Dianne Gallagher's Blog

“You said this morning…”

“I said I wanted you here this morning.” Elliott tugged his sleeve. “You need to run a sample for us.”

“Seriously?”

“Test someone.”

Sid’s fingers tapped. “Who?”

“Me.”

Her head started shaking before the words pushed out of her mouth. “No, no, no, no, no. That would not be a good idea. Pick a uniform… or your receptionist. Anyone else.”

“We need to know how accurate the evaluation…”

“You mean you want to know how accurate I am.”

Elliott didn’t answer.

Sid’s mind raced for an excuse. “I don’t know if I can do two sessions in one day.”

“I asked Roth. She said you could if you had a good room. Which you apparently have.”

“Yeah, well, she’s not the one testing. And if you have a question, you should talk to me.”

“So you can’t do a full day’s work.”

“That’s not…” She paused. “You said I could have a whole day with Clemons.”

“We’ll bring him back tomorrow if you need the time. You are getting paid. More hours than you work.”

“I didn’t make that deal.” Sid tapped and twitched and got up, paced, and sat down again as Elliott watched. Finally, she let out a long breath and nodded. “Sit down.”

The room was quiet as Sid got out papers and cued up her programs. She could almost taste the smirk on Elliott’s face.

“Okay, we’re going to run a series of tests. Some will be…”

“Look, you can skip all this. I…”

“I’m running the tests, not you, Detective.”

She glared coldly at him and Elliott suddenly felt more vulnerable than he liked.

“Relax. It won’t hurt.”

“How do you know I won’t lie?” the detective said as he watched her open a notebook to a clean page. “Just to throw you.”

Sid ignored the question. “Okay, your first test is an easy one. Standard intelligence. Stanford-Binet. Should be a breeze.”  She pulled up the test on the computer, sat back, and waited.

“You’re going to watch?”

She folded her arms and waited.

It took him more time than she thought. And through it all, she watched Elliott. Made him sweat. It was stupid, but gave Sid the pleasant sensation of power. When he finished, she silently pulled out some cards, shuffled through them.

“No one uses the TAT anymore,” Elliott said.

“I do.”

“It’s not effective.”

“And who is running the tests, Detective?” she said coldly. “Could you please turn away?”

“You’re kidding.”

Sid sat forward, leaning into him. “You want to see how I work? This is how I work.”

 

She could feel eyes exploring every part of her body, every curve showing beneath her pom uniform, every strand of highlighted hair on her head. Watching. Watching her. Every day. For the last three days. She barely made it through school and now she was followed. Again. Watching her. Hannah gave her a ride home. Was talking about… what? She couldn’t remember. All she knew was she needed to get in the house.

In.

Now.

She took out her keys, holding them tightly between shaking fingers. Her hand was slick with sweat and the metal kept slipping between her fingers, but she frantically  put them back in place. One between each finger. Like brass knuckles. That was from a show about how to defend against an attack. Hold the keys in your fist, then if anyone tried anything… Slam! Right in the eye and run like hell.

A sound.

Rustling.

But all the leaves were gone. It was December and the last leaf pick-up was before Thanksgiving. No leaves. So what was making that sound?

He was. He was letting her know he was there, watching. Letting her know she wasn’t safe. She hurried up the steps of the colonial home in the middle class neighborhood. Fumbled to hold the house key as she trying to get it in the lock. Her back was turned to the street. That wasn’t good. She was vulnerable. She concentrated on the key and not what was behind her. In a moment, the lock turned. She pushed the door open, rushed in, then shut and locked it as quickly as she could. Once inside, she pressed numbers on the security system.

Safe.

Safe in the house. All the doors and windows were locked. She was safe. She checked the alarm again. Made sure it was still on. An extra safety measure. Running upstairs, she went in her room, locked the door behind her and sat on the bed she forgot to make that morning. She checked her phone. Charged. No messages. Nothing. Sweat poured down her face and back as she opened the laptop on her desk. No messages. Nothing. She pulled up YouTube so there would be other voices in the room.

She thought of telling her mom, her dad… someone about the sounds and the horrible feeling of being watched. Unfortunately, no one cared. There was nothing to worry about, they’d say. It was safe. They lived in a good neighborhood. In a good town. Not like Chicago.

The girl wasn’t so sure. If it was so safe, so good, why was someone watching her? Following her? Why did she want to scream and run every time she left her house? Maybe it was hormones. They’d been kicking her butt lately. Lots of mood swings. Lots of… Maybe that’s all it was. A teen hormonal rush.

