Nanowrimo 5

More literary action!

The Froid household was a modest house with a lavish interior. Froid’s mother was an interior designer, and her father was an architect. The two basically made a challenge out of taking the ugliest house they could possibly find and converting it into a yuppie paradise. Callahan marveled at the posh rugs, the patina on the bronze tiffany lamps, the expertly coordinated furniture and the warm caramel tones of the wall. Callahan looked back at the rug. Mrs. Froid’s favorite phrase was “the rug really ties the room together.” He would hear it five times over the course of the next two hours.
“The rug really ties the room together!” Mrs. Froid called as she walked towards Callahan with arms outstretched. She pulled Callahan down to her level and kissed him on both cheeks. Callahan blushed. He was hoping that another Froid would have kissed him first.
“Mallory Froid,” she said finally. “So good to finally meet you, Callahan!”
“Finally?” Callahan asked.
“Well, we saw at dinner once you texted Ambrosia and of course anyone who texts her is a big enough deal in our book! Come in. I’m making some vegan yeast cakes!”
Mallory Froid’s body was shaped like a squash topped with an androgynous caramel auburn haircut. This was all highlighted by her choice of an eggplant purple shift dress and mud brown boots. On her earrings were bison-shaped turquoise pendants, the only thing almost as ostentatious as the enormous jasper ring that eclipsed her wedding band on the same finger.
Callahan could not stop looking at her haircut, which looked like a cross between Samuel’s and Froid’s. It was obviously blond, but she had been so fixated with matching the rug that…
“It really ties the room together, doesn’t it?” She was fishing for compliments from Callahan. Callahan dutifully nodded and smiled at her. “It’s a beautiful rug.”
“Thank you! I had to basically sneak it out of Nepal when we went there the first time. Customs would have had a cow had they known that we were taking something so valuable out. The kids were really small, and Ambrosia got lost in one of the temples and was almost adopted by a couple nuns. Cara, you probably don’t remember that trip, don’t you?”
Caracolle rolled her eyes. “No. All I remember is falling off that stupid yak and you guys laughing at me for the whole car ride back to the hotel!”
Mallory laughed. “Ah, our Caracolle. What she lacks in brain she makes up for in cuteness!” She tugged at Caracolle’s cheeks and Caracolle yanked her head back, unabashedly repulsed.
Mallory had Callahan sit down on a sofa that was connected to the rest of the décor through the Nepali rug.
Caracolle reluctantly trailed her mom into the kitchen. She did not want to feed Callahan Grossherz vegan yeast cakes. She had lived on them thanks to her parents’ obsession with the organic and the healthy. Ambrosia hadn’t cared enough to balk, but Caracolle made her opinion on their food options almost every mealtime. Mallory and her husband could not wait to ship Caracolle across the country to UCLA and never hear from their reject daughter ever again.
Callahan watched as a tall blond man with thick black glasses walked into the room as well.
“Nice to meet you! My name is Hamline Froid, Ambrosia’s father. You must be the Callahan we are so anxious to meet!”
Callahan smiled meekly and reached out to receive a handshake. He instead got the same greeting as Mallory’s, as Hamline squeezed Callahan’s torso and kissed him on both cheeks.
“You must be starving! I bet an athlete like yourself has a metabolism of a baby squirrel!” He patted Callahan’s stomach with the back of his hand.
Callahan nodded absently. He was always hungry, but he was never burning any of the calories he consumed. And he was certainly not hungry enough to ingest more than a couple polite nibbles of a vegan yeast cake, whatever that was.
Mallory returned into the living room with a pot of rooibos and a silver platter of doughy patties. They were as smooth as river rocks, and Callahan really wondered if they weren’t just uncooked buns or something. He accepted tea and saucer and hesitantly took a yeast cake, pep-talking himself into optimism. He took a bite. Nope. They tasted exactly like he thought. He smiled with effort and set the rest of the cake down on the saucer.
“So tell us about yourself, Callahan,” Hamline said warmly. Callahan took a big swig of rooibos to prolong his response.
Callahan gave them quick and minimal details about him. He was from Iowa and switched from athletics to poetry after encountering Robert Frost’s North of Boston. He had gone against his parents wishes and applied to a liberal arts school, got a minimal scholarship, and happily trotted to Murkvein, optimistic about pursuing what he really wanted for the first time in his life, set on recreating himself as an artist. He wanted to be different and defy expectation for the first time in his life.
The Froids looked at Callahan with uncomfortable euphoria. Hamline passionately interrupted him at the very end of his story and declared that this was what the population had to do: abandon the uncivilized and gravitate towards the arts, that every problem in society was rooted in its preoccupation with the basest of entertainments.
Callahan would have shoved a yeast cake in his mouth had Mallory not interrupted her husband to give an elaborate metaphor about how society was tied together through art like the living room was tied together through the rug. Callahan looked at Caracolle. Caracolle drank a huge gulp of tea every time her mother mentioned the rug. She clearly wished the tea were alcoholic.
Mallory’s speech suddenly stopped and she bombarded Callahan with more questions about Froid at school: what was she like? Who were her other friends? Did she eat enough?
Callahan set the yeast cake down and began.
“Well, I wasn’t all that close with Froid, but I knew her well enough, I guess. You know she was dating-”
Mallory and Hamline sighed as they simultaneously fanned themselves. “Samuel.” They gushed. “What a catch!”
Callahan squeezed the cake in shock. Caracolle got up to go to the bathroom. She had drunk three cups of tea already. She must have been making a drinking game of other idiosyncrasies her parents had.
Mallory leaped up and grabbed an album from under a coffee table. It was labeled “Thanksgiving of Two Thousand and Twelve,” so last year around this time. There were hundreds of photos, many of them the same, chronicling every unforgettable moment of that Thanksgiving, from the arrival of guests to the carving of Turkey, to Caracolle’s countless annoyed expressions and candid shots. Most of Caracolle’s photos were of her eating, as if that were some kind of family inside joke. Callahan watched as Caracolle returned from the bathroom, saw the three of them huddled around the infamous album, and retreated back into the hallway.
Finally, towards the middle-end of the photo album, two familiar faces appeared. Froid and Samuel arrived for dinner together, both wearing dark colors to play off how casually they had dressed for the event. Samuel seldom looked at the camera during a photograph, but somehow each shot favored him. The flash highlighted the contrast of his pale skin against his silver blue eyes, which was surrounded by a coast of nearly jet-black hair. His neck was long and his features were delicate, almost feminine. This is my brother. This is my beautiful, androgynous, son-of-a-bitch brother.
The contrast between Froid and Samuel was striking: blond against dark brown, green against blue, black on gray against black on brown. Samuel looked like a poet, but even more like a poem.
“Oh, having Samuel over was such a treat! We had to basically force him to recite one of his poems for us. We have all of his volumes, don’t we?” Mallory nudged her husband, who agreed enthusiastically.
“We’re real fans of Samuel’s work,” he expanded. “It was so nice that he let us call him Samuel instead of Mr. Samuel Tyler Coldridge. Everyone’s so preoccupied with titles these days… It’s refreshing to see one who doesn’t mind being of the people. You know, just an artist who is first and foremost just a person, just a human being!”
Callahan suppressed a chance to scoff. If there was one thing Samuel did not consider himself, it was human. He was not of the people or a person. He was King Samuel, lord sovereign of his tiny kingdom of poetry. Callahan nearly nodded in passive agreement, though it wouldn’t take long for him to vehemently disagree with them.
The afternoon aged quickly, between the yeast cakes, the rooibos, the hundreds of paparazzi-esque pictures of Samuel reluctantly eating turkey, and later the most unpleasant kelp salad that Mallory insisted on feeding Callahan. Something about cleansing the body of toxins. Callahan almost vomited in his mouth. Caracolle’s conscious disappearance was from personal experience.
Mallory insisted again that Callahan stay for dinner, but Callahan declined, both passionately and politely, saying that he really should go back to campus. They relented, only making Callahan promise that he will come for Thanksgiving the next week. Callahan quickly promised and headed for the door.
Mallory and Hamline hugged and kissed him again as if he were going overseas to fight in a war he couldn’t vote for, while Caracolle was nowhere to be found. Callahan speed walked to his car, and as he approached it he noticed the outline of a human.
It was Caracolle.
“Hey, uh, tell your folks thank you again. That was really nice of-”
“I can’t believe they’re not worried for her! It’s like they’re okay that she just decided to disappear. They’re probably giving her a couple days. Mark my words: when you come back, it’s because they want to know where she is. If you don’t find out where she is, don't bother coming here. They’ll just push you out the door with weird vegan crap and talk about Samuel like he’s their son-in-law.”
“So the point of me coming here today was…”
“For them to see another link to my sister. They want to find out where she is, but they’re too big of hippies to go look for her themselves. Trust me. They’re my parents, and they’re crazy.”
Callahan nodded and got into the car. He began to pull out of the driveway before Caracolle ran up to meet him again.
“One more thing! Even if you have nothing to show my parents, do come up and see me. At Starbucks. We can try to find her together.”
“You’re sure enthused to help now, aren’t you?”
Caracolle smiled sheepishly. “She’s my sister. I hate her to bits, but what can you do? I need to be around someone who doesn’t think the sun shines out of Samuel’s ass.”

