doesn’t even matter what ideals people follow at a certain point as long as there is a power to dictate what to follow.

“We now take you to the Meridian Room in the Hotel Park Plaza in downtown New York where you will be entertained by the music of Ramon Raquello and his orchestra…”

The music began and Tom sighed, sinking into his chair. Occasionally he’d scare himself into a frenzy. He’d think he heard something and be transferred back to painful memories. There wasn’t time for rational thought in the throes of battle. There wasn’t time for empathy in war. And Tom couldn’t control falling into a specific mindset when the world began unraveling, even if there wasn't any actual threat.

Another announcer crackled across the speakers. He told the audience what song was going to be played next. He thanked America for being there to listen, with an appreciation in his voice. Tom closed his eyes and thought about his sandwich. It was still on the counter waiting to be finished.

He pushed himself out of the chair and again walked around the piles of newspapers. One side of the sandwich had mayonnaise spread on it, but the other was bare. Tom unscrewed the mustard and used the same knife to dip out enough for the other slice of bread. He put two pieces of cheese between the bread. Usually he used one, for his health and his wallet, but sometimes wanted to spoil himself. After he added the meat he put the sandwich together. He palmed the top with a little pressure. He didn’t like the sandwich to be too loose; it ran the risk of losing ingredients.

The radio was still set at the higher setting, but the babble didn’t bother him now. Tom opened a cabinet door to retrieve a plate. He liked to sit next to the radio during his breakfast anyway, so he’d be able to adjust the volume as he readied to read the newspaper. He liked a steady droll to keep his mind from wandering, but couldn’t have it too loud, otherwise he couldn't concentrate on the news.

“We interrupt our program of dance music to bring you a special bulletin…” a voice broke into the music, piquing Tom's interest again.

His stride slowed as he walked toward the radio. Maybe he hadn’t made anything up at all. Maybe they were trying to keep the peace as long as they were able. He had to remind himself to trust the pit of his stomach.

“At twenty minutes before eight, central time, Professor Farrell of the Mount Jennings Observatory, Chicago, Illinois, reports observing several explosions of incandescent gas, occurring at regular intervals on the planet Mars.”

The information continued through the radio but Tom had stopped and stood motionless in the middle of his apartment, his plate held close to body. He had worked hard to gain residency in the city. He had worked hard for this life. He had to maneuver obstacles and addictions over the years and he was finally getting to a point of happiness and stability.

The music came back from the Meridian Room, but Tom didn’t buy the cover-up. They wouldn’t interrupt a broadcast just to tell people that Mars was acting funny. That's the kind of news reserved for the next day, in the newspaper. Or maybe in between radio shows. It didn’t belong in the middle of a musical act unless it was important—unless they were putting out a call to ready the troops.

When he got back people asked him if he ever almost died. He always told them no, he had a good group of guys and they all kept one another safe. In reality, he almost died every day, but he needed to lie. War wasn’t a gentleman’s game. It wasn’t somewhere for the innocent. When people asked him about his time overseas he craved a bottle of whiskey.

The further away the war got the more the questions dwindled, and at a certain point people didn't make the assumption Tom was part of the war. In fact, he hadn’t felt like he needed a drink in five years. Although, he kept a bottle behind his toilet. Just a small one. Not that he ever drank from it, but if a moment ever came when he could die without it, it’d be there.

The music was a masquerade for something so much larger. What the radio was telling the people of America was to stay calm—take a load off and listen to this orchestra. But Tom was hearing a different song.

He put his plate on a stack of newspapers, then sat down in his chair. He didn’t want to break his sobriety yet, even if his body yearned for the alcohol. Maybe he was making connections that didn’t exist.

Tom leaned back in the chair and reclined. He tried to look like he was comfortable.

“The Government Meteorological Bureau has requested the large observatories of the country to keep an astronomical watch on any further disturbances occurring on the planet Mars.”

Mars.

Tom opened his eyes. Maybe now they'd stop the cover-up and shed some honest light on the situation. He liked to think he knew how this country operated. Keep the peace until they no longer had control, and then masquerade peace until the people forced the truth out. Americans weren’t as stupid as the media assumed, Tom knew he wasn’t the only one to catch onto the ruse.

The music came back on. They promised to go to New Jersey to talk with an astronomer. A man with educated views on the subject matter. A brief moment of music from Ramon Raquello tried to add a moment of security and then the announcer came back on the air.

“We are ready now to take you to the Princeton Observatory where Carl Phillips, our commentator, will interview Professor Richard Pierson…”

Richard Pierson, Tom thought, strong name. He liked men who were named Richard, but only when they went by the full name. His father’s name was Richard, but no one knew. He was Rich or Dick. Shortened to one syllable because he thought it was more efficient. Tom’s father hated the idea of wasting someone’s time, and the first step to remedy the problem was to shorten your name.

“This is Carl Phillips…” Tom couldn’t imagine why parents decided upon a name like Carl. It sounded like it belonged to a dog. “I am standing in a large semicircular room, pitch black except for an oblong split in the ceiling. Through this opening I can see a sprinkling of stars…”

One thing Tom missed about France was looking up at night. When he grew up on the farm he was able to lay in the field with Becky and connect the dots. In France he looked up at the sky and connect the stars by himself, believing she was doing the same thing. He felt their hearts beating together when he looked at the night sky and couldn’t count all the specks because there were just too many of them. In the city there were too many lights. It washed out the view. He might be able to get a glimpse of a few of them from the bakery window, but nothing like he was used to. He was forced to focused on the dough in front of him.

Carl Phillips asked Richard Pierson his permission to begin. Tom liked that he was polite enough to ask; many reporters he encountered dove right into the questions. They didn't wait for the interviewee to prepare himself. They felt like they'd get a bigger story if they were to catch the person off guard.

“At any time, Mr. Phillips,” Pierson responded.

“What do you see as you observe the planet Mars?”

Tom held his breath.

