Okay, I'm going to just post this and then get back to work on the other pending projects, and...well, work.
The Morrow Stone (paperback)
The Morrow Stone (Kindle version)
Obsidian Bridges (2009 re-release)
Broadening the distribution of the paperback, but also shifting my focus now back to a Time Travel anthology and book 2.
Have begun discussions with a few other local entrepreneurs on the merits of forming an actual business partnership for local publishing. Yikers.
Dec 14, 2009
Dec 6, 2009
It's Official!
"The Morrow Stone" is now available for purchase, through Amazon.com and Createspace.com. It's available in Hard Copy and Kindle format.
The re-release of "Obsidian Bridges", with new songs, will be available soon.
The re-release of "Obsidian Bridges", with new songs, will be available soon.
Nov 9, 2009
Past and Future Presence (Presents?)
I might have picked a bad year to jump into another NaNoWriMo - - apparently, at least, the universe has other plans. There are several lessons it seems I need to learn - mostly about Desire, Belief, and Surrendering to the Will of the Wild or something. I'm still learning the questions to these many mysteries that are now waking me up at night; still far from having the answers they allude to.
The quest that presses me forward into publishing has brought some remarkable new friendships into my life, all of whom challenge me in new and deliciously brutal ways. I know it's brutal because I find myself half-longing for the darkness and relative seclusion I once favored. Or perhaps "favored" isn't the right word. I'd come to a point, intellectually and spiritually, where I felt I no longer lacked for dramatic surges in personal growth.
I should have known that was an illusion. Yes, I do get that.
The process of this latest book is forcing me to confront long-concealed self-recriminations, thoughts on my own value (as a person, writing or otherwise) in addition to simply questioning my own skill as a writer. One question I posited this weekend was: why do I write YA Fiction? Is that how I see myself as a writer, or a thinker, or is it just the genre I'm most comfortable in?
Comfort is a thing against which I have to remain on constant vigil - I don't want to become artistically or creatively lazy. I just refuse to take the process for granted.
I suppose this process wouldn't even be a blip on my blogging radar if it didn't seem to be mirrored in my personal foundation of belief and faith. I feel like I'm peeling back the foundation I laid down 15 years ago, when I first began scraping myself out of my old paradyme. and I knew the temporary foundation of faith was only that - temporary. But I appear to have laid a good deal atop it. And now I need to start resolving that ghost of religion past, before I get one of those "tonight you'll be visited by three spirits" conversations.
You know, with all this in mind, maybe it's a good thing I'm only writing YA fiction. Clearly, the adult resolutions are still a little ways out yet. I followed up on a recent suggestion by reading up on some of the work by Bill Plotkin in talking about the nature of the human soul, and the nature of... well, nature. Today, I sit at work (the one which pays me) in a vest and tie and recognize that I'm far from the wild man that wants to throw it all off and dance and sing and howl.
For now, though: stories about young children saving the world. Tomorrow, I'll work on the finer points of the soul. I've already got a couple books addressing that, I'm just not yet ready to write them.
Enough for now. Write on, space cowboy.
The quest that presses me forward into publishing has brought some remarkable new friendships into my life, all of whom challenge me in new and deliciously brutal ways. I know it's brutal because I find myself half-longing for the darkness and relative seclusion I once favored. Or perhaps "favored" isn't the right word. I'd come to a point, intellectually and spiritually, where I felt I no longer lacked for dramatic surges in personal growth.
I should have known that was an illusion. Yes, I do get that.
The process of this latest book is forcing me to confront long-concealed self-recriminations, thoughts on my own value (as a person, writing or otherwise) in addition to simply questioning my own skill as a writer. One question I posited this weekend was: why do I write YA Fiction? Is that how I see myself as a writer, or a thinker, or is it just the genre I'm most comfortable in?
Comfort is a thing against which I have to remain on constant vigil - I don't want to become artistically or creatively lazy. I just refuse to take the process for granted.
I suppose this process wouldn't even be a blip on my blogging radar if it didn't seem to be mirrored in my personal foundation of belief and faith. I feel like I'm peeling back the foundation I laid down 15 years ago, when I first began scraping myself out of my old paradyme. and I knew the temporary foundation of faith was only that - temporary. But I appear to have laid a good deal atop it. And now I need to start resolving that ghost of religion past, before I get one of those "tonight you'll be visited by three spirits" conversations.
You know, with all this in mind, maybe it's a good thing I'm only writing YA fiction. Clearly, the adult resolutions are still a little ways out yet. I followed up on a recent suggestion by reading up on some of the work by Bill Plotkin in talking about the nature of the human soul, and the nature of... well, nature. Today, I sit at work (the one which pays me) in a vest and tie and recognize that I'm far from the wild man that wants to throw it all off and dance and sing and howl.
For now, though: stories about young children saving the world. Tomorrow, I'll work on the finer points of the soul. I've already got a couple books addressing that, I'm just not yet ready to write them.
Enough for now. Write on, space cowboy.
Nov 5, 2009
Painful and Awkward Realizations
I once considered myself a would-be professional musician. I invested a good deal of time and energy into it, put myself out there in bands, solo work, studio sessions, live shows, radio shows.... etc. Have reels of studio recordings, demo recordings and a CD to show for it.
In the end - when life showed me the brutally explicit future my life as such held in store, I chose to step off that path.
Life without a creative outlet was as close to spiritual death as I could have imagined, but I rediscovered the joy of writing - of telling stories, crafting modern re-envisionings of mythologies ancient and contemporary. I'm in the middle of a second of three novels, YA SciFi/Fantasy genre, and I only just now forced myself - or allowed life to force me, more accurately - to see a brutal truth.
These books are not the books I have yet to NEED to write. These are fun books, stories, fantasies and pretends. But there are tales that are more primal to my consciousness, and I'm nowhere near ready to expose those deeper thoughts. The truer fears and founding principles that power me - or restrain me - still exist well out of reach from the fictional yarns I'm weaving.
The question I must ask myself, however, is this:
Can I survive as an author if I do not confront these darkest daemons from my core? Or will they one day claw their way unbidden to my surface? This is not the moment I expected to ask these questions. But, then, does any one of us make an appointment with their inner demons, in an effort to seek a confrontation of convenience?
The rest of this book should prove interesting.
In the end - when life showed me the brutally explicit future my life as such held in store, I chose to step off that path.
Life without a creative outlet was as close to spiritual death as I could have imagined, but I rediscovered the joy of writing - of telling stories, crafting modern re-envisionings of mythologies ancient and contemporary. I'm in the middle of a second of three novels, YA SciFi/Fantasy genre, and I only just now forced myself - or allowed life to force me, more accurately - to see a brutal truth.
These books are not the books I have yet to NEED to write. These are fun books, stories, fantasies and pretends. But there are tales that are more primal to my consciousness, and I'm nowhere near ready to expose those deeper thoughts. The truer fears and founding principles that power me - or restrain me - still exist well out of reach from the fictional yarns I'm weaving.
The question I must ask myself, however, is this:
Can I survive as an author if I do not confront these darkest daemons from my core? Or will they one day claw their way unbidden to my surface? This is not the moment I expected to ask these questions. But, then, does any one of us make an appointment with their inner demons, in an effort to seek a confrontation of convenience?
The rest of this book should prove interesting.