Or not.

She checked her windows and door again to make sure they were locked, checked her phone to make sure it was charged. That phone was her lifeline. If it was dead, she was dead. There would be no way to call for help. Okay, so maybe that was a little dramatic. Even though houses surrounded her, she always felt alone, unsure if anyone would help. Maybe that’s what everyone meant about a good neighborhood. A place where everyone kept their noses out of other people’s business. Smile. Wave. Say hello if you have to, but nothing else. You wouldn’t want to be rude, but you didn’t want to get too close. If you got close, you might be asked to do something… like help a neighbor girl who was being attacked by some sicko who followed her home.

“Relax. We live in a good neighborhood.” Her mother’s voice echoed in her head.

Yeah, relax. That’s all she needed to do. And she would. Right after she checked the windows and door again.

       It was the third week in the Stupid Fucking House as Maggie Quinn called it. A small two-bedroom in a town that didn’t quite qualify as a suburb and was much quieter than she expected. It wasn’t her first choice, but the other two properties fell through. One, the day before closing. The second, right in the middle of closing. Three was the charm. Third week. Third house. Third coat of paint.

The guy at Menards now recognized her from two aisles away. “Must have a big place?” the man smiled as he mixed six gallons for her. 

Maggie tried to smile back. No, it wasn’t a big place.  She just liked to paint. It was a job, something to do. And she needed that. Best of all, the results were immediate and obvious. A refreshing change. Maybe she should start her own house painting business. She was getting good at it.

“You need any drop cloths, brushes, anything?” the man smiled.

Maggie Quinn shook her head.

This week’s challenge was painting without a net, she decided. No drop cloths, no masking tape, no rags. Nothing. In the living room, she would cover the restful blue of Shining Seas with the honey glow of Warm Welcome. The kitchen would return to Burning Bush, the color she used that first week. Red was a good color. It took at least three coats to get an even tone, then at least three more coats to cover it back up again. Three’s the charm. Blue for the bathroom. Not the same as the living room had been, but a few tones brighter.

The bedrooms were up for grabs. The one which was now her library had next to no wall space left. Bookshelves covered just about every inch, floor to ceiling. To see some sort of results, Maggie experimented with the ceiling. First a restful blue swirled with hand-ragged clouds. Then a gazebo roof with vines that came out looking more like moldy ropes than anything living. Her most recent attempt was actually a daring taunt. Black. Maggie thought if she could pull the shadows to one central location, she could deal with them better. Like a meditation. Focus on your fear. Accept your fear. Live with your fear.

The color lasted one night.

Three coats later, the ceiling was a pure Winter’s Day. The other bedroom was barely used, barely opened. She painted it lavender and put the four poster bed and the unopened boxes of clothes and toys in it. It made no sense. Maggie knew that. Erin was gone and there would never be a use for the room or what was in it. Still, she felt something whenever she walked past and the doorknob was still warm when she touched it. So, for now at least, the room stayed as it was. As it had been at the old brownstone.

The only place other than that bedroom that hadn’t received its mandatory three coats was the basement. Maggie wanted a house without a basement, no basement, no crawl space. Nothing. Just a house on a slab. That’s what she had with the first two. By the time this one was shown to her, the basement was a non-issue. She just wanted a stupid fucking house and that’s what she got. A Stupid Fucking House. And a stupid fucking basement she never visited. Even with the lights on, it was too dark. Too many shadows.

While the sun was high, they remained silent, resting, gathering strength. At the first taste of dusk, they writhed and churned, anxious to seep into the walls and find her. Maggie always kept the door to the basement closed. The bulb above the stairs was raised from sixty to a hundred watts and it was never turned off. Still the dark found its way to Maggie. It always found its way.

To beat an opponent, you must know its true nature.

Maggie knew the dark. Intimately. Her mental file was stuffed with various tidbits woven together to create a profile of the perpetrator. Motive. Means. Opportunity. She knew why it came and how. She knew when she was most vulnerable and when the shadows wouldn’t dare come near. But Maggie Quinn was keenly aware that knowledge wasn’t always power. You could know a great deal and still be unable to stop an attack, put a killer behind bars… save someone you loved. 

Indigo.

Her head was filled with the color. The smell of it. The feel of it. Smooth as glass. The taste. Like a flower just opening.