He hoped for the answer to be nothing.

Something that had to do with planets acting like this all the time. The outer space held gases that were unknown to Earth and they could do strange things at any moment, Tom wanted the astronomer to say.

“Nothing unusual at the moment, Mr. Phillips,” Tom sighed relief. He didn’t have anything to worry about. He hadn’t realized that his grip dug into the folds of his chair. He had widened a split in the leather on the left arm of the chair. He didn’t think he was as prone to anxiety at this point in his life. He thought he had gotten past the panic that drove his addictions. “Transverse stripes across the disk. Quite distinct now…”

Tom wasn’t sure what Richard Pierson was talking about. He didn’t think there were any stripes on Mars. All he knew of the planet was that it was a vivid red.

“What do the transverse stripes signify, Professor Pierson?” Phillips asked.

“From a scientific viewpoint the stripes are merely a result of atmospheric conditions peculiar to the planet.”

“Then you’re quite convinced as a scientist that living intelligence as we know it does not exist on mars?”

“I should say the chances against are a thousand to one,” Pierson said.

Tom thought he heard a waver of uncertainty in the Professor’s voice. Like he was hiding something, fooling the audience like the music had tried to do, but with words of reassurance.

“How do you account for these gas eruptions?” Phillips asked. He seemed to be on the side of the people. Tom wondered if Carl Phillips also heard a hint of untruth and wanted to get the real answer.

“I cannot account for it,” Pierson said.

Tom’s fear began to rise again. He told himself again the gases in the universe were different to the gases within our atmosphere. Some things couldn’t be explained, they just were. The explosions on Mars were in this category. They couldn’t be put down on paper as a definite; it was one of the mysteries of life. Technology and science brought them to the point of seeing and knowing what was happening in the darkness. Only they couldn’t give concrete answers as facts, only hypothesizes and theories.

“Just a moment, ladies and gentleman,” Phillips said. Tom wondered if Pierson shot glares down at the reporter for the haste in his voice. Did Carl Phillips open his mouth too soon and set the stage of panic for frantic listeners. “Someone just handed Professor Pierson a message.”

Tom sat up from his reclined position and pushed the footrest back. The chair locked into its rocking position. Phillips established the setting while Pierson read the note. Tom assumed the music from the Meridian Room would fade in at any moment leaving the listeners curious of the note's contents.

“Professor, may I read the message to the listening audience?”

Tom snorted. He never thought a man named Carl would have the gall to actually ask a person of authority a silly question like that. Didn’t he know what kind of answer he was going to get?

“Certainly, Mr. Phillips.”

Tom stopped his quiet laughter.

“I shall read you a wire addressed to Professor Pierson from Dr. Gray of the National History Museum, New York. ‘9:15 P.M. eastern standard time. Seismograph registered shock of almost earthquake intensity occurring within a radius of twenty miles of Princeton. Please investigate. Signed Lloyd Gray, Chief of Astronomical Division.’”

Could this occurrence have anything to do with the disturbances on Mars?

“This is probably a meteorite of unusual size and its arrival at this particular time is merely coincidence.”

Tom didn’t believe it. How could life hand out so many coincidences? He didn’t believe in the easy solutions to the problems. Pierson said as soon as daylight hit he'd take a team out to investigate the space rock. He’d go out and make sure it was nothing significant to Mars. Tom didn’t think it was going be any normal meteorite. This night was already prevalent in the unknown, why would it stop with something that rarely happened. The bad feelings in Tom’s gut were lining up too perfect for him to ignore.

Again the piano music drifted out the tubes in his radio. A way to relax the audience into feeling cozy in their warm homes on a Sunday night; in a false sense of security. But there was no rest for the evil. Tom knew this, even when he heard contradictory stories. Evidence could be fabricated for either side of the argument. He knew they were only trying to stop a war. Make everyone get along. Tom knew it was too late for that. Both sides had seen too much to just stop and shake hands. Tom wasn’t about to shake hands with anyone.

The music didn’t last long, not even a minute. Tom had looked over at the counter and thought he should finish his sandwich, and then the voice came back. He had to leave for work soon, but wanted to hear what they were going to say over the airwaves. If his gut was right, a missed shift was the least of all their worries.

“Ladies and Gentleman, this is Carl Phillips again,” his voice drifted back into Tom’s apartment. Tom's work clothes were spread out on his bed. He should have continued his nightly ritual. Even if they were the least of his worries what was he going to do about it? He was too beat up to do any good on the battle field. The most he was going to be able to do was show the younger soldiers what guts looked like. What it looked like when you stopped giving a shit. An impending war would still be imminent whether he made it to work on time or not. And at work at least he'd have someone else to listen to the story with.

Tom sat in his chair and listened to what the radio had to say.

They were in Grover’s Mill. Tom knew many of the residents still. He classified himself as a city dweller at this point in his life, living among the buildings for longer than he ever did the fields. His parents weren’t around anymore so he hadn’t been there for years, but he ran into people from his past. They gave him a synopsis of life in Grover’s Mill. He didn’t even have to ask.

“I haven’t had the chance to look around yet. I guess that’s it. Yes, I guess that’s the…thing, directly in front of me, half buried in a vast pit,” the voice described the object that had fallen to Earth. Tom wanted to know exactly what it looked like. Was Phillips talking about the meteorite, and if so, why did he sound as if he were in such awe? The sound of a crowd accompanied the two men. Did the whole town go out to look at the meteorite? And Tom thought they were going to wait until daybreak to investigate. A small smile flickered on his lips; he knew to trust his gut. He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands together under his chin.

“The ground is covered in splinters from a tree it must have struck on its way down. What I can see of the…object itself doesn’t look very much like a meteor, at least not the meteors I’ve seen. It looks like a huge cylinder.”

Tom looked over at the jar of mayonnaise. Did Phillips realize what a cylinder’s shape was? Tom had assumed a meterorite had jagged edges or a warped body—not a clean, smooth surface with straight lines.