Oct 20, 2009
exerpt from "The Morrow Stone"
Still two streets from the fields, Rom knew her sense was right – the workers were running past her in a chaotic stream, more than one bloodied and obviously injured. After being run into for the third time, she took a deep breath and jumped up and onto the nearest rooftop. From there, she took another relatively small jump and landed just near the edge of the final building towards the fields.
A small gathering of workers seemed focused on something not too far from the city itself – they were clustered in a loose circle, and something large and blue moved quickly among them. Screams and calls for help made their way to her ears. She tapped the bracelet and summoned her shepherd’s crook.
“Hold on tight, this is a long jump,” she said. Mulligan complied.
She kicked off, and the winds rustled through the folds and pleated gathers of the dress – only the sound of the fabric and the wind whistling past them could be heard until she landed, just beyond the men.
“Run!” she yelled to them. “Go on, I’ll take care of this!”
A few of the men were reluctant to leave this young white-haired girl – particularly, the ones who did not see her just leap more than a hundred feet across the sky – but enough did so to give her a clear view of the indigo-furred creature.
It was taller than her at its shoulders, with a black mane and a single horn extending upwards from the tip of his nose. It had the look of a large dog, but with pointed ears and enormous bird’s wings protruding from its back. Its tail was long and flicking about, the end barbed with what looked to be a large assortment of quills.
“A mundaline,” Mulligan whispered. “They’re… really tough,” he said, falling substantially short of the mark for his efforts at nonchalance, but overcompensating as he continued, “but I’m sure you’ll best him.”
“Thanks,” she said dryly. “I feel much better now.”
She slapped the staff into the palm of her hand. “Hey, you! Big blue dog-cat-thing!”
It fixed his attention on her and she began to back away slowly, drawing it away from the group of farmers. They opened the circle into a large curving line, standing as if to defend the city against this wild beast.
“Come on, you whatever you are! Come on and fight me!”
“You’re doing great, Rom, he’s definitely doing exactly what you’re telling him to do.”
“Hush, Mully,” she hissed.
“Do you have a plan for this?” he asked nervously.
“A plan for what?” She twirled the staff around a few times to keep its attention on her – the whistling sound created as the curved top cut through the air seemed to work.
His whisper increased in intensity. “What do you mean, a plan for what?”
She sighed. “You need to figure something out about me, Mully.”
“What’s that?”
She stopped moving backwards, and placed one foot back behind her, turning partially away from the creature and holding her staff in one hand, the top pointed low towards the ground. The mundaline paused, lowering itself towards the ground.
“I never plan things out.”
A small gathering of workers seemed focused on something not too far from the city itself – they were clustered in a loose circle, and something large and blue moved quickly among them. Screams and calls for help made their way to her ears. She tapped the bracelet and summoned her shepherd’s crook.
“Hold on tight, this is a long jump,” she said. Mulligan complied.
She kicked off, and the winds rustled through the folds and pleated gathers of the dress – only the sound of the fabric and the wind whistling past them could be heard until she landed, just beyond the men.
“Run!” she yelled to them. “Go on, I’ll take care of this!”
A few of the men were reluctant to leave this young white-haired girl – particularly, the ones who did not see her just leap more than a hundred feet across the sky – but enough did so to give her a clear view of the indigo-furred creature.
It was taller than her at its shoulders, with a black mane and a single horn extending upwards from the tip of his nose. It had the look of a large dog, but with pointed ears and enormous bird’s wings protruding from its back. Its tail was long and flicking about, the end barbed with what looked to be a large assortment of quills.
“A mundaline,” Mulligan whispered. “They’re… really tough,” he said, falling substantially short of the mark for his efforts at nonchalance, but overcompensating as he continued, “but I’m sure you’ll best him.”
“Thanks,” she said dryly. “I feel much better now.”
She slapped the staff into the palm of her hand. “Hey, you! Big blue dog-cat-thing!”
It fixed his attention on her and she began to back away slowly, drawing it away from the group of farmers. They opened the circle into a large curving line, standing as if to defend the city against this wild beast.
“Come on, you whatever you are! Come on and fight me!”
“You’re doing great, Rom, he’s definitely doing exactly what you’re telling him to do.”
“Hush, Mully,” she hissed.
“Do you have a plan for this?” he asked nervously.
“A plan for what?” She twirled the staff around a few times to keep its attention on her – the whistling sound created as the curved top cut through the air seemed to work.
His whisper increased in intensity. “What do you mean, a plan for what?”
She sighed. “You need to figure something out about me, Mully.”
“What’s that?”
She stopped moving backwards, and placed one foot back behind her, turning partially away from the creature and holding her staff in one hand, the top pointed low towards the ground. The mundaline paused, lowering itself towards the ground.
“I never plan things out.”
Aug 21, 2009
I am David's White Blood Cell
I am David’s white blood cell. Just one of a million or so – probably more, if you believe the propaganda – little white blood cells just like me, doing our job. No need to thank me. Though, just between you and me, a little gratitude wouldn’t be a bad thing. Sure, it’s a thankless enough job, running around the veins and arteries and capillaries of this guy day after day, night after night. But I suppose you could say, just like any job, that it has its own rewards.
Long as I can remember, this has been me: microscopic little entity, floating among a stream of other white and red cells, just patching things up as we see them. Been doing this since the beginning, and it’s good enough work, I suppose. Though, originally I really wanted to be one of those guys up in the optic nerve. Now THERE’S a job with a view.
Let me tell you – since I have your attention – about my day. I don’t really sleep – we don’t need to – but I do like to kind of keep track of the days and nights. See, during the night, David’s pretty boring. Not a lot of activity in here, and it gets pretty quiet – but it’s peaceful and means we usually don’t get called up to head here or there, lay some smack down on foreign intruders or whatnot. Some of the bits of the innards get a bit creepy – lots of weird sounds that no one can explain, long miles of, really, nothing to do. You get that much time with nothing to keep you company, you start to really think about stuff. So I do a lot of pretending: I play like I’m a virus and beat up on some of the new Reds - that always screws with the other whiteys, who really don’t know what to make of that. Or I head down to the stomach and count the bubbles. David’s stomach has a lot of bubbles. It’s almost hypnotic, really, all that acid. Makes me wish I could eat an Oreo.
Then David wakes up and it’s back to work. My favorite days are when I get to go down the arms. David has a pretty low-impact job, so really I just watch as he types on his computer – the fingers all move in this weird little dance of language, and when he gets into a groove, that place really gets jumping. The places I don’t like? The ass, as you might expect, is pretty bad – but I haven’t been back there since I was on a written warning from the boss for trying to fake my timecard. I don’t like heading up to the brain, either. Too much electricity from all those neurons, it screws with my iPod. Last time I was up there, it erased my entire Nine Inch Nails playlist. So now when I get called up there, I just phone it in and hang out around David’s thyroid with some enzymes I met last year at a rave in David’s liver. Those girls really know how to party, man.
Hmmm – hold on a second, I need to check something out. Ah, never mind, just a shadow. Today, they’ve sent me down to check on the lungs for a bit, just kind of an employee exchange program they’ve been initiating lately. There were a lot of cut backs last year when David had some work done on his right knee, and everyone’s been really nervous. Turns out they brought in some outside help – cheaper, more affordable labor – but I personally believe that once you start outsourcing, it’s just a matter of time before they outsource everyone. Much as I might dislike my job, it’s the only one I got, and I’m in no hurry to try and spruce up my resume.