“Why are you doing this?” Blaithe Clemons screamed as she felt a hard thud against her stomach. The pain shot through her torso and plowed into her skull. She dug her fingers into the ground and tried to anchor herself in case she was dragged further. Blaithe smelled the last leaves of fall rotting on the ground. And cotton candy. Pink and sticky and sweet. Around her were clouds hanging in the air. Clouds in a long line stretching in front of her. Hours of the day. Days of the week. Weeks of the year. All stretching in a line of yellow clouds in front of her. All leading to this moment.

“I’m not afraid of you.” Blaithe swallowed and tasted blood.

No one answered.

Blaithe expected to feel a fist next. Or feet kicking her stomach. She expected every possible act of violence her young brain could conjure. Except what she got.

Cold, empty darkness. 

And a brilliant flood of indigo.

her·mit  (hûrmt)  n.

1. A person who has withdrawn from society and lives a solitary existence; a recluse.

 

 

So, I’ve discovered I’m a hermit. This is no big surprise. I’ve always been a lone writer. Even though I enjoy working together on a variety of other types of projects,  I generally don’t play well with others when it comes to collaborating on paper.

What did surprise me was this. At a recent event, I was very comfortable talking to others about every subject… except my book. Which is a little odd. I know this book. Inside and out. We’ve spent a great deal of time together. Several drafts, numerous rewrites. But here’s the deal.  Through it all, I really didn’t talk to anyone about it. For those who have read Stephen King’s On Writing, you’ll understand. I side with the camp that loses creative steam when I discuss elements of a writing project. I’m best left to stew alone until I’ve managed to throw it all on the page… and have worked it over it a few dozen times.

Then we can talk about the book.

But not before. Not until the book is done. In fact, other than knowing my book dealt with a detective and took place in Chicago, no one close to me really knew what the thing was about until the last words were on the page and it had been rewritten a few times. Talking about it seemed dangerously counter-productive. The story needed to be told. But if it was verbally told to a single person, the need to write it down slipped away. Not every writer is like this and it doesn’t necessarily mean you’re a good writer if this is your process. In fact, there are quite a few drawbacks. Rewriting tends to be a kind of self-imposed hell where bad ideas may take weeks or months to show themselves. Layers of character that should be added are oddly ignored because the focus is elsewhere on something deemed “more important.”  Which is generally wrong. But that’s my process. That’s how I get words on a page. Alone.

On more than one occasion, people have asked if being part of a writers’ group was useful. I openly confessed that I have never been part of one. However, a good group is a wonderful tool for many writers… just not every writer. Keep this in mind. If you’re talking about writing more than writing or if you lose steam after your group has read your first chapter, go to your room for a while and sort things out. If pages fly out of you when you’re locked away, you might just be a hermit, too.

And interestingly enough, there are hermit readers as well. Those who don’t like to talk about a book until they’re done reading it. I completely understand these readers. I’m one of them. A book is a very intimate thing… whether you’re reading or writing it. Some of us like our privacy.

But for writers, as I discovered, marketing your book is where the privacy has to end.  If you’re a writing hermit, you might cling to the same privacy that helped you complete the book you’re now trying to get readers to pick up. That’s the odd by-product of hermit writing. An inability to verbally pitch your product. For some reason, deep in our writers’ brains, we still feel like we can’t talk about the book to someone who hasn’t read it. Oddly, I don’t have a problem talking about my novel in book clubs… after they’ve finished it. In fact,  I love discussing their interpretations of characters and plot points, settings and twists. It’s fascinating and fun and rewarding… and easy. I can talk about character, research, plot, difficulties in the process, elements of publishing… you name it. Not a problem. However, ask me to pitch my book to someone who hasn’t read it  and I am literally tongue-tied.

Our system for creating the piece gets in the way of our ability to sell our creation. So what does that mean? If you’re a writer, have something prepared and memorized. Yeah, it feels a little fake, but it serves the purpose and you’ll get used to it… and better at it. Use your cover blurb or your synopsis. Or that great tagline you spent hours crafting. And if you’re a reader, don’t judge a writer by his or her ability to explain his or her book to you. Pick up the book. Read it. Hermits can produce some pretty amazing stuff.

So what kind of writer are you? What kind of reader? I’d love to hear.