“About thirty yards,” Pierson responded to Phillips inquiry of the estimated length in diameter.

“The metal on the sheath is…well, I’ve never seen anything like it. The color is a sort of yellowish-white. Curious spectators now are pressing close to the object in spite of the efforts of the police to keep them back.” Phillips tried to speak over the din of the crowd.

Tom wondered why people were so apt to seek out destruction. Was it only until someone actually saw a catastrophe that they decided to shy away from scenes of horror? Although, his curiosity was piquing and he couldn’t be sure he’d stay away if he were close enough to the crater.

Tom heard the shouts from police trying to move the crowd back. If this was a giant container from space why would people try to get so near it? Who knew what kind of chemicals or radiation it held. The outside of the cylinder could be covered with a bacterium from Mars unknown to man on Earth.

The owner of the farm came over the air. Phillips said his name was Mr. Wilmuth, asking him to step close to the microphone so the radio audience could hear him better. Tom didn’t remember the name Wilmuth, but there was a Wilson. The family lived on the other side of the mill. He hadn’t ever had a conversation with the man, or even overheard the man’s voice at the store. He was sure Phillips misheard the name and now Wilson was too polite to correct the folly.

“I was listening to the radio and kind of drowsin’, that professor fellow was talking about Mars, so I was half dozin’ and half…” Wilson spoke like a child put on the spot. Not the kind of child who shrank under the pressure and wilted away into the crowd, but one in love attention. Tom could tell Wilson hadn’t been asked his opinion on matters in the past, he spoke with an air of innocence, but also a tone that wanted to please the nation.

“Yes, Mr. Wilmuth, then what happened?” Phillips interrupted.

“As I was sayin’, I was listen’ to the radio kinda halfways…” Wilson continued as if Phillips hadn’t tried to push him along.

“Yes, Mr. Wilmuth,” Phillips continued to call this man by the wrong name. Tom chuckled to himself, then stopped, surprised he was able to laugh. “And then you saw something?” Phillips lead Wilson the direction he wanted the interview to go.

“Not first off. I heard something,” Wilson said.

“And what did you hear?” Phillips asked. Tom wished Wilson just told the story in one breath instead of the need to be prompted after every statement.

“A hissing sound. Like this,” Tom imagined the man touching his teeth together and pushing his tongue against them, then releasing the air from his diaphragm. Wilson made a hissing sound like a stereotypical snake. Only the hiss lasted a short breath, not even a second. “Kind of like a fourth of July rocket.”

Tom thought about what a giant metal cylinder looked like dropping from the sky. He knew the rhythm of metal falling from the sky, like it danced in the descent. He thought of the moments in the trenches when they weren’t sure if they needed to grab their masks, or if it was an oridnary mortar. He never had to grab his mask the whole time he was there. But they heard the stories of gas from other squads.

“Then what?” Phillips again pushed Wilson for more information.

“Turned my head out the window and would have swore I was to sleep and dreamin’.”

“Yes?”

“I seen a kinda greenish streak and then zingo! Somethin’ smacked the ground,” Tom could’ve sworn he felt his apartment shake a little. He didn’t want to seem paranoid so he pushed the feeling out of his mind and continued to listening to Wilson's experience.

“Well, were you frightened, Mr. Wilmuth?” Phillips asked the obvious. Any man would be scared if a giant cylinder fell from the sky onto their property, Tom thought.

“Well, I — I ain’t quite sure. I reckon I — I was kinda riled,” Wilson said. It seemed like he was speaking to himself.

Tom had heard that kind of sentence too many times. All the men in his squad spoke similar words at least a dozen times. They didn’t want to admit they were scared. If the words were to escape their mouths the feelings would manifest as a reality. The words would drift into the sky and down to the Germans. They didn’t want the enemy to know that they had weakness in them. They had to hold strong in the face of the Germans and prove they were going to fight harder and faster and stronger than the enemy.

“Thanks you, Mr. Wilmuth. Thank you.”

Wilson asked if he could be any more help, but Phillips said he got all he needed. Tom didn’t blame Phillips for not going ahead in the search for more information. Wilson didn’t know anything, he just happened to own the land the cylinder landed on.

“I wish I could convey the atmosphere…” Tom still heard the ambient noise behind Phillips’ voice. It sounded like more and more people were arriving to the scene. “Police are trying to rope off the roadway leading into the farm. But it’s no use. They’re breaking right through. Their headlights throw an enormous spot on the pit where the object’s half buried. Some of the more daring souls are venturing near the edge. Their silhouettes stand out against the metal sheen.” Tom imagined a line of eight men standing at the crater, but their faces and contours were masked by shadows, so he saw the shapes of the limbs and torsos. They moved a little as they looked down upon the meteorite. Then Tom heard what he thought was part of the image in his mind. “One man wants to touch the thing…he’s having an argument with a policeman. The policeman wins,” Tom can’t understand why in moments of chaos people rebel against the set order. He saw it in the past, trying to create a united front, but the selfish nature won out in the end. “There’s something I haven’t mentioned in all this excitement, but it’s becoming more distinct. Perhaps you’ve caught it already on your radio. Listen,” the humming became more prominent on the airwaves. Tom felt relieved that he wasn’t losing his wits, but wished a the humming had been a figment of his imagination. It was going to be unexplainable, which meant it was bad news. Phillips had even made note of the peculiar sound.

“Do you hear it?”

Yes.

“It’s a curious humming sound that seems to come from the inside the object. I’ll move the microphone nearer.”

The idea that everyone’s paranoia was getting the better of them crossed his mind, but the probability of that would be too minimal. The cylinder was making a humming noise. A sound not fit for the human beings that inhabited this planet.

“Professor Pierson!”

“Yes, Mr. Phillips?”

“Can you tell us the meaning of that scraping noise inside the thing?”

“Possibly the unequal cooling of the surface.”