Froid slowly begins to move as I wake up from a nap on my chair. I hear the sheets rustling and I immediately walk over to her side. It’s now six o’clock, and we have two hours to go phone shopping.
“Good evening, Ambrosia!” I say her first name awkwardly. Maybe this is why everyone calls her Froid except for that imbecile Callahan.
She looks up at me and smiles faintly. Already the color in her face is looking much healthier, her eyes less bloodshot, her dark circles less pronounced.
“Your phone did a strange thing while you slept,” I tell her.
She walks over to her phone, and sure enough, the screen is shattered and she opens the back to find the circuit board charred in some sort of suicidal arson.
“How did this happen? I got this phone last year for Christmas,” she says quietly, weighing the phone in her hand, watching the cracks reflect the light.
I shrug my shoulders. “It can’t be helped. Phones these days are so unpredictable. Tell you what… Let’s head downtown and get you a new phone. It’s all on me.”
She’s shocked. “Oh, no, I couldn’t! I couldn’t make you spend all that money on me. It’s not right. Let me pay for it.”
“I insist!” I reply. “This is but a small price to pay. Think of this new phone as a new beginning. We can even get you a new phone number. You’ll be so far away from your past you won’t even remember anything.”
She nods slowly, tempted by the prospect of leaving all the connections behind. She would have none of the phone numbers of Murkvein people, people from her high school. And best of all, none of them would pick up the phone to contact her.
“Sounds like a plan. But… why are you doing all of this for me?”
I say nothing as I hand her her coat.

By that Monday normalcy resumed in everyone’s life. Callahan prepared for his final exams and began packing things up to head back north to Maine. I went back to the office, leaving Froid at my apartment alone but in the company of countless science journals for her to brush up on her physics. Quentin followed Samuel’s daily route with renewed vigor, convinced that this was somehow the best for Samuel.
With Quentin always in close proximity of Samuel, I knew of everything that Samuel was up to. Quentin accompanied him to from the office to home to the supermarket, and back home. Samuel hardly acknowledged Quentin but would have Quentin carry bags of bread and milk when he was nearby. Quentin was not quite sure how this was for the best but he figured that as long as someone thought so it was not his responsibility.
A long day at the office makes me excited about coming home to Froid. I skip down flights of stairs and listen to big band music on my drive home. The traffic is heavy, but it’s nothing. My empty apartment has a small inkling of life. It has Froid.
I enter the apartment and throw my arms up in the air. Froid gets up off an ottoman and walks over to hug me. I pick her up and twirl her around the room as she latches her thin arms around my neck. The way she smiles at me is so different than how she had a mere two days ago. Her eyes are verdant and fresh. She looks like a twenty-one year old. She sleeps much better now, now that I’ve taken active roles in her nightmares. I kill Samuel before he can bring harm. I save her from impossible decisions. I destroy her regret when she does something wrong or fails a challenge she cannot possibly succeed. Every dream has been rewritten. Now that I’m beside her, nothing, not even the Samuel of her subconscious, can hurt her.
For once it is not raining in Seattle, and I suggest we go on a joy ride. She agrees, since she has seen little of the city since arriving. I tell her about the wonders of the coastline and all the amazing seafood places. Her eyes glisten when I mention lobster. She says she’s never had lobster, even though she’s from Maine. I drop my jaw in cartoonish shock and tell her we have to have lobster and some oysters from an oyster bar. She smiles wider. I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful. She holds my hand as we exit the apartment.

By Tuesday Quentin had begun feeling his lack of sleep. Apparently I had intimidated him so much that he had neglected every biological function possible. He hadn’t eaten, he hadn’t rested, he hadn’t done anything that would distract him even momentarily from Samuel. Samuel had gone about his daily life with complete indifference, every now and then looking at Quentin but with no suspicion whatsoever. No one, especially not Quentin, could bind Samuel to reality.
As I lay in bed I think about Christmas many years ago. I change my statement: nothing could bind Samuel to reality.
At seven in the morning Quentin assumed that Samuel was at his apartment. Samuel slept if and when he felt like it, which made for long periods of consciousness before a couple days of perfect slumber. Unfortunately Quentin was tasked with watching him after a weekend of sleeping. This meant that Samuel was at his most alert, going to the grocery at all hours of night, pacing around his mattress, sitting on every bench on campus and trying to attach himself to his surroundings, and making hundreds of new leafs of paper.
Samuel was not at his apartment, as Quentin saw walking down a sidewalk. Samuel was sitting on a bench, eyes closed, fingers twitching. He was deep in sleep and had been like that for hours. Quentin smiled as he sat down next to him. He closed his eyes as well. If Samuel would permit himself to sleep, then so could Quentin. Within moments of leaning his head on Samuel’s shoulder, he was fast asleep. Even if Samuel were to move infinitesimally, Quentin would notice it. He could sleep safely.
Even if Samuel were to burn another Prius because Quentin drooled on him, Quentin didn’t mind entirely. With the reward I’ve promised him, he correctly assumed he could just buy another one.
The minutes ticked by. Quentin is of little more interest to me at the moment. I roll over in bed and sleep a little longer.
With Froid so close to me, her dream starts playing in my mind. She hasn’t dreamed in a while. I’m looking forward to what’s in store.

A metal box. Lidless. It’s large enough for a human to sit in uncomfortably. It moves closer until Froid is set in it. She touches the wall. Cool. She hugs her knees to her chest, wondering what should happen next.
The metal box is lowered on a pulley and hangs in the maroon-tinged darkness for a brief moment, in the silence. Froid begins shivering.
Suddenly, the surroundings are bright. Froid looks straight up at a round opening and sees the night sky. She starts feeling warm. She stands up in the box and looks down.
She is in a volcano.
The heat begins growing. The metal begins to glow and contract, against all mention of Froid’s abrupt screams. She has had this dream before.
Her skin melts and pools onto the bottom of the box. Her hair singes and catches fire. She reaches outside the box for anyone to help her.
The silhouette of a figure. It approaches her and she stops screaming and moving but keeps burning.
The figure gently pushes her back into the box.
“Stay,” it says.
Froid nods and sits in the box, the heat too much for tears that evaporate before they even leave her eyes.
“Good girl,” the figure says. “Good girl. Good girl. Good girl.”
Froid looks up. I know who it is. I recognize that voice.
Samuel is so close Froid can almost see his face. A flame leaps up between them and alights their eye contact.
But it is not Samuel.
It is me.

I awake so rapidly that I almost throw myself off the bed. I’m tangled in sheets, stuck to my back with cold sweat. I know it was a dream, and not even my dream at that, but the heat, the pain, the suffering was too real to calm me down.
I turn on the light and look over at the other side of the bed. It’s empty. Froid has gone.

Nanowrimo 4

WOOOOOOOOOOO STORY

Froid is starting to eat on her own volition. I knew she couldn’t resist her favorite food for long, and while she may try to emulate Samuel, consciously or not, she does like the things she eats. And she likes my company. I’ve finished my curry and have been finished since before she started, but watching her pick up her fork and shovel bamboo shoots and peppers was worth the wait.

            “You must be very hungry.”

            Froid nods and quickens the pace of her forkfuls.

            “You must also be tired.”

            Froid grunts and drinks some water, the ice splashing her lips and making her grunt again.

            She looks much more relaxed. She’s doing what she wants, when she wants. She hasn’t done this for months, at least not before she met Samuel. I growl at the very mention of his name. He has no context. He does not belong here with us. He doesn’t even exist. I think both of us could live with that assumption.

            We get up and leave as soon as she finishes the final heap of rice and vegetables. Her eating came to halt when she had reached the penultimate bite, and I saw her eye my empty plate longingly. Of course she’s still hungry.