My current writing project has me thinking a lot about male and female roles and how they affect relationships. I’ve always loved those female characters that surprise and break the rules, challenge the stereotypes stamped into our brains. Because there’s always been this wonky imbalance in books and movies when it comes to women, I’ve tended to focus on re-tooling female characters. And that’s wrong. A lot of relationships come in twos, so the guys need some consideration. Why? Well, because the way we represent men on the page or screen influences our view of women as well.

I give you Exhibit A featured at the beginning of this entry.

It’s a popular piece many parents freely share with their daughters, usually after some kind of heartbreak… and their intentions are the absolute best. But, look at the message. “Good girls” are taken for granted, not just by bad boys, but by all boys. Boys just want an easy mark. All boys care about is sex. Boys don’t really want to work at having a relationship. You’re only a good girl if you save yourself for the right boy… you get the picture.

And that’s sexist. Down to the core.

Yes, the quote does point out that boys are afraid of “falling and getting hurt.” And, yes, you could interpret that as an attempt to give some dimension to the male counterparts. It could also seem like they’re just a little too weenie to take the risks girls take in relationships. “Good girls” are much more invested in relationships than any boy. Ergo, a good woman is much more invested in a relationship than a man. Any man.

I have a boy and guess what I’ve discovered? Girls are just as capable of doing everything attributed to boys in this quote. Think of a guy you know. Maybe your own son, maybe the son of a friend. Think of that kid. Now replace the word “girl” with “boy” and vice versa. What do you think? Does the apple tree still stand strong? Probably. And to parents who have girls… if your girl is hurt or damaged by a boy, it’s not all boys who are to blame. It’s that boy who is to blame. And if it keeps happening to your girl, maybe you need to have a talk with her. Maybe it’s not that all boys are the problem. Maybe she tends to be attracted to boys who are problems.  Why? Again, books and movies scream that message.

To tell our girls that all boys are bad just because they’ve been disappointed or hurt or let down by a couple guys is like telling them… well, every apple is bad just because you got a couple nasty ones. How about instead we tell our girls that boys feel that same flutter in their stomach when they love. They are hit by that same pain in the gut when someone hurts them. They carry scars just like you. Just like everyone.

And here’s something else to consider. By spreading what we think is an uplifting quote to our girls, we’re doing a disservice to everyone. The boys. The girls at the top of the tree. And especially those we label as “rotten.”

There’s a new movie out called, The To-Do List. My daughter and I had a conversation about it and what we both found interesting was the premise. *Spoiler alert – I’m giving away the end of the movie.* The heroine sets a plan. She’s going to have sex for the first time with a hot guy. Nothing new there. Now the important part. She successfully executes the plan. There is no deus ex machina. No one rescues her at the last minute. She does have sex with the hot guy. And guess what? The world doesn’t end. Her life is not ruined. She’s still a decent person. She goes on to college and is not marked or damaged or… well, anything.

And that is a refreshingly honest, real-world message. But guess what? By our apple tree standards, she would be “rotten.” She didn’t wait for the “right boy.”

Let’s be honest. Sex is not the beginning or the end. Just because you have sex doesn’t mean you’re “ruined” or a “rotten apple.” And that’s whether you’re a guy or a girl. Sex is normal and healthy and a natural part of life… if you’re ready for it and you get to make the call. And that’s the big takeaway. It’s not a handshake, but it’s also not the ring that seals the deal. It’s not something that happens to you. You’re a willing participant and have a say in every aspect of it. And that doesn’t make you rotten. It makes you balanced.

So what does all of this have to do with writing? Well, we’re back at the beginning. Trying to write a unique female character. One who is not just strong. Not just smart. But real. Warts and all. Of course a male counterpart is not required, but, like I said, relationships often come in twos. Men are stereotyped as much as women. We see it in the apple tree analogy. But how many male characters show us that flutter of love or the gut-punch of being hurt emotionally?  How many are portrayed as being equally or even more invested in their relationships? And how many just flex or rescue or lead? Or cower or give in or leave?

Now ask yourself this.  How would the story change if someone climbed the apple tree and changed the word “girl” to “boy?”

Let’s hear about your favorite male or female characters. What made them unique? Did you like them because they were better than real life or because they were real life?

Okay… my rant. Bear with me.

Apparently the dust has settled and most people are feeling victorious about the petitions they signed keeping Brave’s Merida tough and strong… and, well, herself. A lot of people spoke out, wrote emails and made a genuine stink when they saw the new “princess-ified” Pixar character. And they should have. We all should have. It was a real-world illustration of our cultural schizophrenia playing out right in front of our eyes.