Buddy of mine found out that the whole outsourcing plan works both ways – he found an ad for donations, and made his way down to the testes. Never heard from him again. I hope he’s okay. Me, I don’t care for the kind of riff-raff you generally find down there. Maybe when I was younger, sure, but I’m no spring chicken any more – I get enough excitement from surfing the aorta. Honestly, that whole region is trouble, if you ask me. Any time you get too close to the exits, you’re running a pretty big risk of unemployment.
The lungs are a pretty fascinating place. I don’t really understand how this whole “oxygen transfer” thing works, but they come in cold and go out hot, and it seems to work out nicely for them in the long run. It’s pretty odd, really. I can’t imagine being a Red. “Red”. Heh. As if it’s all so easily defined. But anyway, they have such a simple life – from my elevated perspective, right? At least as a white, we’ve got some choice, some sense of variety to our menial existence. Not like the reds. Pick this up. Take it there. Drop it off. Come back to the lungs. Pick up another one. Blah blah blah blah. God, I’d have to shoot myself if that was my job. Ooh. Speaking of my job, I need to be heading back to the chambers again. Come on, we can talk on the way.
This job’s really not too hard. It’s just keeping an eye out for trouble, most of the time, calling for a few special forces teams to show up and take care of any undesirables, or to help patch up the occasional leak. Brain gets wind of an ache or twinge or something, they tell us to go check it out, make sure it’s all on the up and up. We don’t have to make the Big Decisions; we just follow orders, write up the reports, and let folks know if things need to be given more attention. Sometimes, we have to hang out on a crime scene, clean things up or whatever, but we usually just boss the little Reds around and make them do it. No, don’t make that face. It’s totally fine, they like to help.
Okay, hold on, we’re hitting the heart now, it’s my favorite part of my day. It’s all in the timing. Just – yeah, lift your feet just like that, keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times - - and YEAH! God, what a rush. I love that place.
Hmm. Okay, see, here’s what I was talking about. A little spot of concern down nearDavid’s left kidney. It’s probably nothing. He had an infection there a couple of years back, and now whenever it’s about to rain, everyone gets all in a huff. A bunch of Nervous Nellies, if you ask me. Now, that over there is the digestive system – that big bloaty part is David’s stomach, like I told you about earlier. It may not look like much from the outside, but if we had time, I’d take you by there for the full effect. I heard someone say earlier that David was thinking about having sushi for lunch. Sushi is the best, I’m not even joking. If this turns out to be a false alarm, I’ll try to swing us back by.
All right, now this is exactly what I figured. See? That whole area ahead of us? That’s where the so-called “Pain Report” is coming from. And….nothing. Not a goddamned thing. Kidney’s fine, no unusual lumps or shapes, no leaks, no breaks. Just business as usual David’s Kidney. After a while, I just don’t even want to show up any more. It’s been nothing but false alarm after false alarm the past few months anyway. A guy never gets a chance to kick his feet up, take a breath, throw back a beer or whatever. And that’s no way to run a body, if you ask me.
We’re going to have to swing the full loop around, now that we’re down here, I might as well show you the sights. That bit over there is the whole “exit” area I was talking about. Nothing but piss, shit and the occasional ejaculation: nothing to write home about. And we’re gonna hang a right at the femoral artery. About this time of day, it’s just bumper to bumper there, and no one ever signals. It’s just an excuse for a hemorrhage, waiting to happen. Mark my words, there’s trouble there.
Now, that’s weird. That, over there – that finger-looking bit of nonsense? That’s David’s appendix. I heard from a guy who said he had to deliver a couple skanky endorphins there a year or so ago, said they’re some top-secret shit that goes down in there. No one ever likes to talk about it, it’s all pretty hush-hush. A couple years back, I might’ve hopped the fence and taken a look about, but, you know, I got myself to think of; a guy can’t take that sort of risk anymore, if you catch my meaning. Anyway, maybe it’s just the beer talking, but I don’t remember it looking quite that…big. Eh. It’s probably nothing. Besides, they don’t pay me to be proactive, that’s a job for David’s Brain.
Moving on, we’re making good time, so let’s head over to the stomach a bit. You hear that – that low rumble? That means the show’s starting. We’re pretty far away from David’s esophagus, but that’s the best view to check out the inbound arrivals. Some Whites buck for that kind of job – up in David’s head. They like to check everything out as it comes in – air, liquids, food, whatever comes down the pipe. I got offered a job up in Customs, but I’m not that ambitious. I prefer to just kind of handle stuff as it happens. Guy can work every day of his life and still not get anywhere, no sense in killing yourself just to try and get a medal pinned on your chest. “Most heroes are awarded posthumously”, as they say.
Geez, there’s a lot of traffic around here, all of a sudden. Seems like everyone’s always in a hurry these days. See that group over there, the bunch of Whites? You can see it in their eyes, the clenching of their jaws – they’re on the job. Got a bunch of their pet platelets along with them, too. I won’t bother asking them what’s up, they’re too busy to sit and chat. Kids. Full of dreams and optimism. Ready to change the world, one little symptom at a time.
Good way to get turned into a scab at an early age, that’s what I say. See? Take a look at those bubbles. That’s a good sight. Mmm… baked salmon rolls. David has good taste.
Damn it. Just when it was getting good. That’s a message from upstairs. Looks like they’re not ready to call that kidney pain a wash just yet, and they want me to go back and check it out again. No, don’t get up just yet. I’m on my lunch break. The kidney’ll still be there after David finishes his food, and we’ll go back for a closer look then. Besides, there’s a million other White Blood Cells, let one of them be the hero today. I’m no hero.
I’m just David’s White Blood Cell.
by Ren Cummins
Long as I can remember, this has been me: microscopic little entity, floating among a stream of other white and red cells, just patching things up as we see them. Been doing this since the beginning, and it’s good enough work, I suppose. Though, originally I really wanted to be one of those guys up in the optic nerve. Now THERE’S a job with a view.
Let me tell you – since I have your attention – about my day. I don’t really sleep – we don’t need to – but I do like to kind of keep track of the days and nights. See, during the night, David’s pretty boring. Not a lot of activity in here, and it gets pretty quiet – but it’s peaceful and means we usually don’t get called up to head here or there, lay some smack down on foreign intruders or whatnot. Some of the bits of the innards get a bit creepy – lots of weird sounds that no one can explain, long miles of, really, nothing to do. You get that much time with nothing to keep you company, you start to really think about stuff. So I do a lot of pretending: I play like I’m a virus and beat up on some of the new Reds - that always screws with the other whiteys, who really don’t know what to make of that. Or I head down to the stomach and count the bubbles. David’s stomach has a lot of bubbles. It’s almost hypnotic, really, all that acid. Makes me wish I could eat an Oreo.
Then David wakes up and it’s back to work. My favorite days are when I get to go down the arms. David has a pretty low-impact job, so really I just watch as he types on his computer – the fingers all move in this weird little dance of language, and when he gets into a groove, that place really gets jumping. The places I don’t like? The ass, as you might expect, is pretty bad – but I haven’t been back there since I was on a written warning from the boss for trying to fake my timecard. I don’t like heading up to the brain, either. Too much electricity from all those neurons, it screws with my iPod. Last time I was up there, it erased my entire Nine Inch Nails playlist. So now when I get called up there, I just phone it in and hang out around David’s thyroid with some enzymes I met last year at a rave in David’s liver. Those girls really know how to party, man.