            As soon as we get in the car she thanks me for lunch. I tell her that it’s the least I can do for her and grab her hand. Cold, but warmer than before. For the first time since seeing her she smiles at me. The mechanism is forced and disjointed, but her attempt is as beautiful a smile as I’ve ever seen.

            “See?” I chuckle at her. “You really are as beautiful as you let yourself be!”

            Froid laces her fingers in mine so that our hold is impossibly fortified. She’s all mine.

            Quentin the publisher was looking through Samuel’s invitations in Samuel’s office. Universities invited Samuel by the gross to recite at poetry readings or give guest lectures or mentor seniors writing their theses. Samuel of course attended none of them. Quentin the publisher looked at today’s unfortunate schools: Brown, University of Washington, University of California Berkeley, Boston College, Tufts.  Quentin the publisher placed them in a neat pile on top of the scrap paper that Samuel would turn into pulp. More schools to go unnoticed.

Quentin the publisher wondered when they would all realize that this prestige held no interest to Samuel. The only prestige that held true in Samuel’s mind was that he could create anything in his poetry, and in the lines of his language and the charcoal smudges round the perimeter of the page, he was the creator. He was the ultimate and only authority. He was God.

Samuel unexpectedly appeared in the office. Quentin the publisher squawked in surprise before composing himself. I nearly rear-end an Escalade in front of me. Froid jolts awake and turns over to me. She demands to know why I’m so preoccupied. The panang curry has restored Froid’s ability to show her emotions.

I reply that I’m still thinking of the patient’s folder in the office. She tells me if it’s bothering me so much we can just go to the clinic right now. I tell her it’s not a big deal, and she scrutinizes my face for lies. She won’t find any. I know exactly what she’s doing.

Samuel looked at Quentin the publisher and said nothing. He walked around Quentin the publisher and sat down at the desk and starting shredding paper. Quentin the publisher didn’t know whether to help him or to make a run for it.

As Samuel tore the pieces into smooth, thin strips like bok choy, he looked at the schools that he was declining. His expression remained unfazed as he looked at the prestigious, the far away, and the enormous. He was an egalitarian. By the time he had finished the pile not one of the unique embossing patterns on the paper was discernable from another. Quentin the publisher sneaked out as Samuel began tearing the shreds into more haphazard scraps.

This is my brother. This is why my brother will never be a great poet.

Caracolle Froid. Ambrosia’s junior by four years. She so resembled her sister that the two looked like twins, until they opened their mouths. Caracolle was not smart. Caracolle did not care about anything except for dating the quarterback of the football team and making sure her nails were always perfect. She also liked cake-flavored vodka, but her parents didn’t know that. Caracolle hated Froid because she was everything she was not, and their parents never forgave Caracolle for not being as artistic or intellectual or yuppie-ish as the rest of their family.

Caracolle was off her shift now, and the two of them sat at a tiny table with a checkerboard pattern on it.

“So you know Ambrosia. Lucky you.” Her sarcasm cut up Callahan more than it should have.

“Yeah, we met a little over a year ago in a creative writing class.”

“Of course you did.”

Caracolle was not making it easy for Callahan to get any information. She was punishing him for hitting on her earlier, even if he really wasn’t.

“She really hasn’t come home?” Callahan asked.

Caracolle shook her head. “Last we heard she was coming back from campus after packing up the rest of her things. Which is like… three pairs of pants? Anyways she was supposed to come home and get some more things before heading out west.”

“But you haven’t heard… anything?”

“Her phone number’s the same… It just goes straight to voicemail. I wonder if she has it off.”

Of course she has it off. She’s never had it on since landing in Seattle. Froid turns on her phone once she gets to my house. No unheard messages or texts. That’s not entirely true. I just keep deleting the messages she gets as soon as they arrive to her phone.

“How is my phone off?” She mutters to herself. “Has it been off the whole time?”

I shrug my shoulders.

“But… I texted you when I landed, right?”

I nod.

She stares me down as if she knows I’m the culprit, but I know she’s bluffing. Even if she is right.

Caracolle and Callahan texted Froid the exact same message at the exact same time. I can’t let this interfere with Froid’s desperate need to sleep, and I drop the signal on their phones until Froid does fall asleep.

Caracolle and Callahan both looked at their phones in confusion as their signal went from 4G to completely gone, as if they had gone into an underground parking garage and were not still in a Starbucks in the middle of a mobile hotspot.

“That’s weird… Is your signal dropped too?” Callahan asked Caracolle.

Caracolle moaned. “My phone always does this! It’s like, the one time I actually want to reach my sister it doesn’t want me to! Ohmygod, is God, like, punishing me or something?”

I snort a little. The second time in the course of a couple minutes that a Froid is completely right but will never know it.

            Froid begins snoring quietly in my bed. I walk over to her and tuck the covers around her. Her breathing slows even more, and she turns over onto her size and softly grips the covers and the pillowcase.

            I wonder if she’s dreaming. I sit in an armchair next to my bed and watch her face. Small parts of her dream begin to flash before my eyes.

            A huge bonfire. Froid standing in front of it with an empty tank of lighter fuel. The fire leaps up into the night sky hungrily, turning the purple clouds orange with heat. Suddenly, the fire starts dwindling, but the energy seems to be growing. Froid looks at a small pile of ash, and it begins to form into a charred body. Skin begins to solidify on the surface, and pools stretch themselves over a lattice of bones. The face is still beyond recognition, but slowly features begin to make themselves known. Brown hair. Dimples. Pudgy cheeks. Thick lips.

            It’s Callahan.

            And suddenly Callahan starts screaming in pain. He is alive now.

            Froid tries covering her ears, but her hands have left her. More piles of ash become other things. Her parents. Her poetry. Caracolle. They scream as loud as Callahan as she walks towards them. She takes a charred match out of her pocket and it sucks up all the flames. She looks at Callahan as he trembles, knowing what she’s going to do as she holds the empty tank and it sucks up the gasoline. She walks backwards, still facing them, until she turns to her left. There is Samuel. She gives him the full tank.

            “Thank you,” she whispers.

            Samuel hands her back the full tank of gasoline.

            Froid jumps upright on the bed, her breathing hard, cold sweat dotting her hairline. It’s hard to tell whether it is sweat or tears on her cheeks, but either way she begins shivering at their presence.

            I leap out of the chair and wrap my arms her. Cold. Colder than when I saw her at the airport.

            “It’s okay,” I croon as I rub her shoulders with my hands. “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s only a nightmare.”

            She turns to me, shaking violently and gasping for air.

            “Luke. It feels… so real.”

            She begins to warm up again as I hold her and before long she falls back asleep in my arms. I wipe her hair away from her face. Her expression is calm now. She’s not dreaming. She feels safe.

            I smile as I set her slowly back down on the bed. This is what I live for.

           

            Froid’s phone begins to buzz as soon as I return the signal to Caracolle’s and Callahan’s phones. They have texted her three times each, each writing the same messages at the same time. They express worry, understanding, and blunt annoyance, respectively. I delete all six messages. As I hold Froid’s phone the screen cracks, and I hear the circuit board fry. Time for her to get a new phone. We can go shopping as soon as she wakes up.

            Caracolle texted her parents to let her know she’d procure her own ride home. She looked at Callahan and he instantly offered her to give her a lift. She got up before he did and walked out the door as he trailed her, trying to unlock the car before she got to it.

            Callahan was not a neat person, but his car had been so seldom used that it was about as clean as it was when he had it detailed before heading off to school. The cloth seats still smelled like orange oil, the windows were clean and polished, and the compartments were empty of trash that he would inevitably accumulate once he started using this car more regularly.

            Caracolle spent the entire car ride texting random people. Callahan had to drag directions out of her as if he were a dean talking to a student on academic probation. She answered minimally and vaguely, merely telling him to turn up ahead or keep going. In a stroke of annoyance, Callahan pulled over and stopped the car.

            “Look, are you going to help me or not?” He growled at her. “Do you actually want to find you sister or are you just reveling in your detachment like the insufferable bitch you are?”

            Caracolle’s mouth dropped, and so did her phone. Callahan was mad. When he wanted to intimidate someone, it was not hard. He was tall and burly, and the steering wheel constricted under his agitated grasp. His features were boyish but definite, and with his eyes alight with frustration and mouth curled into a snarl, he was more than successful in terrifying Caracolle.

            Caracolle tried to play off her fear with middling success. “You know, you don’t have to use big words like that. Just tell me that you think I don’t want to find my sister. Come on, don't use big words.”

            Callahan bared his teeth. “Fine. Let me use monosyllabic words then. If you’re gonna help me, tell me how to get your house. If not, get the HELL out of my car!”