Tom clenched his eyes closed. He needed to keep the paranoia at bay, but as the evidence stacked on the contrary he couldn't help himself from thinking of possible enemies hiding within the foreign object. Phillips just said the noise was coming from the inside of the container, but now Pierson said the sound was on the outside. Tom decided Phillips was looking at the situation with child-like eyes, while Pierson tried his hardest to give each new installment a scientific spin. He wanted there to be a simple answer for the complex questions—answers he’d heard before. Phillips was open to the idea that maybe this thing had extraterrestrial properties.

“Do you still think it’s a meteor, Professor?” Phillips asked.

“I don’t know what to think. The metal casing is definitely extraterrestrial,” Pierson admitted. Tom found relief that Pierson didn’t try to spin Phillips’ question. “Friction with the earth’s atmosphere usually tears holes in a meteorite. This thing is smooth and, as you can see, of cylindrical shape.”

Tom’s image of the object was reinforced with Pierson’s quick description. He hoped he was putting too ominous an image in his head, but each new bit of information reinforced his gut. Tom’s chest welled with fear, thinking a form of intelligence sent the cylinder.

“Just a minute!” Tom’s body tensed in its rigid form at the haste in Phillips’ voice. “Something’s happening! Ladies and gentleman, this is terrific! The end of the thing is beginning to flake off! The top is beginning to rotate like a screw! The thing must be hollow!”

Tom figured the thing was hollow when Phillips said the humming noise was coming from the inside. But what was humming? He wanted to discredit the cooling theory just because Pierson suggested it.

Voices in the background started shouting at the wonderment of the cylinder opening up to reveal its secrets.

Tom heard a clanking sound. The shouts confirmed the top of the device was completely off and the hollow interior was visible. He wished he was close enough to Grover Mill’s to make the trek to see the mystery. Policeman continued to shout for the crowd to stand back. No one knew what was inside the cylinder. The excitement of the top falling off was too great, like the excitement itself was enough of a distraction from the thing they were excited about.

“This is the most terrifying thing I have ever witnessed,” Phillips said. “Wait a minute!” Tom’s heart double-beat. “Someone’s crawling out of the hollow top.”

Tom forgot to breathe.

The intelligent life didn’t send this thing. They rode inside it.

His arms felt rubbery. The rigid stiffness of his body turned into sandbags.

Tom needed remind himself to breathe.

He sucked in his apartment's stale air.

Just breathe.

Remember to breathe.

Breathe.

My Brother Justin

I had an essay published at The Big Smoke US in May.

You can read it here.

DMC Reviews Learn to Swim

The website Drunk in a Midnight Choir posted a very nice review  of Learn to Swim. I was blushing the whole time.

Thanks so much!

Signing and Articles

Hello Internet and beyond!

I will be doing a signing at Auntie's Bookstore located in downtown Spokane on Marxh 5th from 1:pm to 3:pm.

In addition to the event the two local papers published articles about 'Learn to Swim.' It's very exciting and surreal, and I can't thank them enough.

The Spokesman Review

The Pacific NW Inlander

Learn to Swim Now Available

I'm a little behind on this, and for that I apologize, but my new book is out!

University of Hell Press did a stellar job.

You can purchase the book at any of the links below:

Powell's

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

The book looks great and is gorgeous. I love it and I hope you'll love it too. 

'Learn to Swim' Book Cover

Hello all!

My book coming out from University of Hell Press has a cover, and it is gorgeous!

I can't stop looking at it, nor do I want to.

The book will be out soon, and I will update the blog (with links) as soon as it becomes available.

When Garth Brooks and I are Best Friends

Originally published in Gap Tooth

When Garth Brooks and I are Best Friends

      we'll play our acoustic guitars together.

His will be a Martin. An expensive one.

Mine will be an eighty dollar Yamaha.

I'll like the sound of mind more because I'm used to it, but won't say anything because Garth Brooks

     spent a lot of money on his.

We'll jam.

Only, he won't call it jamming. He'll call it practice. He'll say everything we do in life has a purpose, so

    it's all leading towards something.

He'll say, 'Stop using bar chords. Play open notes. This isn't the nineties.'

I'll ask, 'Aren't you from the nineties?'

He'll say, 'This isn't nineties' alternative.'

I'll ask, 'Like Hootie and the Blowfish?'

'Use open chords,' he'll repeat. 'Bar chords are for lazy people. If you use bar chords then we can't be

    best friends.'

'Okay, sorry,' I'll say. I want to stay Garth Brooks' best friend. I'll move my hand into an open G and

    strum. I'll smile. I'll still like the tone of my guitar more.

When Garth Brooks and I are best friends

I won't ever ask him why he gave birth to Chris Gaines.

The only Chris Gaines question I'll ask him is whether he regretted the soul patch.

And how long did it take to grow it.

'A week,' he'll say.

'That's pretty standard,' I'll tell him.

'I know,' he'll say.

Garth Brooks will be a little embarrassed that I brought up Chris Gaines.

I'll smile and try to reassure him that I don't judge him for that time in his life.

Hopefully my sympathetic smile will put him at ease.

I'll apologize because I said the soul patch question was going to be my only Chris Gaines question,

    then I'll ask, 'How close was Chris Gaines' death to real death?'

Garth Brooks will make eye contact with me and smile.

It'll be a sad smile like he's trying to reassure me of something.

When Garth Brooks and I are best friends

    he'll tell me “Friends in Low Places” is about the man in the mirror.

'Michael Jackson?'

'No. I was trying to be symbolic.'

'Sorry.'

'That song is about me.'

'Is it still?'

'Now it's a reflection of the past.'

I'll try to stop myself, but I can't help but think that means he answered in the affirmative.

Garth Brooks face will be shaved and he'll be wearing a cowboy hat.

Garth Brooks will sing under his breath and let an open D ring out on his guitar.