Hmmm – hold on a second, I need to check something out. Ah, never mind, just a shadow. Today, they’ve sent me down to check on the lungs for a bit, just kind of an employee exchange program they’ve been initiating lately. There were a lot of cut backs last year when David had some work done on his right knee, and everyone’s been really nervous. Turns out they brought in some outside help – cheaper, more affordable labor – but I personally believe that once you start outsourcing, it’s just a matter of time before they outsource everyone. Much as I might dislike my job, it’s the only one I got, and I’m in no hurry to try and spruce up my resume.
Buddy of mine found out that the whole outsourcing plan works both ways – he found an ad for donations, and made his way down to the testes. Never heard from him again. I hope he’s okay. Me, I don’t care for the kind of riff-raff you generally find down there. Maybe when I was younger, sure, but I’m no spring chicken any more – I get enough excitement from surfing the aorta. Honestly, that whole region is trouble, if you ask me. Any time you get too close to the exits, you’re running a pretty big risk of unemployment.
The lungs are a pretty fascinating place. I don’t really understand how this whole “oxygen transfer” thing works, but they come in cold and go out hot, and it seems to work out nicely for them in the long run. It’s pretty odd, really. I can’t imagine being a Red. “Red”. Heh. As if it’s all so easily defined. But anyway, they have such a simple life – from my elevated perspective, right? At least as a white, we’ve got some choice, some sense of variety to our menial existence. Not like the reds. Pick this up. Take it there. Drop it off. Come back to the lungs. Pick up another one. Blah blah blah blah. God, I’d have to shoot myself if that was my job. Ooh. Speaking of my job, I need to be heading back to the chambers again. Come on, we can talk on the way.
This job’s really not too hard. It’s just keeping an eye out for trouble, most of the time, calling for a few special forces teams to show up and take care of any undesirables, or to help patch up the occasional leak. Brain gets wind of an ache or twinge or something, they tell us to go check it out, make sure it’s all on the up and up. We don’t have to make the Big Decisions; we just follow orders, write up the reports, and let folks know if things need to be given more attention. Sometimes, we have to hang out on a crime scene, clean things up or whatever, but we usually just boss the little Reds around and make them do it. No, don’t make that face. It’s totally fine, they like to help.
Okay, hold on, we’re hitting the heart now, it’s my favorite part of my day. It’s all in the timing. Just – yeah, lift your feet just like that, keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times - - and YEAH! God, what a rush. I love that place.
Hmm. Okay, see, here’s what I was talking about. A little spot of concern down nearDavid’s left kidney. It’s probably nothing. He had an infection there a couple of years back, and now whenever it’s about to rain, everyone gets all in a huff. A bunch of Nervous Nellies, if you ask me. Now, that over there is the digestive system – that big bloaty part is David’s stomach, like I told you about earlier. It may not look like much from the outside, but if we had time, I’d take you by there for the full effect. I heard someone say earlier that David was thinking about having sushi for lunch. Sushi is the best, I’m not even joking. If this turns out to be a false alarm, I’ll try to swing us back by.
All right, now this is exactly what I figured. See? That whole area ahead of us? That’s where the so-called “Pain Report” is coming from. And….nothing. Not a goddamned thing. Kidney’s fine, no unusual lumps or shapes, no leaks, no breaks. Just business as usual David’s Kidney. After a while, I just don’t even want to show up any more. It’s been nothing but false alarm after false alarm the past few months anyway. A guy never gets a chance to kick his feet up, take a breath, throw back a beer or whatever. And that’s no way to run a body, if you ask me.
We’re going to have to swing the full loop around, now that we’re down here, I might as well show you the sights. That bit over there is the whole “exit” area I was talking about. Nothing but piss, shit and the occasional ejaculation: nothing to write home about. And we’re gonna hang a right at the femoral artery. About this time of day, it’s just bumper to bumper there, and no one ever signals. It’s just an excuse for a hemorrhage, waiting to happen. Mark my words, there’s trouble there.
Now, that’s weird. That, over there – that finger-looking bit of nonsense? That’s David’s appendix. I heard from a guy who said he had to deliver a couple skanky endorphins there a year or so ago, said they’re some top-secret shit that goes down in there. No one ever likes to talk about it, it’s all pretty hush-hush. A couple years back, I might’ve hopped the fence and taken a look about, but, you know, I got myself to think of; a guy can’t take that sort of risk anymore, if you catch my meaning. Anyway, maybe it’s just the beer talking, but I don’t remember it looking quite that…big. Eh. It’s probably nothing. Besides, they don’t pay me to be proactive, that’s a job for David’s Brain.
Moving on, we’re making good time, so let’s head over to the stomach a bit. You hear that – that low rumble? That means the show’s starting. We’re pretty far away from David’s esophagus, but that’s the best view to check out the inbound arrivals. Some Whites buck for that kind of job – up in David’s head. They like to check everything out as it comes in – air, liquids, food, whatever comes down the pipe. I got offered a job up in Customs, but I’m not that ambitious. I prefer to just kind of handle stuff as it happens. Guy can work every day of his life and still not get anywhere, no sense in killing yourself just to try and get a medal pinned on your chest. “Most heroes are awarded posthumously”, as they say.
Geez, there’s a lot of traffic around here, all of a sudden. Seems like everyone’s always in a hurry these days. See that group over there, the bunch of Whites? You can see it in their eyes, the clenching of their jaws – they’re on the job. Got a bunch of their pet platelets along with them, too. I won’t bother asking them what’s up, they’re too busy to sit and chat. Kids. Full of dreams and optimism. Ready to change the world, one little symptom at a time.
Good way to get turned into a scab at an early age, that’s what I say. See? Take a look at those bubbles. That’s a good sight. Mmm… baked salmon rolls. David has good taste.
Damn it. Just when it was getting good. That’s a message from upstairs. Looks like they’re not ready to call that kidney pain a wash just yet, and they want me to go back and check it out again. No, don’t get up just yet. I’m on my lunch break. The kidney’ll still be there after David finishes his food, and we’ll go back for a closer look then. Besides, there’s a million other White Blood Cells, let one of them be the hero today. I’m no hero.
I’m just David’s White Blood Cell.
by Ren Cummins
Jul 27, 2009
You May Rely On It
Gary almost laughed when his eyes fixed themselves on the dusty black sphere on the back row of items on the shelf. He’d come in here looking for a nice accent piece for his new cube at work – something with a bit of character to it, maybe something artistic. Maggie had suggested one of those electric meditation fountains, but those just made him need to pee. He’d driven past this old antique shop – why are there never new antique shops, he’d mused – various times on his way to or from work, and he simply felt the jones to swing by and check it out today. A sort of celebratory tour in honor of his recent promotion, he decided.
It was a nice – if not mildly overpriced – selection in the musty store. Mostly handmade and well-worn items from the 1920s, some WWII memorabilia and signage, a slightly wobbly coat rack and loads of furniture. He blinked, trying to rationalize the appearance of this silly toy from the 1980s. But his eyes weren’t deceiving him – it was a magic eight ball. He reached out and picked it up, blowing the thin layer of dust which had collected on it from presumable months of being overlooked. The faded and handwritten orange sticker listed the price at $1.00. He smiled, shaking it lightly and wondering to himself, should I buy you, little eight ball?