            This time Caracolle had no place to hide her fright. She picked her phone up and set it down in her purse. She folded her hands in her lap in defeat.

            “I’m sorry. Turn left at the next stoplight.”

            Callahan stomped on the gas and remerged onto the road. He would eventually apologize to Caracolle, but not right now. He could not forgive her for not wanting to find Froid as much as he did.

            Quentin the publisher was bored. This happened at around this part of the day, once he finished sending Samuel’s works to be bound and had already gone to the apartment and back. He checked Samuel’s office, but it was empty. Samuel had probably gone back home. He seldom stayed long in his office, usually just to pick up scrap paper and steal some pens from other desks. Samuel had a lot of money that he never used. He lived on the verge of poverty not out of masochism but out of simplicity. He didn’t care about money. He lived more Spartanly than any other writer in the world, even though his royalties for publication were somewhere in the millions last year.

I have to admit I know because I’ve taken out hundreds of dollars at a time, not out of necessity but rather curiosity. I don’t need his money. I make tenfold more than he does, and at least I show my gratitude by spending. I will show gratitude for my affluence by buying Froid a top-of-the-line smart phone with the most expensive plan. If Froid doesn’t already feel emotionally indebted to me by now, she most certainly will be financially by the end of the day.

Quentin the publisher ate a turkey sandwich with no condiments, cheese, or mayonnaise on the floor of Samuel’s office. He was nearly dying of boredom, but he had rushed out the door so quickly that morning that he only grabbed two pieces of bread and a handful of turkey. Quentin the publisher also lived comfortably. The English department paid him handsomely for being the only person inconspicuous enough to withstand Samuel day in and day out. It was the most backhanded compliment ever.

The only person probably as bored as Quentin the publisher at the moment is me. Froid is asleep, Caracolle and Callahan are silently commuting, and Quentin at his most entertaining is about as exciting as a jar of fancy ketchup. I don’t want to read any of my articles and don’t want to leave Froid unattended. I sit in my armchair and tap my fingers on my thigh. I hate being this overt in my machinations, but Samuel and I have the same mortal flaw: when aren’t controlling our worlds, we are insufferably bored.

The door to Samuel’s office suddenly slammed shut. Quentin the publisher dropped his turkey sandwich on the carpet, the bread crumbling on impact and the turkey flopping over into a processed log. Quentin the publisher squealed as he tried to put his sandwich back together, all the while examining the door with horrified confusion.

He put half of the sandwich pieces in his mouth and stuffed half of it in his pocket and he inched cautiously towards the door. He grabbed the knob and wiggled it. Jammed. He cantilevered himself at the foot of the door and leaned backwards as he pulled on the knob. He flipped backwards, the knob severed and in his hands, the door portentously standing over him.

Quentin the publisher shrieked and covered his mouth, until he realized that no one was around to hear him. The department had been closed for an hour, and not one professor or office assistant would willingly stay longer than their assigned hours. He was trapped, alone, in the office, and he watched the sun dip over the horizon. He scampered to turn on the light switch. It flickered on, but I immediately smash the light bulb. It rained down onto the floor in painful shards as Quentin the publisher sprinted to the corner to evade the precipitation. His bewilderment had flared up into paranoia very quickly. He wailed as he covered his head with his arms and sunk into the corner, quivering at the very clink of the light bulb fragments rocking back and forth on the carpet.

The doorknob began rolling towards him with determination. Quentin the publisher pushed himself farther into the corner as it casually approached him.

I think I’ve done enough.

What are you doing here, eating your dinner after hours off of Samuel’s floor?

Quentin the publisher whimpers before he responds. “I… I… I don’t know. I just wanted to make sure that he was still here.”

And if he were here?

            “I’d… I’d… I don’t know! I’d do something for him!”

            I believe you can do much more to help him. The best way for you to help him is to keep an eye on him. All times. Don’t let him out of your sight.
            “But… wouldn’t he find that annoying?”

            Do you like your current Prius? Or would you like it better if it were incinerated?

            Quentin the publisher cowers at the very mention. “No! No no no no! I like it very much!”

            Then listen to my instructions very carefully. I was done even pretending to be his self-conscious. He wouldn’t know the difference anyway. His self-conscience was already a constant monologue of orders from superiors, hypothetical ones from Samuel, laundry lists of assignments. Quentin the publisher didn’t have a conscience. That’s why I could inhabit him so comfortably.

            Pick up the doorknob. Quentin the publisher does so hastily.

            Replace it on the door. Quentin the publisher pokes the opening and stabs it with the knob.

            Open the door. The door swings open.

            Promise me you will follow Samuel. Night and day. You care about him, don’t you? This is for the best. You will be rewarded handsomely for your inconvenience.

            Quentin the publisher nods as he hyperventilates. He bursts out of the room and makes a run for Samuel’s apartment. Quentin is my eyes and ears. I smile. This is what I live for.

Nanowrimo part 3

woohoo!

Callahan’s nap was really just a slumber. He awoke to see the sun flooding his room in crisp morning light. So much for a few winks of sleep. He had slept from the previous afternoon and had not changed position at all. His head was still wedged in between two pillows and his arms had fallen asleep hours ago. He shook them, trying to get the feeling back in them, and slumped over the edge of the bed. He had an afternoon free, and after finals that next week he had a month off. He was about as good at making friends as he was at making poetry, and he had lied to his parents about joining a fraternity, making the squash team, and having a girlfriend, so his parents would not expect him home for weeks. Besides, home was Iowa, and he was in no hurry to spend a whole day of travel just to get there. The drive to Boston Logan International Airport alone was three hours. He vetoed that idea. He also vetoed the idea of studying this weekend in preparation for his finals. He had other plans.

            He grabbed his car keys and a toothbrush. He was headed north to Maine.

            Quentin the publisher was not good at remembering which key would let him in to Samuel’s apartment. Samuel was probably there, but he would get so engrossed in his poetry that he would neglect the existence of just about everything else. Quentin the publisher also figured that disturbing him with a squeamish knock would also cost him another Prius.

            At long last Quentin the publisher found the one that worked. He sighed and walked into Samuel’s apartment.

            Sure enough, Samuel was there. I frown while driving, and Froid asks me what’s wrong as she watches our car weave around a brunch of traffic. I tell her I forgot a patient’s folder at the office. She doesn’t acknowledge me and looks deeper out the window.

            Samuel had his back facing Quentin the publisher. He figured it was Quentin the publisher, and even if it weren’t he wouldn’t mind either way. No one in their right mind would steal anything of Samuel’s, given the sparseness of his lifestyle, and Samuel didn’t really care about anything he owned except the poems that he transcribed from his mind.

            Quentin the publisher tiptoed his way across the room to a pile of papers that had not been there yesterday. Six poems today. Must have been very productive. He slowly picked up the papers with latex gloves and put them in the Ziploc. He turned over to Samuel who hadn’t moved at all since he had come in. Quentin the publisher sighed silently. Any acknowledgement was better than none. I gently remind him that any Prius is better than none.

            Suddenly, Samuel moved. He turned around to face Quentin the publisher, but did not look at him. My brother. His long fingers were black with charcoal. There were patches of gray all over his angular jaw where he had scratched it hours before. There was charcoal everywhere. His dark brown scruffy hair had chalky lowlights that floated down to the floor when he shook his head. His black t-shirt glistened with charcoal shavings, and as he stood he brushed some of it off his blackened feet trudged over a pile of paper, leaving a print.

            He nodded to Quentin the publisher and continued walking towards the fridge. More bok choy it is. Quentin the publisher was about as surprised as I was. Samuel must have been in a good mood to even so much as nod to Quentin the publisher.

            Samuel took a bite out of the bok choy. He clearly went from being completely engrossed to painfully bored in a matter of seconds. He peeled the bok choy in thick strips that he later peeled into thinner strips. He rolled the leaves into little green rods and popped them into his mouth. He examined the rough texture of the leaves, caressing the patterns before finally becoming interested in the world again.

            I only know all of this because Quentin the publisher was staring at him. Samuel made eye contact, but I knew he was not looking at the meager publisher. He was looking at me.

           

            I brake quickly at a stoplight. It shakes Froid, and she stops looking out the window to look forward and massage her neck.

            “I’m sorry!” I exclaim and reach out to touch it. Froid shakes a little at my touch but relaxes once she feels my warmth. I relax when I feel her cool skin.

            “Any ideas about what you want to eat?” I ask kindly.