But here’s the deal. Disney will still be using the image outside the U.S. and for marketing. Why? Because they know what sells. They know us. We talk a good game about strong women. We love the tough, clever female cops and the feisty ingenues – and, no, that doesn’t have to be an oxymoron. We talk a better game about individuality. We tell our kids to be themselves. We post quotes about being unique, being our own people. But here’s the thing, we don’t do. We tell our girls that they are equal. Just as worthy as any guy. We tell them they are strong individuals who are in charge of their own bodies… then we dress them in pink sparkles with words like “Princess” and “Brat” and “Spoiled” written across those same bodies. We advertise the negative on the very people we are trying to empower. That’s where our money goes and money is all most corporations really care about.

Now, there’s nothing wrong with pink. There’s nothing wrong with being feminine or necessarily being a “princess.” My own daughter is what might be termed a “girly girl.” There is nothing wrong with wanting to find a good life partner. The guy on the white horse, so to speak, if that’s what you honestly want. Being who you are, warts and all, is entirely the point of being a strong individual… but that’s not the message we’re sending.

The message consumers are sending is the one Mike Jeffries, Abercrombie’s CEO, had the poor judgment to say out loud. Yeah, it was a douchy thing for him to proclaim, but  it’s also what a whole lot of other companies privately know and what they build their marketing plan around. Cool, popular and hot sell.

It sells because we buy. Disney knows… which is why Disney will still be using “Princess Merida” to sell stuff. Sure, you can be tough and independent. You don’t have to look like everyone else. You can have unkempt hair and be athletic, look different, speak your mind and own your life… until it comes time to market yourself.  Because when it comes time to sell, you need to give ‘em what we know they’ll buy. A certain body, certain hair, certain clothes… certain persona. Not too independent. Not too smart. And just the right amount of sex. Sex is big. Sex sells. No matter what age we’re looking at. It’s re-branded, re-named, re-packaged, but it’s still sex appeal. It’s still all about being hot.

And when we sell ourselves or our kids to the world or when our kids sell themselves to their peers,  it isn’t about money. The currency is a little more pointed… popularity, acceptance. As Jeffries might say, being one of the cool (sexy) kids.

I remember reading a crime novel written by a man whose lead character was a female. Not a problem at all. What was problematic was that more words were spent describing her body and the lingerie she wore than on revealing who she was. A couple chapters in, I knew all about her choice of lipstick, the brand of her underwear, how her clothing hugged her curves… but I had no idea why she was doing what she was doing. She was a hot, well-dressed blank slate. And the book sold well.

Try this. Google images for strong girls.

Then Google images for popular girls.

Okay, so Google might not be the best place for empirical data, but it does reflect a certain slice of our culture.

Now I had paragraph upon paragraph of explanation for why this is and how to change it… and well, being an editor at heart, I ended up cutting it. We’re smart enough to figure things out. We just aren’t always motivated enough to do anything about it.

Bottom line. There’s nothing wrong with having feminine detectives and hot female characters who are described through their lingerie. But it’s hard to convince girls that how they look doesn’t matter when everything around them screams the opposite. So how about a little more balance? If the companies, the producers, the advertisers, the film makers, the writers won’t take the lead, why don’t we as consumers?

Businesses are not stupid. They know that the teenagers have huge buying power and they want to tap into that… so they appeal to what every teen wants. To be accepted and popular. So, how about this. How about we, as the adults in this scenario, set a good example. We value strong individuals? Show it. Just wear clothes… not a brand. Buy the books, go to the movies, watch the shows with those strong individuals. Don’t want your girls to be objectified? Stop dressing them in clothes that do nothing but. Want guys who treat girls equally? Model it for them and speak out when others don’t. Do that and we’ll see more of those strong individuals… and more importantly, those teenagers will start supporting and becoming strong individuals.

And please, don’t brand your kids with a company that clearly is playing into the junior high lunch table mentality.  A smart kid is a cool kid. A nerdy kid is a cool kid. A big kid is a cool kid. Let’s base “cool” in who they are, not what they wear or how much money they and their parents can throw around.  Let your kids know “cool” has more to do with character – something you control –  than physical appearance – which is all about how the genes happened to fall. Say it, then live it. Make strong individuals the new “cool.”

Novels are big… really, really big. And they can seem daunting. But I have to admit, I don’t think they represent the hardest writing to tackle. With hundreds of pages, there is time to explore plot and character. But a short story… You have to get in and out fast. Choose that perfect slice of time that is important and shine a light on it. Now that’s craft.