He turned it over and nearly dropped it when he read the words float to the surface of the deep indigo liquid: Yes, you should.
He looked up, feeling a little strange. He’d never owned one of these back then, but he couldn’t remember that having been one of the phrases on the plastic geodesic widgets inside of these toys. “Whoa,” he breathed. “That’s creepy.”
The owner of the store was an older gentleman, likely retired, with a blue shirt and grey slacks which were held up by a pair of dark green suspenders. His thin reading glasses sat further down on his pointy nose than would likely have been helpful, and Gary had the momentary suspicion that he only wore them to add a sense of dignity to his appearance. He was shuffling about near the front window displays with a feather duster, meticulously adding a few million motes to the already cluttered air. The sunlight outside the window seemed almost helpless to penetrate the countless floating specks. The old man looked over at Gary, half-smiled and returned to his task.
Gary was shaking up the ball again, muttering to himself. “Why even bother? The place is just gonna get dusty again in five seconds.” He grinned at his pessimistic observation, but stopped instantly when he saw the words floating up on the surface of the eight ball: I know exactly what you mean.
He extended his hand, suddenly uneasy with the toy. But before he could replace it, he decided to give it one more test. He closed his eyes, inverting the ball and giving it a gentle shake. Do you really know what I’m thinking?
He held his breath, turned it back over and read: Of course I do.
He bit his lower lip, furrowed his brow and thought again, giving the ball another spin. “How much do you cost?” he whispered.
When he spun it upright to read the spindle, he gasped. It read: One Dollar.
He paid the dollar in cash and left the store.
Gary’s apartment was your standard Seattle flat – small bedroom, small living room, small kitchen, with an even smaller bathroom tucked off to the side. He’d been living here for about two years now, and remained among the more affordable parts of his current lifestyle. Though the Capitol Hill area had its random incidents, the local flavor and proximity to his work kept it favorable, and the price had miraculously remained lower than most apartments in the northwest – to say nothing of the downtown housing in general.
They also had a single floor of underground assigned parking – the parking alone was worth its weight in gold. Gary pulled into his space, locked the car and went upstairs, his messenger bag held tightly under his arm.
Up in his apartment, he went about his usual homecoming routine – bag on the couch, keys by the door, wallet on the end table. He microwaved a simple dinner, some flavorless box of something resembling meat with vegetables and some sort of opaque sauce. The light on the answering machine was flashing, but for some reasons he didn’t feel like checking it. His eyes returned to the bag each time he walked back through the living room, and, after a few minutes, he finally settled down on the couch next to it. He unsnapped the latch and drew out the black plastic ball.
Holding it in his left hand, he used his thumbnail to scrape off the price sticker. “I’ll say one thing for you, you really don’t look like an unusual toy,” he muttered. “Just like any other random magic eight ball.”
He flipped it over, and read the words as they floated to the top.
Ask a question.
Chuckling, he turned it back over, and asked, “What makes you so special?”
The ball then read: I always tell the truth.
“Always?”
You may rely on it.
“Good touch,” Gary laughed. “But it’s kind of... weird. You don’t mind if I put you to the test or something?”
It’s up to you.
“Okay, then…hmmm…” Gary looked around the room, finally grabbing the remote and turning on the TV. CNN faded into life, the talking head there sharing the screen with a graphic of a meteor or something, and talking about ‘most favorable conditions’ or whatnot. “What’s on TV right now?” he asked the ball.
The News, the ball responded.
“Whoa. Cool.” Gary flipped a few channels, stopping on a football game: Patriots versus the Oilers. The Pats were up by three with only seconds remaining. “Who’s winning?”
The Oilers.
Gary’s smile froze. He looked from the ball to the screen a couple times. “Okay, well, you’re wrong. That’s, just… weird.”
Wait for it.
At that moment, there was a commotion on the screen. Gary looked up to see one of the Oilers’ defensive lineman pick up a fumble and run the ball all the way to their end zone, a few seconds after the time ran out. Final score now showed the Oilers winning by three points.
“Oh my god. That’s amazing! How’d you do that?”
Hello. Magic Eight Ball.
“But seriously, that’s really cool. Um… what should I do now?” he asked, unable to think of anything at the moment.
Take a shower.
“What? Why?”
You stink.
“Nice. I meant, was there some reason in particular?”
Big day tomorrow.
“What kind of ‘big day’? Am I gonna win the lottery?”
You don’t play the lottery.
“Well, if I was going to win, I’d play,” Gary explained. “Though I suppose that kind of defeats the purpose of gambling, doesn’t it?”
Good answer.
“So you’re not going to tell me what’s going to happen, besides telling me it’s a big day?”
Bingo.
Gary frowned. “I can’t even play ‘hot or cold’ or something?”
Quit stalling.
“Geez. For a plastic oracle, you’re pretty pushy.”
You should meet my sister.
He laughed, delicately set the ball back on the table and went off to the bathroom. Whatever this “big day” was all about, it couldn’t hurt to be prepared.
Morning. 5:30 am. Gary turned off the alarm and practically jumped out of bed. Dressed and cleaned up in record time, he walked into the living room and went straight to the magic eight ball. He’d picked it up before he’d even realized he didn’t know what to ask. He grimaced a moment, then simply turned the ball over.
You’re going to be late.
He looked at the clock, which showed ten minutes before 6. Normally, he ran out the door around 6:10, and still got to work on time. “You’re off your mind, man. I’m totally early.” His mind flashed back to the last-second, come-from-behind win in the football game. Frowning, he turned the ball over. “Why am I going to be late?”
You’ll miss the bus.
“Some prophet you are,” he laughed. He placed the ball in his messenger bag and picked up the ring of keys by the door. “It’s called owning a car, mister Wizard.”
He locked up behind himself, took the elevator down to the parking level of his building, and stood for five minutes in front of his empty parking space.
“You could’ve told me the car was stolen,” he muttered. “In fact, you could’ve warned me that the car was going to be stolen.” He looked down his shoulder at the bag. “No, I can already bet what you’re going to say. ‘You didn’t ask.’”
Snapping his fingers, he unzipped the bag and pulled out the ball. “Where’s my car?”
It’s called car theft.
“Smart ass. Now what?”
You’ll miss the bus.
He could already hear the bus arriving at the corner as he ran from the parking lot entrance. He stopped at the corner, bent over with his hands on his knees, panting heavily. He didn’t waste time with the ball; most likely, it already knew what he was thinking.
He finally got to work fifteen minutes late, tossed his messenger bag on the desk and sat at his computer. For having a miraculous prognosticating ball, his day was off to a fairly craptacular beginning. Shaking his head, he pulled up his email – the most recent one was from his girlfriend, Maggie.
“Didn’t hear from you last night. Is everything okay? Bad news, I can’t make it to dinner today, I got called into an emergency office planning meeting. Call me later?
– Mags”
He sighed. They’d been dating on and off for a couple years now, and with their time being dedicated so much of late to their respective jobs, they didn’t see each other very much at all. He’d half thought the ball’s promise of today being a “big day” might even be a hint at some new direction in their relationship. His head rested down on his desktop. This day was not going well.