            She shrugs, pushing the top of my hand almost to her ear and I quickly remove my hand to keep it from becoming trapped. As for her apathy, I figure so much. Spending so much time with Samuel would mean that her opinion of eating in general would naturally be more of a biological necessity than a pleasure.

            I’m certain I can sway her, though. I know she has a fondness for Thai food, and I instantly perk up to tell her I know of a wonderful Thai restaurant just a few blocks away from my apartment. We can stop there on the way so that she can head back to my apartment and take a well-deserved nap. Maybe I can take one too. I’m more exhausted than I would be after being on-call after a long day of surgeries.

            I miss Froid’s response, so I ask her again, apologizing for missing what she said. She replies that she’s not really all that hungry but could certainly go for a nap. I frown. I remind her that she has to eat, and she tells me that she ate at the airport. I frown deeper. I know she did no such thing. She sees my expression betraying my irritation with her and she relents. I’m not satisfied with her, but I have a schedule to keep.

            Before long I stop in front of a skyscraper three blocks from the apartment complex. She looks out my window in confusion. I lean over and cup her chin in my hand and look longingly at her.

“You are as beautiful as you let yourself be,” I mutter. Her green eyes, dull from sleeplessness, look up at me as I move closer. She closes her eyes in preparation.

            Good enough.

            “We’re here,” I tell her. She opens her eyes and looks back behind me, and sure enough there is a Thai restaurant on the ground floor.

            “Didn’t see that before…” she whispers, pointing at the red name above the entrance.

            I chuckle. “You don’t see a lot of things, do you?”

            The drive to Maine was scenic, if not contrived. If I weren’t so preoccupied with Froid I would definitely make something exciting for Callahan to watch. Maybe a flaming car crash or a sudden moose. But my priorities lie in this impromptu Thai restaurant, and my current fixation was trying to get Froid to actually order food rather than stare at the ice cubes floating in the purified water.

            Callahan was energized enough to do the three hour drive in one go. What’s the hurry? I ask him. Because I honestly don’t know. I can tempt or obligate him into completing my wills, but his actual thoughts are fairly unknown to me. I know he’s going to Maine because that’s where he thinks Froid is, spending a few days with her family before volitionally going as far away from them as possible.

            I revel at the possible envy he would have had he known who I was with at the moment. Froid spies the brightness in my euphoric eyes. I know she’s curious, but I pretend that I don’t see her and continue looking at Callahan.

            Callahan’s car did not have enough gas to travel the whole way, even though he had seldom used his car since coming to school. The tank lilted from half full to quarter to nearly empty over the span of New Hampshire, and he groaned as he tried to find a gas station in a town that was little more than a bar and a church. He circled expectantly, as if his extreme desire to find a station would just will one into existence.

            As Froid traces the pattern on the paper napkin I trace Callahan’s face. His eyes are bloodshot because he slept with contacts in, and he has done nothing but drive for the past two hours. He hasn’t checked his phone or listened to the radio. It’s as if he doesn’t want anyone to help him. I could have easily communicated to him through one of these, but he’s been so absorbed in the voyage that I haven’t been able to give him subtle assistance.

            The town was void of anything to help Callahan. His tank was empty, and if he spent any more time looking he would consume what little he had left and become stranded.

            I promise I’m only helping him because I want him to go to Maine and not find Froid there. In his rearview window he spotted a tiny gas station, not conspicuous enough to forgo observance but a gas station nonetheless.

            “How did I miss this one?” Callahan asked himself.

            I chuckle quietly on the pad thai page.

            “What is it?” Froid finally asks.

            “Callahan. He’s so funny.”

            After basically forcing Froid to order something that wasn’t a bowl of Jasmine rice, the two of us wait for our curries. Mine is seafood while Froid’s is vegetables. I ask her if she’s vegetarian but she says no. Between the low caloric value of the meal and the exorbitant difference in price between ours, I can see Froid only wants to disappear.

            She caresses the cigarettes in her purse. I want to get rid of them, but I have to do it without her noticing. I tell her I’m going to the bathroom and get up and leave her alone at the table. I know she wants nothing more than to make a run for it and light up in an alley somewhere, but my expectations keep her glued to the table.

            I wash my face in the sink and practice smiling. Many people have told me my smile is the best they’ve ever seen, and I smile at my dimples. I smile at my blue eyes. I smile at my shaved face. I smile at Samuel through Quentin the publisher. I smile at Froid.

            Froid looked at herself in the mirror of a makeup compact and cringed. If she didn’t already feel as if she traveled hastily across the country, her face definitely showed it. She applied some lip balm and groomed her eyebrows a bit. She powdered her face at put the compact back in her purse. I smile at her again through the mirror of the bathroom. I guess she is trying after all.

            After making some effort, she began pawing through her purse, looking for something that wasn’t there.

            Smoking is bad for you, isn’t it? She hears my voice. I’ve never said these words to her before.

            I walk back from the bathroom to see a slightly more presentable Froid. That is, if she weren’t manically ripping her purse apart.

            “Looking for something?” I ask her pointedly.

            “I swear they were just in here, like a few minutes ago.”

            “Smoking is bad for you, isn’t it?” I say again.

            She freezes and slowly meets my gaze. I smile at her innocently, patting her pack of cigarettes situated newly in my pants pocket.

                       

            Callahan was almost to Portland. The sporadic towns and farms began to conglomerate into small cities, which rolled into suburbs. He was surprised at how quickly the drive had gone, even though it was a mere three hours not counting his nearly disastrous attempt of finding gas.

            Callahan was almost as bad at planning ahead as either Froid or Samuel. He had no idea where Froid lived in Portland, and even though the city was not large by any standards there were still 65,000 living in it that were not Froid. What a waste of time. He pulled into a Starbucks and sat in the parking lot, waiting further instruction from anyone. I think it was very pathetic. I would eventually help him somehow. But presently I have to basically spoon-feed this panang curry to Froid, and I’m not sure how to go about doing it without being blunt or overly romantic.

            Callahan finally decided to walk in and order something and plan his shameful drive back. His desire to do anything plummeted, and he sank into a polyester armchair in the corner. The tile was a disappointment. The pattern was easily discernable and bored him almost instantly. He slowly got up to order.

            How convenient that he came to this Starbucks.

            There, facing him in debilitating scrutiny, was someone who looked almost exactly like Froid.

            Callahan had to do a double take. He stared at her green eyes, the same hue as Froid but bright with youth and trivial joy. Her hair was blond like Froid’s, but curled painstakingly. Her pale skin was sheathed in foundation and bronzer, and her eyelashes were long and black.

            Her nametag said Caracolle.

            “Um, can I help you?” she suddenly blurted out.

            Callahan sputtered. He was partially in disbelief at the uncanny resemblance, but he was also struck by her beauty the same way he had been the first time he had met Froid.

            “Uh, hi. I’d like… um….”

            Callahan couldn’t think of anything to say or to order.

            “What time do you get off?” He suddenly asked her.

            Her eyebrows bolted up. She was a mixture of surprised and repulsed.

            “Are you... hitting on me?” she whispered, her face inching towards Callahan, her eyes glowering into his.

            Callahan jerked back. “No! I… just… well… you look…” He stalled again. Caracolle rolled her eyes, and I do too as I mix some rice into Froid’s curry for her.

            Caracolle turned around and started unwrapping some cartons of soymilk. Callahan had already disappeared from her memory. She shook the cartons rhythmically, making the soymilk inside all frothy.

            Callahan then let his conscience do the talking and said something none of us expected.

            “You look just like her!”

            Caracolle dropped a carton and it nearly hit her foot. I drop my spoon with a clank into Froid’s now soupy curry. Froid is startled and looks into my eyes, wondering what’s wrong. I could not tell her. Not yet.

Caracolle picked up the carton off the floor and set it on the counter. She turned to Callahan, eyes dilated into a morose comprehension. She had heard this phrase so many times before.

            Callahan recoiled. “I’m sorry, I’m just saying things right now. You probably don’t even…”

            “No.” Caracolle leaned over the counter as Callahan retreated.

            “I know exactly who you’re talking about. And where is she? Where is my sister?”

Nanowrimo part 2

MORE THINGS YAY!

Callahan was sick of proofreading. He had done so much of it in his introductory creative writing class that past fall, which was where he had met Froid and Samuel. Every time he proofread he hated something new and disliked the changes more than the original draft. By the time he had finished his edits an hour later the poem he had written about Froid was not even the same poem. Instead of five lines of ranting about her smoking, he made the poem rhyme. He talked about her eyes, lips gray from ash. He kept going back to her smoking and it drove him crazy. It was like all he could see. He couldn’t see Froid. He could only see smoke.