It will sound nice. I'll still like the sound of my guitar more than his expensive Martin, but I won't

    tell him that.

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle

Originally published in The Pacific NW Inlander on December 14th, 2011

It's hard to listen to mainstream music and pick out what our present-day sound is. The airwaves are all over the place. Sometimes you’ll come across a twangy acoustic guitar alongside a yowling folk singer — the kind of stuff that would seem natural on Pa’s porch way back when. Other times, a bouncing synth takes you on an electronic journey back to the days of hairspray and Spandex, when pop was the ruler of all. Mostly, the radio is overtaken with interpretations of the basics: loud guitars, angsty vocals — proving that alternative rock will never die.

The last major style to enter the realm of popular music was rap, and even that happened way back in the ’80s. Which leaves me wondering: Who will be the musical champions for our youth? In 30 years, what will be the sound that defines today?

Ifirst heard Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes on an episode of Community. I pictured them in an array of beards and hats. Their sound was so familiar — how, in my 24 years, had I never heard them before?

I picked some of the lyrics out and Googled them. This accordion-wielding band had just released their first album last year. And yet, somehow, it wasn’t a stretch to imagine them opening for Bob Dylan at a festival full of hippies, mud pits and folk musicians. I learned that they — along with Mumford and Sons and Two Gallants — are the vanguard of bringing the 1960s sound to today’s listener.

Back in the 1980s, Madonna made the older generations nervous. They couldn’t believe how popular this weirdo was getting, with her conical bras and counter-culture sass. But the world didn’t implode then, so I’m not sure why people continue to get nervous when someone like Lady Gaga comes around. Sure, Gaga is a talented singer and gets to wrap herself in meat dresses because she writes catchy pop music that sounds great in the club. But she isn’t the first to have an obscure fashion sense and get away with it because she’s a pop star.

Madonna emerged around the time that the Cars and Duran Duran were popular. They had an electronic sound that was distinctive to the ’80s, and it dictated the decade’s rock sound. MGMT has used the synth to their advantage in the same way, their rise to success based almost solely on their hit “Electric Feel” — a song that, for a summer, was the soundtrack to every commercial, movie and TV show. I couldn’t get away from their sound — and then I heard Of Montreal and STRFKR, who are also resurrecting the ’80s sounds.

The 1990s brought back a more basic sound. Keyboardists and tambourine-smackers were out. Bands like Nirvana, Oasis and Weezer reintroduced guitars, bass and drums to rock music. They blended screaming with pop, giving rock music a slight edge. And today, bands like Cage the Elephant are doing the quiet-to-loud dynamic, while Brits like the Arctic Monkeys and the Kooks are taking a cue from Oasis and Blur.

The last new style of music to break into the mainstream happened over 30 years ago, when the Sugarhill Gang released “Rapper’s Delight” in 1979. Soon, Run-D.M.C. and Biz Markie were on the radio. And then came N.W.A., whose gansta rap infused the genre with hostility and anger. They’ve influenced some of the more popular acts today, like Eminem, Kanye West and Jay-Z.

The latest twist in hip-hop is the “robot voice.” West used this effect on his 808s and Heartbreakalbum, filling 12 songs with dull auto-tuning instead of what he’s good at. I’m hoping this is a passing fad, like 3D movies, but there are two more Avatars coming out.

Internet technology has given us more access to music than ever before. I can listen to whatever song I desire at any time I choose. But as songs and styles repeat themselves, I find that, as a listener, I’m trying to differentiate between cheap knock-offs and groundbreaking acts.

In 30 years, we’ll either be seen as a generation of choice and variety, or one of indecision and short attention spans.

This May Have Been a Mistake

I didn't expect the wind to hurt this much.

Have you ever heard if you throw a penny off a skyscraper it could kill someone? I'd imagine wind resistance would play a key factor in the fatality percentage; otherwise rain would have the probability of instantaneous death.

Someone should make a graph: chances of death up the side; shape and weight of the object across the bottom. They'd need multiple scales to take weather into account. It could be more work than anyone would care to do.

Would humans be close to sacks of potatoes?

This may have been a mistake.


Originally published in The Pacific NW Inlander

Riverlit #17

I'm going to have a piece of flash fiction in the April issue of Riverlit!

I'm being proactive this time and posted a link to the pre-order page for Riverlit #17. I'm excited for the other pieces included. Thom Caraway has a killer poem in it. Fellow University of Hell Press author Lauren Gilmore will be in this issue as well. Leah Sottile, the writer in residence, will have a piece in this one, too.

It's $10.00 and you can pre-order it at Riverlit.com. They only print a few extras, so if you want a guaranteed copy, this is the best way to do it. Thanks, everyone!

Hello, internet!

I have a new story, There is an Answer for Everything, in the new issue of RiverLit, a print journal based out of Spokane, WA. Visit their site for other writing (the online option for the journal is sold out), or go to Atticus Coffee in downtown Spokane to pick up a copy. There are great stories and poems by Luke Baumgarten, Barry Geraghty, Teresa Vanairsdale, Anna Catarina Gragert, Daniel Coble, Audrey Connor, Gabrielle Bills, and Maggie Rosen.

You won't be disappointed.

A Song for the Wandering Dead

Originally published at Apropos Literary Journal

It all started with the phone call.

It's like a mini-movie, playing back in a constant loop.

Putting my bag in the tiny cabin of the newest Carnival cruise ship I ponder why they’ve named it The Wonder. Eating, exercising, reading, watching television: the film repeats and repeats. The phantom phone call wakes me up, like an alarm warning the audience that the show is about to start. The cruise liner is painted in the red, white, and blue just like all the other Carnivals.

Jimmy Fisher has already dropped his bag off, claiming the other bed. He took shit, I surmise this because of the fog I walked into that made me pull my shirt above my nose. It's still there, slipping every few minutes, annoying me because I have to pull it back up. I think he had bacon at some point in the morning. He also doused himself in half bottle of cologne in an attempt to cover the fecal smell, I'm sure. Now he’s on the prowl for pussy. I’ve never been one for cologne. I prefer to smell like nothing, even if that runs the risk of BO. Jimmy won’t be that bad of a cabin-mate. I could think of better guys. I could also think of worse.