“You okay, Gary?”
He sat up. It was Amy, from two cubes down. They’d engaged in casual “office flirting” for the past few months, ever since she’d broken up with her boyfriend. She was attractive, but he hadn’t really given it any serious thought. But now… He smiled. “Yeah, just a little winded. Someone stole my car and I missed the bus and…” he chuckled. “But I’m here, so that’s something.”
“I’m going downstairs for a coffee. Want to come with?”
He took a slow breath. “Nnnoooo, I think I better get to work, I’m already late.” He added, after a moment of mentally kicking himself, “but thanks. Maybe next time?”
She nodded, smiling. She had a nice smile. “Okay. Be right back, then.”
He sat back in his seat, shaking his head. His hand reached into his bag, pulled out the 8 ball.
“Moron or hero?” he asked, mostly to himself.
Moron.
“We’re gonna talk about my car when I get back,” he muttered, putting the ball down and jumping up. He called out after Amy, catching up to her as she held the elevator door for him.
She did have a very nice smile.
The rest of day was lively. He and Amy chatted over instant messenger, and it was actually enjoyable – any guilt he might have otherwise felt was fading fast under the barrage of Amy’s obvious interest.
Before he knew it, it was getting close to lunchtime. He looked from his email window to his instant message window and, from there, to the magic eight ball. He found himself hoping for a specific answer to his unspoken question before he even touched the ball.
Ask Amy.
He had a small thrill of excitement when she messaged him “yes”, even though the ball had already told him she’d accept.
They decided to go to a nearby diner – it was pleasant and cozy, and the food wasn’t bad. They took a booth near the window and made small talk. Things went nicely – the gentle tingle of potential attraction was intoxicating, and a good enhancement to the meal.
About five minutes before the check arrived, Gary got that sinking feeling – the strange “someone is looking at me” vibe, the herald of doom, if ever it had a name. He looked out the window to see Maggie and two of her friends standing, staring at him. He couldn’t tell if Maggie was about to cry or throw one of her friends through the window at him.
Needless to say, the lunch ended poorly. He’d run after Maggie and tried to talk to her, but her friends ran interference until one of the chefs from the restaurant caught up with him and threatened to call the police on Gary for running out on the bill. In the commotion, Maggie and friends made their escape. Gary went with the chef back to the restaurant in time for Amy to slap him across the face and leave. He settled the bill and slowly made his way back to work.
His manager met him on his way back to his desk, and they had a brief conversation regarding interoffice relationships and his repeated tardiness. He slumped into his chair and glared at the magic eight ball. Snapping it up from the desk, he tried to calm himself.
It’s not my fault.
“What do you mean it’s not your fault?” he whispered. “You said to ask Amy!”
That’s right.
“But it ruined everything! Now she hates me, Maggie hates me, and my job’s in danger!”
That’s also right.
“Wait…” he frowned, “are you just trying to ruin my life, or is this one of those things where you trim out all the bad things so that I get something good?”
Trust me.
Gary sighed. “Well, we still need to figure out where my car is.”
The widget seemed to take its time rising to the surface. Don’t worry about it.
His eyes narrowed and a long breath made its way from his nostrils. “Easy for you to say, all you have to do is tell the future.” If the ball answered him, he didn’t waste any time reading it. He had four more hours on the clock to try and salvage his job, and would probably need every available second of it.
At some point after 5:30, he capped off a pretty horrible day with some reasonably impressive reports, and watched his manager reluctantly concede that Gary’d still have a future with the company, which, at this point, Gary was prepared to accept as a victory. Amy had already left, so thankfully he didn’t have to avoid eye contact on his way to the elevator.
He was already halfway across the parking lot before he remembered that his car had been stolen, and, having no better ideas, sat down on the parking block and pulled out the magic eight ball. It was a cloudy evening, unusually warm with the sky the gentle orange of sunset. He looked across the street at a convenience store. The word “Lotto” blazed at him, its undeniable temptation feeding into his frustration.
“Should I start playing the lottery?” he asked. A woman was leaving the store at that moment, a small nylon bag of groceries in her hand.
Don’t bother.
“What, you’re not going to help me win quick cash? Some help you are. Is there some rule or something that won’t let you help me get rich?”
That’s not it.
“Then why?” The woman had turned the corner, leaving Gary alone with his increasing frustration.
She has the winning ticket.
Gary closed his eyes. He could probably hit the far wall from here with this stupid ball.
Yes, you probably could.
The widget rolled of its own accord, changing to read: But please don’t.
“Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t! My whole life is ruined – I’ve lost my car, my girlfriend, and almost lost my job, all from listening to you.”
It’s for the best.
Gary sighed. “Yeah, and now you’re gonna tell me how I’m going to do something really big in the future that will save the world or something, and it’s all because of all the crap you’ve helped happen now.”
No. Not at all.
“Not really helping your case, man.”
Your car was a piece of crap.
“Dude. Totally uncalled for.”
I'm sorry. But I'm right.
Gary sighed. It was a piece of crap. It was paid off, but it was starting to nickel and dime him. Still, it was paid off and that meant something.
“Fine, I’ll agree with that, but Maggie?”
You didn’t love her.
Gary stopped as he was about to argue with the ball. As much as he hated to admit it, he didn’t really love her. They’d been together for a long time, but he really didn’t see the relationship going anywhere. Maybe it was for the best that they broke up and she found someone else who really cared for her like she deserved.
Exactly.
“Okay, fine. So you haven’t totally ruined my life, then. But at least she’d be able to come give me a ride home.”
Also true.
“So, see? That would’ve been a good thing, then.”
Not for her.
He shook his head. “Thanks, that’s really nice. I get that she deserves better, but it’s not like giving me a ride home would’ve killed her.”
Funny you should say that.
Gary read this latest response twice. “What do you mean?”
Nothing. Don’t worry about it.
“Oh no, you don’t. You meant something.” He shook the ball. “You said you always tell the truth. What did you mean by that?”
The little widget again seemed to take its time in floating to the surface. When it finally slid into place against the clear plastic, Gary nearly dropped the ball.
You’re going to die.
Gary’s throat nearly closed. “Wha- what? When? How?”
Now.
He blinked at the unexpected revelation. “No way. You’ve got to be joking or…something. Right?”
I’m sorry.
“But - - -but how?” The words “I’m sorry” repeated on the ball. Gary shook it again, harder. “Tell me!”
It doesn’t matter.
“It matters to me!”
You can’t avoid it.
“At least tell me! I can try to… I don’t know, change it, or something!”
No, you can’t.
“Don’t you tell me that!” he screamed. He stood up, oblivious to the people pausing briefly in passing to stare at the man’s apparent argument with a small black plastic sphere.
“I’ve watched those movies, there’s always a way to change the future or something!”
I only tell the truth.
Gary looked into the ball. It all seemed darker, somehow, like all the light had gone out of the world. He felt defeated, exhausted. The air tasted like ash in his mouth, the air felt dry and bitter. His eyes welled up, and he looked back at the crystal ball in his hands.
Don’t look up, it read.
Gary didn’t.