In exasperated but unavoidable defeat, he jumped into his bed face first and sandwiched his head between two pillows. He wanted to take a nap and forget that that poem ever happened. He was ashamed of it. Part of that was probably my fault, but I like to think I have good taste. That poem was awful, and his decision to scrap it completely was definitely for the best. He didn’t even bother crumpling it up and throwing it away. He just left it on his desk as if it weren’t there.

In his pillow parfait he dreamed, somehow. He dreamed about the first time he went to the English Department there at Murkvein. It was all, more or less, still vivid in his memory, vivid as the fake potted plants in the corners that tried to give the stale room more life. Or the mass-produced watercolor paintings that hung anonymously on every wall, with familiar but nondescript scenes like pale toddlers chasing seagulls on the beach, or a log cabin covered with moss and wildflowers with children playing in the tall grasses, or an old bleached boat marooned on the beach during low tide, or just a still-life. The room reminded Callahan of a nursing home, and it should have.

Among the commercial paintings and plants there were photos, many of them, many of them taken recently. The most recent was the entire English Department faculty surrounding Samuel, who was gingerly holding some literary prize that he had won but clearly didn’t care about. Their faces were bright and their smiles were painfully wide, and they looked so fixatedly at the camera that Callahan thought they were threatened with death if they didn’t. Samuel was there, not smiling, not making any expression, not even looking at the camera. His eyes were dim and distracted and off somewhere else. I figure he was in his mind writing another poem. Where else would he go? Reality holds no interest to him.

Callahan continued waiting in the bland room, waiting to meet a bland professor, waiting to take a bland class and be just a bland human being. The head of the English department that he was so fixated on meeting was Professor Doanday. He hated Shakespeare and slant rhymes and thought that twelve-tone Schoenberg was the only music worth listening to. He was boring. I met him when he was trying to kiss Samuel’s feet. Samuel disliked him almost as much as I did. It was one of the few things we ever agreed upon.

Professor Doanday was not in the mood to go to work that day, and with his tenure thick with ages of service, he decided that he would rather spend the morning walking around his house with a chipped mug filled with Folgers and his socks drooping halfway off his feet. His appearance changed little when he went to work. All he did was put on a sports coat. I was glad he skipped. I had expected it.

Quentin the publisher did not. He could not. If he did he would have to explain to his insurance company how and why his brand new Prius spontaneously burst into flames in the parking lot. Samuel never came into the office, but Quentin the publisher was so justifiably terrified of him that he worked as diligently as if Samuel were really there and actually cared about something that wasn’t his poetry.

Callahan was sitting at the chair when Quentin the publisher rushed around the corner with a precariously stacked volume of Samuel’s poetry in a giant Ziploc in a folder. Quentin the publisher looked nervously at Callahan and then back at the folder in his hands. Callahan stood up and approached Quentin the publisher.

Callahan opened up his mouth to ask Quentin the publisher a series of frequently asked questions, but I shut him up. I didn’t want to hear him ask the mundane to the abused publisher who was on the verge of nervous breakdown.

Quentin the publisher looked at Callahan again, certain that he did not know who he was and therefore was harmless. Callahan looked back at Quentin the publisher, dying to ask many questions, but I held his tongue. I hate it when they talk. Most of them just blurt things out in a stream of consciousness and it angers me. The less they talk, the less they interfere.

Quentin the publisher smiled and sat down meekly next to Callahan. Callahan was an ex-jock, six feet four inches of bulk that had sadly been converging to fat as he quit training for football and began writing and reading prose and poetry. He still possessed enough strength to strangle me, Samuel, or Quentin the publisher without a second thought, but he was so docile and hypersensitive of his size that I could do so much damage to him without fear of repercussions.

            The lumpy, ill-defined athlete shifted his weight in his chair, his feet falling asleep from sitting for so long. He stood up, towering over the slumping Quentin the publisher next to him and shook his legs out. He walked slowly over to the photos on the wall and examined them in unnecessary detail.

            Callahan then lucidly recalled this was a flashback. Good point there, Callahan. I guess I can let you two talk.

            “So… Are you a student here too?” Callahan began awkwardly.

            Quentin the publisher looked as offended as he was capable of. “Ha! Of course not! I am an alumnus who graduated three years ago. Right now I am an intern for the department and in charge of Samuel Tyler Coldridge’s works. We graduated together, him obviously with honors.”

            Quentin the publisher was good at not getting in people’s ways and blending in. He was so good at being so boring that the English department immediately requested that he be Samuel’s “publisher,” which only meant that he transported a scrappy yellow folder from Samuel’s apartment to the English department for almost immediate publication.

            As I said before I do like my brother’s work. It really is because he is good and proofreading and editing would simply destroy most of the marvel that is his poetry. It’s all stream of conscious and off the top of his head despite the syntax and orthography rendering English into a different language. Take for instance “hIre why’s(dumb),” the very first poem in his debut publication y(not)ou.

           

[sec(split)ond]: I fear

blue{yes, like oceans}

the books^and^foot

steps

fragrance t(s)h(or)e

break

everyth{I!}ng: {can do this

} [with thIs](can you?)

I don’t want you two(o)

your cycle [repetition, blue, yes like oceans]

at the edge of my

shore

a god like I.

There is nothing here to edit because this is not English poetry. This is Samuel’s poetry. And he is the only native speaker of his language.

Callahan then asked Quentin the publisher where Professor Doanday was. Quentin the publisher shrugged his shoulders and walked off with the folder hastily. Too hastily, since he left a manuscript dangling outside the bag that inevitably began fluttering out.

In a stroke of friendliness Callahan bolted up and snatched the paper before it hit the ground and called out to Quentin the publisher that he had dropped it. Callahan examined the paper. It was gray with speckles of blue and white and purple, clearly made from a flyer and a letter of recommendation; the address of the sender was still somewhat legible in the middle bottom of the page. And there, in charcoal and surrounded by delicate fingerprints, was Samuel’s poem, born into tangibility just minutes before. The charcoal still looked soft and the paper was still indented where he had written the final lines. Callahan reached out to caress the text.

            But Quentin the publisher let a shriek so hilariously dire that a startled Callahan dropped the paper on the ground. Quentin the publisher let out another shriek. If I could have shut him up, I would have. I feel a bit bad for Callahan for having to hear a sound like that twice.

            “DON’T TOUCH IT. DON’T-LET-ANYTHING-TOUCH-IT. BUT… IT TOUCHED! THE GROUND! YOU! The charcoal, ooooh the charcoal charcoal charcoal… Must check on the charcoal. If it’s smudged I will personally accept your withdrawal from this college!”

            Callahan put his hands up and backed away from the paper slowly. Quentin the publisher flinched every time a small gust of wind from Callahan’s slow perambulation made the paper fluttered.

            “NO! DON’T. STOP MOVING! Don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe, don’t think, just… STOP!”

            Callahan stood still and glared down at Quentin the publisher. Quentin the publisher would have been terrified of Callahan had he not been thinking about the possibility of him finding his Prius set fire to… again.

            He thinks it’s Samuel that does it. It’s really me, though. I do it when he gets annoying and it just so happens that he’s most annoying around Samuel. I don’t even think Samuel knows how many cars Quentin the publisher has been through. He doesn’t know that Quentin the publisher thinks that he’s in charge of this frequent arson.

            Quentin the publisher took out a pair of tweezers and began to peel the paper off of the floor and put it back in the Ziploc to put into the folder. He alternatively eyed Callahan to make sure he didn’t move and the paper, examining to smudge marks.

            When the paper was back with the others and safe from Callahan and the rest of the world, Quentin the publisher briskly walked away. Callahan had spent a half hour waiting and the only response he got was of neurotic hostility. He had even forgotten why he came here in the first place.

            Dejectedly Callahan walked out of the waiting room and back to his dorm. He would not get any answers today. I’m glad I discouraged him enough to leave. Had he stuck around he would have met Samuel a week earlier than I had wanted.

            Froid had very few belongings with her and she knew it. She was supposed to head home for a few days, pack up for good, and then head out to Seattle. She only had enough clothes and money on her for a couple days. She picked up her phone to text me. I smiled and texted her back before she even finished her message.

            “Don’t worry about bringing things. I’m definitely okay with helping you get completely situated, and that means getting you anything you need. Brand new.”

            Froid played off her surprise very well.

            “Thanks, Luke. I look forward to seeing you soon.”