I’ve assigned different scenarios for my mind's movie. In some, it was all a conspiracy and the cop murdered him in cold blood, others had Bryan actually outrun the cop and living on the lam. I'd take him in and protect him like Anne Frank.

I’ve had to piece it together by what his family told me when I got to their house that morning, leaving room for exaggerations. Their details were vague, with less than concrete facts. He was drunk, got pulled over, the cop tested him, he punched the cop in the face, got in his car and made the getaway. In the process he was killed. I can’t explain why he did what he did from his actions.

I lift my bag off the rocking floor and sling it onto the unclaimed three-by-six foot bed. My three-by-six foot bed. There’s a TV screwed to the wall. I turn it on with hopes of killing the week by killing brain cells. Maybe satellite TV with porn or music videos. Instead, the cruise director is giving an orientation. He's telling me which levels have what. There is a mini-golf course on the highest point of the boat. And I shouldn't miss the amazing discotheque on Wednesday or Thursday night in the nose of the ship. There is no such thing as time here, expect a good time, of course! Check the form laying on your bed to find out when your dinner will be served as there are two rotations.

I look at my bag on top of the bed. Unpacking on trips always seems counterproductive to me. You’ll just be repacking in a few days anyway. I will always opt to live out of the suitcase before I temporarily put my travel clothing into an unfamiliar dresser or closet. It gives me the uneasy feeling that I’ll be staying for longer than I would want to. It doesn’t matter if it’s for one night, or one month; as soon as these clothes hit the drawer, I’ll be searching for an escape plan.

I’ll see people we graduated with and they’ll latch on for an ungodly amount of time and when they loosen they’re all teary eyed and I know a long speech about how sorry they are is on the agenda. I’ll stand silent and think about the things I need to do that day while they talk for their benefit. We both know they’re not talking to me. They didn’t hug me. They’re trying to say goodbye through me.

Dinner is at 5:45. Why not just make it 6:00 or 5:30? These are cruise people, a breed of their own. I check my watch and its face tells me 3:07. I have no idea where anybody in our three-family group is hiding. My parents rattled off all the different room numbers. I still had to check my own key card to find my own room's number.

I take my jeans off and put them on top of my bag. I pull shorts out of the bottom, but this proves difficult with the piles of clothing that occupies the bag. I’m able to get my shorts without disrupting the other contents too much. I put those on and now I’m all set for Christmas in the Mexican Riviera.

I didn’t want to come. My mother forced me because she didn’t want to have to explain my absence. Funny since the Emmers are here and everyone already knows how close Bryan and I were. I never quite understood why his family decided to come, probably to surround themselves with friends in attempt to lessen the pain for a week.

I start walking towards what I think is the back of the boat and feel like I’m walking on a Tilt-O-Whirl. No wonder pirates were alcoholics, it was the only way for them to stay balanced on these fucking things.

When I arrive at some stairs there is carpet with all kinds of fancy flowers printed on it. They’re really going all out for the classy look. The carpet extends from the hallway to the stairs going up. I notice that there are no stairs going down. One stair at a time.

The lights flash red and blue behind the sky-blue, two door Honda Civic. Questions are being asked. Answers are being thrown away. No one is getting anywhere. And when no one gets anywhere in these situations the lesser of the two humans usually gets taken to a cell.

Bryan is doing his best to pass the sobriety test. The only problem is that he is not sober. The five beers and four mixed drinks in his stomach continue to happily enter his bloodstream as the cop goes through the motions. The cop already knows this twenty-year-old organ donor is going to be taken in tonight. He is required to prove that this kid is under the influence, though. Innocent until proven guilty. Officer Troutman hated that aspect of the law. It allows guilty men to go free and innocent men to go away.

After ten minutes of questions and testing, Troutman makes the call he knew he was going to make the moment the Civic swerved to miss a shadow in the road. His shift had just started at one and not twenty minutes later he found this kid going home for the night. Some nights he wished that he could just drive around and not deal with the young kids killing their future with stupid decisions.

Seeing my mother is the last thing I want to do right now. It was supposed to be an in and out operation, but as I was climbing the stairs I heard her voice call me to the living room. She was reading. I just went there to grab one fucking simple picture.

“They decided the funeral is going to be Thursday,” she said.

I nodded and turned for the stairs that would release me to the outside where I could smoke cigarettes.

“They told me to tell you that if you wanted to say anything you could,” I stopped with my back facing her.

“Did you want to say anything?”

I faced her. She had laid the book she was reading down on her chest saving her place. I shook my head, “No, not really.” Camels. Turkish Gold. I left a pack in my freezer.

“I would think a best friend could think of something to say,” she said.

Biting my lip, I nodded and walked up the stairs.

I read a eulogy that Thursday.

“Okay, Bryan, I’ve come to the conclusion that you are inebriated this evening,” Troutman begins. “You have the right to remain silent,” he pulls the handcuffs from his belt, continuing the Miranda Rights.

This kid has been polite all through the questions, answers, and the useless tests. He said all the right things, he just didn’t have the right physical responses. Troutman hated doing these things when the kids seem so normal. What are his parents going to think when they get a call in the middle of the night? They would be disappointed in their son, but maybe this will be a turning point in his life. He might give up smoking pot, drinking and the general act of fucking around because of this night. See that this isn’t a life that’s worth living.

Nine floors later I see sunshine. My cabin is in a prison. I walk out an automatic slider and start wandering. My hair ruffles in a salty breeze. Not a minute out here do I hear my mother’s voice shout my name. As soon as that sound hits my eardrums. The movie interrupts for a quick word from its sponsor: Camel's Turkish Gold.