Ren, 2008
It was a nice – if not mildly overpriced – selection in the musty store. Mostly handmade and well-worn items from the 1920s, some WWII memorabilia and signage, a slightly wobbly coat rack and loads of furniture. He blinked, trying to rationalize the appearance of this silly toy from the 1980s. But his eyes weren’t deceiving him – it was a magic eight ball. He reached out and picked it up, blowing the thin layer of dust which had collected on it from presumable months of being overlooked. The faded and handwritten orange sticker listed the price at $1.00. He smiled, shaking it lightly and wondering to himself, should I buy you, little eight ball?
He turned it over and nearly dropped it when he read the words float to the surface of the deep indigo liquid: Yes, you should.
He looked up, feeling a little strange. He’d never owned one of these back then, but he couldn’t remember that having been one of the phrases on the plastic geodesic widgets inside of these toys. “Whoa,” he breathed. “That’s creepy.”
The owner of the store was an older gentleman, likely retired, with a blue shirt and grey slacks which were held up by a pair of dark green suspenders. His thin reading glasses sat further down on his pointy nose than would likely have been helpful, and Gary had the momentary suspicion that he only wore them to add a sense of dignity to his appearance. He was shuffling about near the front window displays with a feather duster, meticulously adding a few million motes to the already cluttered air. The sunlight outside the window seemed almost helpless to penetrate the countless floating specks. The old man looked over at Gary, half-smiled and returned to his task.
Gary was shaking up the ball again, muttering to himself. “Why even bother? The place is just gonna get dusty again in five seconds.” He grinned at his pessimistic observation, but stopped instantly when he saw the words floating up on the surface of the eight ball: I know exactly what you mean.
He extended his hand, suddenly uneasy with the toy. But before he could replace it, he decided to give it one more test. He closed his eyes, inverting the ball and giving it a gentle shake. Do you really know what I’m thinking?
He held his breath, turned it back over and read: Of course I do.
He bit his lower lip, furrowed his brow and thought again, giving the ball another spin. “How much do you cost?” he whispered.
When he spun it upright to read the spindle, he gasped. It read: One Dollar.
He paid the dollar in cash and left the store.
Gary’s apartment was your standard Seattle flat – small bedroom, small living room, small kitchen, with an even smaller bathroom tucked off to the side. He’d been living here for about two years now, and remained among the more affordable parts of his current lifestyle. Though the Capitol Hill area had its random incidents, the local flavor and proximity to his work kept it favorable, and the price had miraculously remained lower than most apartments in the northwest – to say nothing of the downtown housing in general.
They also had a single floor of underground assigned parking – the parking alone was worth its weight in gold. Gary pulled into his space, locked the car and went upstairs, his messenger bag held tightly under his arm.
Up in his apartment, he went about his usual homecoming routine – bag on the couch, keys by the door, wallet on the end table. He microwaved a simple dinner, some flavorless box of something resembling meat with vegetables and some sort of opaque sauce. The light on the answering machine was flashing, but for some reasons he didn’t feel like checking it. His eyes returned to the bag each time he walked back through the living room, and, after a few minutes, he finally settled down on the couch next to it. He unsnapped the latch and drew out the black plastic ball.
Holding it in his left hand, he used his thumbnail to scrape off the price sticker. “I’ll say one thing for you, you really don’t look like an unusual toy,” he muttered. “Just like any other random magic eight ball.”
He flipped it over, and read the words as they floated to the top.
Ask a question.
Chuckling, he turned it back over, and asked, “What makes you so special?”
The ball then read: I always tell the truth.
“Always?”
You may rely on it.
“Good touch,” Gary laughed. “But it’s kind of... weird. You don’t mind if I put you to the test or something?”
It’s up to you.
“Okay, then…hmmm…” Gary looked around the room, finally grabbing the remote and turning on the TV. CNN faded into life, the talking head there sharing the screen with a graphic of a meteor or something, and talking about ‘most favorable conditions’ or whatnot. “What’s on TV right now?” he asked the ball.
The News, the ball responded.
“Whoa. Cool.” Gary flipped a few channels, stopping on a football game: Patriots versus the Oilers. The Pats were up by three with only seconds remaining. “Who’s winning?”
The Oilers.
Gary’s smile froze. He looked from the ball to the screen a couple times. “Okay, well, you’re wrong. That’s, just… weird.”
Wait for it.
At that moment, there was a commotion on the screen. Gary looked up to see one of the Oilers’ defensive lineman pick up a fumble and run the ball all the way to their end zone, a few seconds after the time ran out. Final score now showed the Oilers winning by three points.
“Oh my god. That’s amazing! How’d you do that?”
Hello. Magic Eight Ball.
“But seriously, that’s really cool. Um… what should I do now?” he asked, unable to think of anything at the moment.
Take a shower.
“What? Why?”
You stink.
“Nice. I meant, was there some reason in particular?”
Big day tomorrow.
“What kind of ‘big day’? Am I gonna win the lottery?”
You don’t play the lottery.
“Well, if I was going to win, I’d play,” Gary explained. “Though I suppose that kind of defeats the purpose of gambling, doesn’t it?”
Good answer.
“So you’re not going to tell me what’s going to happen, besides telling me it’s a big day?”
Bingo.
Gary frowned. “I can’t even play ‘hot or cold’ or something?”
Quit stalling.
“Geez. For a plastic oracle, you’re pretty pushy.”
You should meet my sister.
He laughed, delicately set the ball back on the table and went off to the bathroom. Whatever this “big day” was all about, it couldn’t hurt to be prepared.
Morning. 5:30 am. Gary turned off the alarm and practically jumped out of bed. Dressed and cleaned up in record time, he walked into the living room and went straight to the magic eight ball. He’d picked it up before he’d even realized he didn’t know what to ask. He grimaced a moment, then simply turned the ball over.
You’re going to be late.
He looked at the clock, which showed ten minutes before 6. Normally, he ran out the door around 6:10, and still got to work on time. “You’re off your mind, man. I’m totally early.” His mind flashed back to the last-second, come-from-behind win in the football game. Frowning, he turned the ball over. “Why am I going to be late?”
You’ll miss the bus.
“Some prophet you are,” he laughed. He placed the ball in his messenger bag and picked up the ring of keys by the door. “It’s called owning a car, mister Wizard.”
He locked up behind himself, took the elevator down to the parking level of his building, and stood for five minutes in front of his empty parking space.
“You could’ve told me the car was stolen,” he muttered. “In fact, you could’ve warned me that the car was going to be stolen.” He looked down his shoulder at the bag. “No, I can already bet what you’re going to say. ‘You didn’t ask.’”
Snapping his fingers, he unzipped the bag and pulled out the ball. “Where’s my car?”
It’s called car theft.
“Smart ass. Now what?”
You’ll miss the bus.
He could already hear the bus arriving at the corner as he ran from the parking lot entrance. He stopped at the corner, bent over with his hands on his knees, panting heavily. He didn’t waste time with the ball; most likely, it already knew what he was thinking.
He finally got to work fifteen minutes late, tossed his messenger bag on the desk and sat at his computer. For having a miraculous prognosticating ball, his day was off to a fairly craptacular beginning. Shaking his head, he pulled up his email – the most recent one was from his girlfriend, Maggie.
“Didn’t hear from you last night. Is everything okay? Bad news, I can’t make it to dinner today, I got called into an emergency office planning meeting. Call me later?