            She didn’t even mention that she was coming almost a week early. It’s okay. I knew.

            Night has fallen here now. I change into a bathrobe and put on my glasses to read in bed. I choose an article of mine that had just been published in a science journal. I smile to myself until I see a word: “hydrocephalus.” I frown. I had forgotten I had written that article on a new pharmaceutical and how it creates a reaction that consumes the excess water in the brain and leaves behind a nutritious precipitate to fortify the brain. I barely remember writing this article, and that’s probably because I hated that word so much. I close my eyes and I’m transported to Christmas ten years ago. I don’t want to be transported there, but Samuel does that to me sometimes.

            I drop the journal like a hot plate on my lap. Hydrocephalus. Samuel. I wish I could forget both of them. I turn over under the covers, caressing the silk between my fingers. The magazine remains completely put and burns into my hips. I do not sleep well that night. I almost want Froid to be here now.

            Froid. Please move the journal. Burn it, do whatever you need to. Just promise me two things: first, get rid of this journal. And second, never go to Samuel.

            I wake the next morning unsatisfied. It takes me half an hour of my morning routine to realize that it’s a Saturday and that I’m not on call. I have the whole day. It’s only half past seven. I try to go back to sleep but I take a look at the magazine, still lying unfazed on my bed where I had been sleeping. My hip is bright red as if it really had burned me.

I wonder when Froid will get here. Right now she is sleeping on a plane, which is rather surprising given her insomnia. I would blame much of it on Samuel, but I must give some credit where it’s due. Froid is a monster to herself.

            I make myself some espresso and look through my mail from yesterday. I see bills, paychecks, invitations, and letters from patients. I pick one of that. It’s addressed to “Mr. Doctor Coldridge.” I smile at the grade school handwriting and open it up and read it.

            “Dear Mr. Doctor,

            Thank you for getting the lump out of my head. It hurt but now it doesn’t hurt so much. I can do lots of things now. I rode my bike yesterday with a helmet. It was fun. I can spell a lot better. My teacher says I’m smart now.

            Thank you very much.

            -Hugo, age 7

            PS. My baby sister is really dumb. Can you see her next?”

            The letter was cute but attached was an even bigger prize.

            “Dr. Coldridge,

            I’d like to give you my eternal gratitude for saving my son Hugo. I don’t know what we would have done without you. You were really the only one who could save him and cut out such an imbedded tumor, and for that I cannot thank you enough. I don’t think we could ever properly repay for all you have done, and every time my husband and I look at Hugo we will think of you, the doctor who saved his life.

            You truly are a gift from God.

            Forever yours,

            Daphne Albrecht”

              I smile and caress Daphne Albrecht’s handwriting. Forever yours. This is what I live for.

            Froid awoke from her nap with a start. The turbulence getting into Seattle was nearly unbearable, and she kept hitting her forehead on the window every time the plane jumped. She sighed. At least she had slept some. The flight had passed quickly thanks to her nap, and she wondered if her family was worried. She looked at her phone before realizing it was off. She put it back in her pocket. She’d forget them by the time she hit the tarmac anyway.

            The plane pulled into the gate and she turned on her phone. No missed calls or texts from anyone. She figured so much. She texted me though, and I immediately drop the letter down on the table and begin putting on my shoes. I take one last look at my empty apartment and smile. It will be empty no more.

            I pull over on the curb to see Froid with her backpack and a tiny suitcase of luggage. It’s probably mostly empty anyway. Froid is a minimalist. She was wearing that exact outfit the last time I saw her.

            She has her hands netted together, squeezing her fingers so hard her knuckles are white. She’s nervous to see me. I understand completely.

            I get out of the car and open my trunk. I flash her a quick smile before putting her suitcase in the trunk and opening the door for her. She looks up at me once. Her eyes are wide with something. I cup her cheek in my hand. Cold. I smile.

            “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you,” I say.

            Froid nods and smiles slowly. She’s only controlling herself. I can feel her relief instantly. She knows she’s safe with me, and she’s right.

NaNoWriMo part I

As promised, here is a first chunk of what I've written for NaNoWriMo. Mistakes may abound. I have been doing minimal proofreading. I wrote 5800 words today and all I can think about is how I am NEVER writing again... Until tomorrow.

Without further ado, enjoy this first installment! I'll try posting more or less every day until I'm done.


-CD

It was late afternoon by the time Ambrosia Froid finally looked out the window of the bus.

            There was a delicate array of stripes on the road, perhaps from the trees, the shadows they cast in the mature November afternoon. It may have been dark already for all she cared, but the long shadows were like tick marks in her journey. They gave her assurance that she was really moving, that she was really leaving at long last.

            I couldn’t understand why she was so keen on staring at the carpeted seat in front of her. I told her that she should look out, acknowledge the voyage, savor the commute. But she wouldn’t. I implored her to at least admire the skeletal trees basking in the stingy clarity of the mid autumn sunshine. It was jarring but completely objective. This is what autumn really looks like. She should take lessons from it.

            Froid was not going to look without a fight though. I put her phone in her left pocket, the one nearest to the window. She took it out, checked the time, and put it back in her right. I felt somewhat helpless, but what can you do when she has such a mind of her own?

            Callahan Grossherz texted her at that moment. He was at least cooperative. I gently passed the parting image of her into his head. He saw her deep-set eyes, her diminishing frame, her fingernails dark and stubby and tinted with ash. She was beautiful in her own catastrophic way, and he would have loved to show her how she could be beautiful if only she could feel it in herself. She had left only a few hours before but he already missed her. She hadn’t even thought of him. She was thinking about the corrugated carpet, the coolness of the windowpane on her forehead, the sweetness of her shoes caressing the gray floors.

            Ambrosia stared idly at her phone, not so much reading Callahan’s text but rather admiring how the colors blurred if she let herself go cross-eyed. The orange and yellow, the black text turning into soft dots on the background. It was like a fall day and she knew it. And she let me know that she knew it. She would look out the window once, but not any more.

            She closed her eyes to take a nap. The commute was tiring in of itself, and there was little she wanted to do more than stand up and stretch her bony shoulders and wiry arms.

            At first she was really set on falling asleep. Her eyes felt soft as she was on the verge of a dreamless slumber, a quiet epoch nestled in the back left corner of the bus.

            I frowned. This would not make for a good story, and I was still annoyed at her unwillingness to look out at the scenery, especially when I had made it so enticing and symbolic of her last couple years of life.

            Samuel Tyler Coldridge, I whispered. She tensed at the first syllable.

           

            Quentin the publisher was unhappily occupied with the random charcoal scribbles that Samuel Tyler Coldridge called his poetry. Quentin the publisher could not physically touch the paper that Samuel wrote on because the charcoal would smudge and Samuel’s didactic, God-sent diction would be lost and the human race would lose the most imaginative and progressive linguistic marvel it had ever seen. Quentin the publisher was thus left to indignantly don latex gloves and gently pinch the corners of each sheet with an index finger and thumb. Quentin the publisher.

Many people called Samuel’s poetry poetry. In fact, they even called it good poetry. However, there were only two people in the world that saw Samuel for what he really was: myself, as his older brother, and of course Samuel.

            I decided to send him a text, though I know the bastard never checks his phone. I know “Luke Coldridge” was supposed to flash on the screen and I know he purposely took out his battery because he knew I would bother him. I don’t blame him. I actually do like my brother’s work, but I feel like I have to. I also understand that he is one of the only poets I know that is so unafraid of criticism that the critics are actually afraid of him.

            Quentin the publisher gently set the manuscripts down onto Samuel’s desk in his office in the English department of Murkvein College.  Samuel’s success had so skyrocketed so quickly and dramatically that he was quickly elevated from merely esteemed progeny to full-fledged resident poet laureate of the college. The English department fought bitterly to assure his place in their department, as if they had cultivated this genius by their own pretension.

            Quentin the publisher reshuffled the papers on the desk and reorganized the poetry pamphlets on the desk. Samuel had been already published in four poetry journals in the past year, each one praising a different poem and noting them as editor’s choice or best of the year, doling accolades out to him as if the very concept of praise was a necessity to his survival.

Samuel never read poetry journals or even knew that he was published in them. All he did was give Quentin the publisher poems he wrote each day (four or five on a good one, perhaps only two on a “ponderous” one). Samuel never really cared about showing other people his poetry; Quentin the publisher had to coax him to even publish. It was finally a year ago when he relented and let Quentin the publisher take his poems with him. Quentin the publisher presented them as a breakthrough in western literature as he knew it. Samuel only fed on his own intrinsic pride.