“Hey, where is everyone?” I try to sound happy.

“Over here. We thought we’d check out the main swimming deck—the Lido deck is the proper name—before dinner.” She sounds like a shotgun in my ear. “Come on, it’s awesome.”

I feel like a trapped animal as I follow her to the full group. Why can’t the bars be open now? A light drink. Or some gin. A screwdriver, even. As a substitute I deny my mother’s wishes and pull my pack of Camels out.

“Edmund, do you remember?”

“Yeah, I do,” I take a long drag off the Camel and exhale the smoke as slowly as my lungs will allow. “But you should try looking at things from my point of view.” Always be the first to walk away. You'll look victorious.

I don’t make it fifteen feet before she grabs me by the back of my arm. Letting out a deep sigh I turn around to face the woman.

We stare at each other for longer than necessary.

She breaks the silence.

“They’re scattering the ashes tonight. After dinner.”

The officer takes Bryan by the forearm and starts to turn him around. Bryan doesn’t allow the cuff to wrap all the way around his wrist. Instead he rips his hand back and punches Officer Troutman in the face. Blood pours from the officer’s nose as he loses balance and drops to one knee to prevent from falling to his back. Bryan stomps the man in the collarbone, knocking him all the way down to the pavement. He kicks him a few times before he runs back to his car, buying himself a few minutes before Troutman fully understands what has just happened.

Bryan reams on the key after he slides it into the ignition and his car starts right up. He puts the gear into drive and puts the pedal to the floor. He hadn’t ever floored his car before, but it has more pick up and go than he anticipated. He blows through the first light, as it is turning yellow, not that it matters what color it is. Bryan is out of this situation and on his way to his girlfriend’s house. He had told Amber he would be there ten minutes ago.

We met in fifth grade. Soccer. I decided I needed to be better friends with Bryan Emmers when he called a sixty-year-old man a bitch. Think of the best friend you grew up with. The one who laughed at all the same jokes, who told you the day after he first had sex, and made you promise you’d call him the night after you first did. The guy who understood your mumblings, and you, his. No one could decipher what the conversation was, but you two knew exactly what was being said.

My mother didn’t call me until 8:00am. They had found out three hours earlier. Would the sleep have mattered? They thought it was a gift.

My phone shouted at me and I thought it was my alarm. I didn’t fully realize I hadn’t set one because it was Thanksgiving. The caller ID box held a picture of my mother. I answered with a groggy, “Huh?”

“Allen and Howl doted a car accident lost naught.” She said, trying to sound calm.

“What?”

She paused a moment trying to collect herself. “Bryan Emmers died in a car accident last night.”

I heard it that time.

The sound I made wasn't literate.

“Bryan Emmers…” she began again.

“Are you fucking with me?” I shouted.

“No. Listen, Jimmy is coming to get you to take you to the Emmers house. Stay there.”

I ran across my apartment and opened my roommate’s door with a slam.

“Edmund, what the fuck?”

“Bryan’s dead.”

It’s 5:30 and I’m in a line to get into the dining hall. We were told that we’ll be sitting at the same table each night with the same waiter, and the same group of people. Our group was so large we knew everyone at our fifteen person table. It was a way to build relationships on the vacation. Sounds a lot like high school leadership camp bullshit to me.

I’m standing solo, but our room keys are marked with the table number we were to sit at. The line moves, but we're edging by a bar. Stepping out of and back into line for no more than thirty seconds I have the addition of a White Russian in my hand. Tonight has started looking up.

The glass is empty by the time I sit down and I instantly get the attention of the cocktail waitress and order another one. Just as I stood in line alone, I now sit at the enormous table alone. The dining room isn’t too full just yet and Nadia is able to get my drink before her order list is too large. I keep ordering, giving her my dad’s ID number.

Family and friends arrive just before my third drink does. First the Fishers, the all-American family. Picture the perfect family, then add a little, you’d get the Fishers. Two kids, both married to wonderful Christian women who know how to stay kid-free. They're the kind of people who should have kids because you know they've thought about the decision. They answer the phone with a smile, all of the. They make the Cleavers look like the Mansons.

Then Bryan’s parents enter with my own, they look like they were having a nice talk. Thank God I've been drinking. Andy looks down at me.

“Your mom tells us that she’s let everyone know about tonight?”

I nod to confirm that she had performed her duties and that I’d be there. Momentary silence. Before the lack of sound became any worse, Bryan’s sisters saunter in. The whole family.

“Steph, Emily, come over here, please,” Bryan’s mom asks, standing up and pulling Andy with her.

“Karen, could you?” She asks holding out a digital camera. My mother nods and takes the camera from Ann’s steady hands.

The four of them stand arm in arm for their first newly formed family portrait. I leave before my mother puts her index finger on the button.

Troutman sees the red taillights speed into the distance, but he isn’t about to let this kid go and kill someone. He needs this kid to be safely in the backseat of his cruiser. He tries to wipe the blood from his lip, but it does nothing other than smear it across his cheek. He gets to his radio and calls for backup. As Troutman puts his own car into motion he is still able to see the red lights in the distance. With his training he will be able to catch up within minutes. He flips his lights and the siren on and lets the cruiser accelerate up to an adequate chasing speed.

The Civic picks up speed as Troutman begins to close in, but it was still no match for his cruiser. That’s the thing that these young kids don’t seem to understand. Cop cars may look like they don’t have the guts, but there are people who put the guts in there. It’s all about appearance. This way they can trick people into thinking that they’re on top when the officer is really just biding his time. Troutman is about to get on his loudspeaker to tell this twenty-year-old to pull over when the Honda swerves a bit and the front right tire clips a curb and blows out.

People opened the paper that day and read about a kid who punched a cop in the face and died in the process of trying to get away. They didn’t care, some of them were even happy or pleased. Don’t fuck with the good guys, or you will get fucked up. Something like that.