– Mags”
He sighed. They’d been dating on and off for a couple years now, and with their time being dedicated so much of late to their respective jobs, they didn’t see each other very much at all. He’d half thought the ball’s promise of today being a “big day” might even be a hint at some new direction in their relationship. His head rested down on his desktop. This day was not going well.
“You okay, Gary?”
He sat up. It was Amy, from two cubes down. They’d engaged in casual “office flirting” for the past few months, ever since she’d broken up with her boyfriend. She was attractive, but he hadn’t really given it any serious thought. But now… He smiled. “Yeah, just a little winded. Someone stole my car and I missed the bus and…” he chuckled. “But I’m here, so that’s something.”
“I’m going downstairs for a coffee. Want to come with?”
He took a slow breath. “Nnnoooo, I think I better get to work, I’m already late.” He added, after a moment of mentally kicking himself, “but thanks. Maybe next time?”
She nodded, smiling. She had a nice smile. “Okay. Be right back, then.”
He sat back in his seat, shaking his head. His hand reached into his bag, pulled out the 8 ball.
“Moron or hero?” he asked, mostly to himself.
Moron.
“We’re gonna talk about my car when I get back,” he muttered, putting the ball down and jumping up. He called out after Amy, catching up to her as she held the elevator door for him.
She did have a very nice smile.
The rest of day was lively. He and Amy chatted over instant messenger, and it was actually enjoyable – any guilt he might have otherwise felt was fading fast under the barrage of Amy’s obvious interest.
Before he knew it, it was getting close to lunchtime. He looked from his email window to his instant message window and, from there, to the magic eight ball. He found himself hoping for a specific answer to his unspoken question before he even touched the ball.
Ask Amy.
He had a small thrill of excitement when she messaged him “yes”, even though the ball had already told him she’d accept.
They decided to go to a nearby diner – it was pleasant and cozy, and the food wasn’t bad. They took a booth near the window and made small talk. Things went nicely – the gentle tingle of potential attraction was intoxicating, and a good enhancement to the meal.
About five minutes before the check arrived, Gary got that sinking feeling – the strange “someone is looking at me” vibe, the herald of doom, if ever it had a name. He looked out the window to see Maggie and two of her friends standing, staring at him. He couldn’t tell if Maggie was about to cry or throw one of her friends through the window at him.
Needless to say, the lunch ended poorly. He’d run after Maggie and tried to talk to her, but her friends ran interference until one of the chefs from the restaurant caught up with him and threatened to call the police on Gary for running out on the bill. In the commotion, Maggie and friends made their escape. Gary went with the chef back to the restaurant in time for Amy to slap him across the face and leave. He settled the bill and slowly made his way back to work.
His manager met him on his way back to his desk, and they had a brief conversation regarding interoffice relationships and his repeated tardiness. He slumped into his chair and glared at the magic eight ball. Snapping it up from the desk, he tried to calm himself.
It’s not my fault.
“What do you mean it’s not your fault?” he whispered. “You said to ask Amy!”
That’s right.
“But it ruined everything! Now she hates me, Maggie hates me, and my job’s in danger!”
That’s also right.
“Wait…” he frowned, “are you just trying to ruin my life, or is this one of those things where you trim out all the bad things so that I get something good?”
Trust me.
Gary sighed. “Well, we still need to figure out where my car is.”
The widget seemed to take its time rising to the surface. Don’t worry about it.
His eyes narrowed and a long breath made its way from his nostrils. “Easy for you to say, all you have to do is tell the future.” If the ball answered him, he didn’t waste any time reading it. He had four more hours on the clock to try and salvage his job, and would probably need every available second of it.
At some point after 5:30, he capped off a pretty horrible day with some reasonably impressive reports, and watched his manager reluctantly concede that Gary’d still have a future with the company, which, at this point, Gary was prepared to accept as a victory. Amy had already left, so thankfully he didn’t have to avoid eye contact on his way to the elevator.
He was already halfway across the parking lot before he remembered that his car had been stolen, and, having no better ideas, sat down on the parking block and pulled out the magic eight ball. It was a cloudy evening, unusually warm with the sky the gentle orange of sunset. He looked across the street at a convenience store. The word “Lotto” blazed at him, its undeniable temptation feeding into his frustration.
“Should I start playing the lottery?” he asked. A woman was leaving the store at that moment, a small nylon bag of groceries in her hand.
Don’t bother.
“What, you’re not going to help me win quick cash? Some help you are. Is there some rule or something that won’t let you help me get rich?”
That’s not it.
“Then why?” The woman had turned the corner, leaving Gary alone with his increasing frustration.
She has the winning ticket.
Gary closed his eyes. He could probably hit the far wall from here with this stupid ball.
Yes, you probably could.
The widget rolled of its own accord, changing to read: But please don’t.
“Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t! My whole life is ruined – I’ve lost my car, my girlfriend, and almost lost my job, all from listening to you.”
It’s for the best.
Gary sighed. “Yeah, and now you’re gonna tell me how I’m going to do something really big in the future that will save the world or something, and it’s all because of all the crap you’ve helped happen now.”
No. Not at all.
“Not really helping your case, man.”
Your car was a piece of crap.
“Dude. Totally uncalled for.”
I'm sorry. But I'm right.
Gary sighed. It was a piece of crap. It was paid off, but it was starting to nickel and dime him. Still, it was paid off and that meant something.
“Fine, I’ll agree with that, but Maggie?”
You didn’t love her.
Gary stopped as he was about to argue with the ball. As much as he hated to admit it, he didn’t really love her. They’d been together for a long time, but he really didn’t see the relationship going anywhere. Maybe it was for the best that they broke up and she found someone else who really cared for her like she deserved.
Exactly.
“Okay, fine. So you haven’t totally ruined my life, then. But at least she’d be able to come give me a ride home.”
Also true.
“So, see? That would’ve been a good thing, then.”
Not for her.
He shook his head. “Thanks, that’s really nice. I get that she deserves better, but it’s not like giving me a ride home would’ve killed her.”
Funny you should say that.
Gary read this latest response twice. “What do you mean?”
Nothing. Don’t worry about it.
“Oh no, you don’t. You meant something.” He shook the ball. “You said you always tell the truth. What did you mean by that?”
The little widget again seemed to take its time in floating to the surface. When it finally slid into place against the clear plastic, Gary nearly dropped the ball.
You’re going to die.
Gary’s throat nearly closed. “Wha- what? When? How?”
Now.
He blinked at the unexpected revelation. “No way. You’ve got to be joking or…something. Right?”
I’m sorry.
“But - - -but how?” The words “I’m sorry” repeated on the ball. Gary shook it again, harder. “Tell me!”
It doesn’t matter.
“It matters to me!”
You can’t avoid it.
“At least tell me! I can try to… I don’t know, change it, or something!”
No, you can’t.
“Don’t you tell me that!” he screamed. He stood up, oblivious to the people pausing briefly in passing to stare at the man’s apparent argument with a small black plastic sphere.
“I’ve watched those movies, there’s always a way to change the future or something!”
I only tell the truth.
Gary looked into the ball. It all seemed darker, somehow, like all the light had gone out of the world. He felt defeated, exhausted. The air tasted like ash in his mouth, the air felt dry and bitter. His eyes welled up, and he looked back at the crystal ball in his hands.
Don’t look up, it read.
Gary didn’t.
Ren, 2008
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