Quentin the publisher amassed publications for Samuel to contemplate submitting poems to, and Samuel more often than not would shred them, wet them, and reuse the pulp as paper for him to write his poems on. Samuel made all of the paper he wrote on and only used charcoal to write with. He did not like pens because he could not feel the ink that he would transmit onto his handmade paper, and he did not care for pencils because the concept of erasing his own beloved words sickened him.

Aside from the neat stack of journals, Samuel’s office would have been a mess, had there been anything else in there. Whereas all the other offices sported framed diplomas, writing samples that had been carefully edited and reedited before finally receiving publication, and fake plants or real wood desks or authentic replicas of busts of favorite writers, Samuel’s office had nothing. He didn’t need anything else aside from a desk and paper for him to take home and make into other paper.

I remember the travesty that is Samuel’s apartment. After he published I scolded him for not using the payments towards new clothes or bed sheets or anything that wasn’t milk, bread, bok choy, or spam. Samuel was always a picky eater. He only ate because he had to, and he never enjoyed anything he ate, as if food itself was not good enough for him. When I was in my first year of residence, I was tempted by my lab assistants to bring my fourteen-year-old brother in for a physical, curious about how malnourished he could possibly be. I of course knew Samuel well enough to decline. My brother is more malnourished in his soul than in his body.

I have met Quentin the publisher once. He couldn’t believe we were related. I told him I looked forward to learning more about him and had him drop a sheet of Samuel’s poetry on the stairs after I had headed home. I may not hold a sway over Samuel quite like I have Quentin the publisher, but I knew that after this ordeal Quentin the publisher would not have a Prius sitting pristinely and uncharred in the parking lot. I know he had paid a lot for that car, but I was not disinclined to testing the limitations of my little brother’s patience. I may not hold sway over him directly, but it’s always nice to alter those around him.

Callahan Grossherz texted Froid again. I had replaced her phone in her left pocket, and she knew this. She ignored the incessant buzzing as she had ignored the scenery. It was dusk now, and there was very little to see outside. Her nap had been futile after I had mentioned Samuel’s name, and all she could think about was obsolete happiness like lilies, a dead turtle, her smudged name in charcoal, the one moment of humanity she saw in Samuel’s eyes. It weakened her resolve. She was going to change her route, and I knew it. She would not be going home to Maine as planned.

She would be coming straight to me.

Callahan Grossherz missed the ten minutes he had spent with Froid that afternoon. He caressed his phone as if it were her, longing for her to respond or acknowledge him in any way. She had come to pack some of her things before transferring schools. I had coerced her subconscious into picking a school so far away from Massachussets and Murkvein that she would never dream of seeing Samuel or Callahan ever again. Her life at the University of Washington would be a haven for her that I created. Her future would be this: a major in physics instead of English to distance herself so dramatically from what causes her pain, the comforts of my penthouse downtown instead of sleeping on Samuel’s naked mattress in a Spartan dorm room, the security that Samuel could and would never come anywhere near me.

I feel bad for Callahan. He had set aside his entire afternoon to spend with her, to heal her, to give her food and gently hide her cigarettes, but she wouldn’t have it. I can’t blame myself in the matter; I had given him many suggestions, which he had all followed diligently, even though he doesn’t know who I am. I would say he is my favorite character in all of this. He’s kindhearted and listens to me and allows me to create what I want. The other two are obstacles, though Samuel is far worse. I blame Froid for Callahan’s unhappiness. I blame Samuel for hers. Samuel doesn’t have unhappiness. He has nothing but poetry.

Callahan is the only person that calls Froid “Ambrosia.” I don't even call her that, though I’d love to. He loves how her name flows through his thoughts; he loves the delicate features of the sounds. He loves it because it is everything she is and is not at the same time.

I made a suggestion to Callahan: write a poem, right then. A poem about her while she was still somewhat alive in the present.

This was when Callahan slowly lifted himself off of his floor. He dropped his phone under his bed, and I helped the phone slide deeper under. No need for Froid to interrupt his writing.

Callahan sat down at his desk and let his emotions flow. I tried not to laugh. Callahan is not a reputable poet. He’s a jock that has a strange sensitivity to language and wants to recreate the passion he feels when he reads beauty. To me this is all comic relief.

Ambrosia, your name is soft

Like the rain in Spain.

You smell like a Yankee candle in November

Not because you smoke

But because you’re sweet even if you don’t know it.

And I wish you wouldn’t cough

Because of your smoking. Which is bad for you.

If you get pneumonia I will die with you

Not because I smoke too

But because I love you too much.

I wish God could make you love me

(I snorted at that line and Callahan looked outside his window sharply.)

Because if you ever smiled he would see

How precious you are. Though not as much as I do.

Callahan took one look at his painstaking creation and frowned. He felt like he could do better, especially with all of the Keats and Milton and Dickinson that he read before college. He even wrote it with a fountain pen in a notebook, his chubby fingers ten sausage-like obstacles to a clean, smudge-free creation.

Maybe you’re not cut out for this, I whispered to him, hoping for a nod and a sincere endeavor to go outside and forget all of this. But to my surprise he hit himself on the head with his fist and turned over the paper, set on starting a new draft of a terrible poem that I had willed him to write.

It is late in the afternoon here in Seattle, and I begin to pack up my things and begin my commute home. I’m not completely sure what will become of Callahan’s disastrous hilarity, or if Froid will really take a nap, or if Quentin the publisher will have his new Prius set on fire like the old one. I can only blame one thing for this uncertainty. And I have no idea what he’s up to right now, be it sleeping on his bare mattress or grinding up paper into pulp, or eating uncooked, unwashed bok choy surrounded by nothing but his art.

I arrive home to my empty apartment. It won’t be empty like this for long, thank goodness. I take out some guava juice from the fridge and drink it. Some of it misses my mouth and trickles down my chin, bright orange like blood mixed with brain that I have seen so much of in the ER. It’s the color of people whose mind rejects them. The color of self-deceit and smarmy living and defective master hardware. It’s nice to know that in the wake of God so failing to make people’s brains work that I’m charged to fix it.

The guava juice slips down my neck and down my chest under my shirt. I keep drinking, thirsty and exhausted from today. It’s tiring to save people from their own brains.

Samuel’s face jumps into my head and I nearly drop my glass. I aspirate some guava juice and it sputters out everywhere on the kitchen floor, on my shirt, dribbling down my chin from my mouth. I’m drenched in guava juice.

Unpublisher material, Copyright 2012 Cali Digre
 

NaNoWriMo

You know how I thought I was going to post more but didn't? Yeah... haven't done that before, now have I.

Here's the super super abridged version of a long story: I've been home since the beginning of July. I had a really rough go at school last year and needed some time to rest and recover. Since then I've been feeling a lot better. Unfortunately, things that have not happened much include, but are not limited to: poetry, prose, and basically anything creative.

Until now. Inspired by a few friends who did it last year, I'm doing National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo for short (don't ask me how to pronounce that third syllabe; the linguistic marvel that is this acronym goes beyond my phonetic understanding). I'm a little behind because I started about four days late, but I've gotten so into it that I'll be back on track in a matter of days. I'm SUPER EXCITED, YO.

Anyways, here's a link to my profile.
http://nanowrimo.org/en/participants/marlie-cage/novels/the-poetry-space

Feel free to follow me if you're planning on doing it. I'm also probably going to post chapters/ excerpts up here, so look for frequent updates! I SWEAR I'll get to writing poetry again. I half-wrote a poem like a month and a half ago and it's been just sitting on a notepad being like WTF U DOING BRO. It's very stressful.

Bottom line, it feels great to be writing again. I'm so proud of myself for undertaking this project. And for those who have supported me throughout the years, thank you. Behind every writer is a support, be it a person or a handle of scotch. In my case it's people, thank God. Scotch isn't all that fun to talk to.

-CD

Parables of Dawn Part III

I'M ALIVE!!!!!!!!!

I feel like I've forgotten how to write, but this is my first poem in like... Three and a half months? How embarrassing.

This is a poem I wrote last night at like 4 in the morning. I know I'm a little rusty, but I'm really hoping that this HUGE break is exactly what I needed and that I can start posting regularly again.

So, without further ado...


Parables of Dawn Part III

A needle
Hangs on the edge
Of darkness
In the unstitching of the night
The hot blue waits
On the heavy clouds
And they fan
Curdling away
The dim light fizzes
Between the spaces
And the parted
Orange invasion
Clouds peel away like grafts
And the injured
Night slips under a tree