People fail to realize that this wasn’t just some twenty-year-old drunk college student. It’s never like that in any case. This is the guy that would be in my room an hour within life going sour.

His laugh, it was one in a million.

It hasn't made an appearance in the movie.

Why get over it, when you can adapt to it?

Rubber is flapping on the right side, but Bryan is able to tighten his grip on the steering wheel and keep the car from spinning out. There is a momentary lapse in speed, but he isn’t going to let that stop him from getting away. He presses harder with his foot, but his car doesn’t respond like he hopes. His eyes are fixated on his speedometer, which is slowly declining from the 70mph. It is only at the last second does he look up to see that he is about to miss a shallow curve.

Troutman witnesses the sky-blue Honda Civic attempt a last minute turn and drive up and over a mound of dirt and then a curved guardrail. The sparks sizzle from the rim on road. The car is airborne for a moment before disappearing from his eyes.

A knock comes from outside my cabin door. It wakes me up from the dream, before the dream could wake me with a phone call. I open the door to my mother standing in the frame.

“They’re going to be scattering him in about twenty minutes. We’re all meeting at the courier’s desk.”

I nod and start to walk away to the bed. I will be able to sleep for another ten minutes before I need to start my futile search for the meeting spot. But my mother has stuck her foot in the door and is preventing the reassuring click.

“Where’d you go at dinner?”

I put my arms out. “Here. Where else would I go?” I didn’t even get back to my bed.

“That was embarrassing, leaving your father and I to explain your behavior.” She looks hurt.

“I didn’t ask you to explain. You don’t have to get involved.”

“I am involved, Edmund. My friend’s son died. I’m here.”

“ ‘Your friend’s son?’ How about your son’s best friend?”

She wants a suitable retort.

“He was your friend, so you should know how to get along around other people who are mourning,” she says.

“Ah, fuck you, mom. You have no clue.” She doesn’t quite gasp, but she doesn’t keep quiet either. Her reaction lingers in a haze. “I should know how to act? How about you?”

“Pardon?” It sounds more like a statement.

“You don’t realize that people deal with shit differently, that you haven’t made losing my best friend easier, you’ve made it harder. You think I wanted to come on this cruise and see his face in theirs? Great vacation! Thanks!”

I grab the shorts off the floor and start tugging them on.

“How have I made it harder? I’ve been here for you, no matter what I’ve been doing, everything I’ve done has been a sacrifice for your benefit.”

“Fuck, go do your thing. I don’t care. Just don’t drag me on a boat after something like that. Because you quit your Bunco group for a month doesn’t mean you’ve sacrificed. I don't care if you turn your phone off to watch a movie. I'm not calling anyway.”

“You said I made it harder.”

“You’ve never taken my side on this. ‘You should do this, they were trying to protect you, I would think a best friend could think of something to say.’ Are you trying to make me feel bad? Stop trying to explain other people’s motives to me.”

She says nothing.

Grabbing my wallet off the dresser I brush past her into the labyrinth of hallways.

Troutman stumbles down the embankment to find the car had rolled to a stop. The front end is looking up back to the road it had just disconnected from. He gets up next to the front passenger side window and sees the body laying in the back seat. Both seat belts hang intact in their respective areas. The officer looks at the open dead eyes of the young man lying in his death.

It’s a good thing that I left when I did. Even with the twenty-minute head start I am the last one there and late.

They’re standing in a large group, murmuring about what they plan to do for the rest of the week. I join them, but not in the conversations. Andy is the only member to notice my arrival. He motions to the ship representative and the group moves on in a muddled herd into more hallways that look like the same hallway my room is set in. Flowers hang in crude paintings.

It seems like we’re walking for ten minutes before we go through a glass door and come upon the moon’s reflection on the Pacific in the ship’s wake. The quiet is taken away out here and we can hear the boat’s motor working hard to get us to Mexico.

Ann walks up to me and rubs my back. “Bryan liked it when I rubbed his back like this. If it bothers you, just let me know.”

I allow her to rub.

“How are you doing? Doing okay?” She asks. It sounds sympathetic because it is. “Yeah, it stinks,” she continues without my help, “I know.”

“Shit happens,” I respond.

“Yes, it does,” she leaves my back and goes to Andy.

The motors shake my ears as Andy and Ann embrace each other to keep from crying before they let their son go. No one talks of the week’s itinerary out here. The motor kicks water into the darkness.

Andy sets a backpack on the deck and removes a container about the size of a shoebox. I take a step closer to the railing that is protecting us from falling off and drowning in the Wonder’s wake. This doesn’t stop people from jumping.

I climb over the railing and dive in, watching the boat sail away. Alone in the middle of the ocean. Peaceful, yet terrifying. The water is as dark as the air and there is no bottom to this sea. The salt is the taste of dehydration, coating my mouth. I can wait until the cruise is gone and enjoy the lonesome quiet before I allow my body to sink.

Thinking is as far as I get in this daydream.

Andy opens the box and pulls out a clear bag of Bryan. He doesn’t say a word. No one says a word. He opens the plastic and we watch as the ash falls into the wind to be thrown about, half of it shoots back towards us, but no matter where it flies it ends up resting in the water.

He taps the bag and the last particles drift out, but the gust of wind brings it back into our group, again. A piece of ash flies into my eye and I turn away to get it out. It feels like a small, fine grain of sand.

As I probe my eye trying to get Bryan out, his mom starts singing “Silent Night.” It was his favorite Christmas song. As her voice grows, others join in. Within the first twenty-five seconds, the whole rear end of the ship sings in chorus. Except for me. I am busy trying to get the piece of ash out of me.

Taking a deep breath, I pull my eyelid down and keeping my hand steady, I move my right middle finger into the corner of my eye. When I think I have him I take my hand back and find relief. I pinch the grain of him and the film stops.

 I lean over the rail and roll the ash off my finger and it falls into the sound—I can almost hear the sound of that soft giggle—of voices singing to another wandering dead.