Working Title

Starting today, September 15, 2010, I am posting a short story I have been writing. For now it's short. For now, it's fictional. I decided to make this separate blog, away from http://myblogcanbeatupyourblog.blogspot.com/ , to feature my fictional compositions. I hope you like my stuff. Feel free to comment, criticize, or ridicule. Here's the first "page or so":



Unusually cold in the house, he felt  uncomfortable as he walked into the living room. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and felt the bumps on his arm rise. She appeared at the top, more beautiful than he had ever seen. As she began to descend, the black heels she would probably never wear again, stumbled on each stair edge. Her reddish streaked, blonde hair caresses her tan shoulders as she carefully steps. He reached out to hug and kiss her. "Don't touch me, ok," she barked. "My makeup is like, you know, like perfect right now. How's my hair? It sucks, or not, or whatever?" he shrugs at his teenaged daughter's incouciance for affection at this tender moment; for him. "You look stunning, sweetheart. Absolutely stunning in every way", he honestly replies. His wife Suzann, clicks a digital camera several times. His daughter isn't impressed. "Really, mom? There's plenty of time for that, ok." The two of them bicker and walk together over the the kitchen foyer. A tear forms in the side of each of his eyes. A month ago, he turned 40 years old. Now, his 14 year old daughter, Delia is headed to her first school dance. His family is happy and together. That, "how did I get here?" feeling overwhelms him. The how he got here is a hard story to believe. He begins to think about himself at Delia's age. He hopes she doesn't have the same story.

Small and immature for his age, he had no place on a football field. He barely weighed 130 pounds. He had to argue to pass for 5'3". The haranguing started early in practice. "Get up, get your little girly butt back to the huddle or get the hell off my field. Do you understand me, peanut?" Coach Mackey screamed. He wanted to tell his about the bruises on his legs, the pain in his back, and the lightheadedness probably due to concussion but instead he limped back to the offensive huddle. He listens to the play call, he breaks the huddle with a weak clap, and puts his right hand in the dirt to assume a three point stance. On the word "hut" he springs forward into a boy seven inches taller and 60 pounds heavier, taking a forearm in the chin. His opponent beats him and makes a tackle of his teammate. Not good. Coach Mackey is too mad to yell. The other coach, a more cerebral, almost professorial type, approaches. Coach Kenney pulls him away from the other players and takes the helmet off the smallish head. A concerned but disappointed Coach puts his arms across his tiny running back's shoulders. "Listen, kiddo, I know you love this sport. So do I. My love for this thing is making me tell you to give it up. You don't have what it takes. This is a big boy game. If you're lucky, you'll top out at five seven, maybe 150 pounds. I read your language arts homework today in class. You're a writer. Do that. Cause, son, you ain't a football player." Dejected, shocked, hurt, he looks at his Coach and says, without thinking, "sir, I'm both. Are you cutting me?" the man answers "No, son. I can't afford to cut you. This is 9th grade football and you actually give a crap. I just wish you'd grow a body to match your stupid heart." For months, that was the nicest thing anyone said to him.

"Hey baby, you ok." Suzann asks. Realizing minutes had gone by, he coyly responds "yeah Delia just brought back some memories. I guess I need to go pick up that boy, huh?" Suzann corrects him, "Honey, his name is Kyle and he's taking your daughter to homecoming. Deal with that, please. After you drop them off get your gym workout in, mom is having our other two daughters spend the night and I want to watch a weepy girl movie on the DVR." He laughs and joins the rest of the family outside for pictures.

The only think he likes about the treadmill is it's solitude. As he starts the run, he puts his ipod ear phones in and goes into another dimension. A song comes on and it starts his memory again....The stench of cigarette smoke hits him sharply as he opens the heavy, graffitied door of the pub. The tattooed, unwashed doorman doesn't bother asking for his ID. He walks briskly past the restaurant tables and bar, saying hello to a few people, then muscling his way through the thick door to the basement. He could feel the vibrations of the music. As he opened the door to the stage, the thunderous chords of Communication Breakdown jars his senses. He grins briefly. The only escape from his catastrophic day is his friend's cover band rehearsing,; bravely taking on Led Zepplin. The song ends and the lead singer, a curly haired brunette, puts down her guitar and tells her bandmates to take a break. She smiles and see him through the haze. They hug and sit down at the bar. "You guys sound great Marly. Glad I stopped by", he tells her. "Thanks. I'm glad you came. Thanks for listening to me bitch last night. I kind of dumped on you," she orders two beers and starts talking about her situation with her girlfriend. Several minutes go by and she finally notices that he's barely cracked a smile or a wise crack. "Hey you, what's going on. I'm being such a needy jerk. Looks like you need some rocker therapy," she offers. He stammers then comes out with it, "eh I'm single again. When I'm without my daughter it's just me, music, and your annoying phone calls." he tries to joke. He and Marley had been friends for a couple of years. They shared their love of rock music, tattoos, and straight forward speech. She didn't miss a beat in telling him what he needed, "dude, stop looking for it. You're only two years years removed from a horrific divorce. You have the same taste in chicks, I do. Which is bad. Whether she's out there is pointless. Be happy with yourself. You know, I have a friend," He counters "shut up and get away from me. I'd rather you play Journey covers than try to set me up. She'd end up being gay or crazy or both." She laughs hard, realizing she needs to get back to rehearsal, she reaches into her torn jeans and takes out her cell phone. She thumbs through her contacts, and finds the number. She texts the number to his phone, leans over, hugs him, and says "i have to go rock. You coming to the show next week?" He shoots back "yeah, I'll try to be there.". Marley turns back towards him, and says "killer, we both need new ink, we'll go get some afterwards." Not knowing whether to be scared or excited, he takes a drink of his beer and escapes into her band's riffs.