Recently, a fellow writer offered a challenge to produce a short piece. The theme was death. Only a few hundred words long, rather than a few hundred pages. I accepted the challenge even though short stories intimidate me a little. I’m long winded in my writing and a consummate rewriter… which makes for a very long process. In this case, I allowed myself two hours to come up with the idea, write the story and edit it. This is what happened.

The First and Last

Run.

Stop.

Turn.

Run.

Run.

Stop.

Run.

Run.

That was his life. How it always was. How it always would be. Never stop. Never rest. Just run. If he didn’t run, bad things happened. If he didn’t run, his job was left undone and his purpose… well, if he didn’t run, he had no purpose. And without purpose, there was no reason for him. It was that simple.

Eyes were always on him. Always watching to make sure he did his job. Finish what he started. How the hell did he get here? What the fuck did he do to deserve this? Nothing. He had done nothing… but do what he was told. Without question. Maybe it was his fault. Maybe he should have said, “Enough. I’m done. This job you have, this money that’s so important… I want nothing to do with it. No one owns me. I own myself.”

Run.

Run.

Stop.

Turn.

Run.

Run

Every moment, every day, every year of his life, he did his job without complaint and waiting. Waited for things to end. For rest. For reward. Sometimes it was there, waiting for him at the end of the job. Most of time there was nothing but a meal and a place to sleep. He thought about quitting. Just start running and not stop. He heard about someone who had. Just woke up one day and just decided enough was enough and ran. He heard she made it to the next town before they found her and dragged her back to the job, but she was never the same.

Neither was he.

It started as a stiffness in his joints, then a cough that wouldn’t stop. One of the bosses took him to the doctor and he could tell right away by the look on everyone’s faces that the diagnosis wasn’t good.

But still he did his job.

Run.

Run.

Cough.

Run.

Cough.

Fall.

And now he stood or tried to stand, but he was shaky. Even after years of running, the legs that carried him every moment of every day of every year failed him. As everyone, in the end, failed him.

Another trip to the doctor and the verdict was delivered. Tears would’ve been nice, but he knew better. Tears were too valuable for someone like him. Someone who just did his job. Without question. Every moment of every day of every year.

Until he couldn’t.

In those last moments, any thought might have filled his mind. The feeling of the sun on his back. The total exhilaration of flying across the ground, going faster than anyone or anything around him. Falling in love and having a family… like others had families. But in the end, he thought of one thing. Actually, one person. His first. First hands that touched him. First eyes that loved him. First voice that told him what to do and how to do it. And told him he was worth something.

“I’m sorry,” a voice said.

He was lying on a table now. Only one other person was in the room with him. The lights were very bright and the smells were all wrong. Disinfectant and alcohol and something… something dangerous. He wanted to get up and run one last time, but his body wouldn’t move. Couldn’t move.

A hand on his face. Gentle. Eyes looking into his. Loving. A voice. Strange, but caring.

“It’ll be over soon,” the voice said.

He tried to focus, but his eyes wouldn’t. Couldn’t. And for a moment, he thought of that first day on the job. And his first. Smiling and laughing and telling him how well he was doing. He was so young and so stupid, but she didn’t care. The corners of his mouth turned up to something like a smile.

And then he thought he smelled something familiar. Someone he loved. Someone who once loved him. And his heart almost skipped. He wanted it to skip. Wanted to jump up. But he couldn’t.

It was sheer dumb luck that she was there on this day. On his last day. His first on his last. She was there to pick up some antibiotic ointment and she saw him. Knew him immediately.

“What happens after?” she asked.

“They didn’t want him back,” the doctor said quietly. “We’ll take care of it.”

The woman opened her bag, took out a small wad of bills and pressed it into the doctor’s hands. “I want it done right. I never… ”

Hand. Gentle. Eyes. Love. Voice. Hers.

“You did good,” the voice said. An old voice. The first voice. His first voice. “Good boy. You are such a good boy. And I love you.”

There was something sharp in his leg. He felt something fall on his nose. On his eyes.

“Best herding dog ever came out of my place. I never should’ve let him go.”

It was the last thing he heard… and it was enough.

Novels are big… really, really big. And they can seem daunting. But I have to admit, I don’t think they represent the hardest writing to tackle. With hundreds of pages, there is time to explore plot and character.  But a short story… You have to get in and out fast. Choose that perfect slice of time that is important and shine a light on it. Now that’s craft. 

Recently, a fellow writer offered a challenge to produce a short piece. The theme was death. Only a few hundred words long, rather than a few hundred pages. I accepted the challenge even though short stories intimidate me a little. I’m long winded in my writing and a consummate rewriter… which makes for a very long process. In this case, I allowed myself two hours to come up with the idea, write the story and edit it. This is what happened.

The First and Last

Run. 

Stop.

Turn.

 Run.

 Run.

 Stop.

 Run.

 Run.

That was his life. How it always was. How it always would be. Never stop. Never rest. Just run. If he didn’t run, bad things happened. If he didn’t run, his job was left undone and his purpose… well, if he didn’t run, he had no purpose. And without purpose, there was no reason for him. It was that simple.

Eyes were always on him. Always watching to make sure he did his job. Finish what he started. How the hell did he get here? What the fuck did he do to deserve this? Nothing. He had done nothing… but do what he was told. Without question. Maybe it was his fault. Maybe he should have said, “Enough. I’m done. This job you have, this money that’s so important… I want nothing to do with it. No one owns me. I own myself.” 

Run.

Run.

 Stop.

 Turn.

 Run.

 Run

Every moment, every day, every year of his life, he did his job without complaint and waiting. Waited for things to end. For rest. For reward. Sometimes it was there, waiting for him at the end of the job. Most of time there was nothing but a meal and a place to sleep. He thought about quitting. Just start running and not stop. He heard about someone who had. Just woke up one day and just decided enough was enough and ran.  He heard she made it to the next town before they found her and dragged her back to the job, but she was never the same.

 Neither was he.

It started as a stiffness in his joints, then a cough that wouldn’t stop.  One of the bosses took him to the doctor and he could tell right away by the look on everyone’s faces that the diagnosis wasn’t good.

But still he did his job.

Run. 

Run.

Cough.

 Run.

 Cough.

 Fall.

And now he stood or tried to stand, but he was shaky. Even after years of running, the legs that carried him every moment of every day of every year failed him. As everyone, in the end, failed him.

Another trip to the doctor and the verdict was delivered. Tears would’ve been nice, but he knew better. Tears were too valuable for someone like him. Someone who just did his job. Without question. Every moment of every day of every year.

Until he couldn’t.

In those last moments, any thought might have filled his mind. The feeling of the sun on his back. The total exhilaration of flying across the ground, going faster than anyone or anything around him. Falling in love and having a family… like others had families. But in the end, he thought of one thing. Actually, one person. His first. First hands that touched him. First eyes that loved him. First voice that told him what to do and how to do it.  And told him he was worth something.

“I’m sorry,” a voice said.

He was lying on a table now. Only one other person was in the room with him. The lights were very bright and the smells were all wrong. Disinfectant and alcohol and something… something dangerous. He wanted to get up and run one last time, but his body wouldn’t move. Couldn’t move.

 A hand on his face. Gentle. Eyes looking into his. Loving. A voice. Strange, but caring.

 “It’ll be over soon,” the voice said.

He tried to focus, but his eyes wouldn’t. Couldn’t. And for a moment, he thought of that first day on the job. And his first. Smiling and laughing and telling him how well he was doing. He was so young and so stupid, but she didn’t care. The corners of his mouth turned up to something like a smile.

And then he thought he smelled something familiar. Someone he loved. Someone who once loved him. And his heart almost skipped. He wanted it to skip. Wanted to jump up. But he couldn’t.

It was sheer dumb luck that she was there on this day. On his last day. His first on his last. She was there to pick up some antibiotic ointment and she saw him. Knew him immediately.

“What happens after?” she asked.

“They didn’t want him back,” the doctor said quietly. “We’ll take care of it.”

The woman opened her bag, took out a small wad of bills and pressed it into the doctor’s hands. “I want it done right. I never… ”

Hand. Gentle. Eyes. Love. Voice. Hers.

“You did good,” the voice said. An old voice. The first voice. His first voice.  “Good boy. You are such a good boy. And I love you.”

There was something sharp in his leg. He felt something fall on his nose. On his eyes.

“Best herding dog ever came out of my place. I never should’ve let him go.”

 It was the last thing he heard… and it was enough.

Yep, we're talking about my favorite pastime. Rewriting. Check out Writer Wednesday on Girl Who Reads to hear about the importance of craft and the rewrite process.

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