Niagara Falls

I had intended to post this story yesterday, however after rereading it I felt it was a little too depressing for Independence Day, so Happy Fifth!

Niagara Falls

“I know it's clichéd and ironic to say this at a funeral, but Nate really was always full of life.” Fabian says as he stands on the altar less than two feet behind my casket, and if he's half as sad as I expect him to be, he's hiding it expertly. I wonder if he feels he needs to put on a strong facade for my mom. Is it selfish to hope it is actually a false front and that he is genuinely upset at my death? Probably, but this is my funeral, screw etiquette. What else does my frat brother have to say?

“In college he was the de facto leader of our group, even after we'd grown into our own separate lives he was the one to bring us back. When we'd be out he was always the center of attention, not because he was the most charming or funniest of us, although now that I think about it he probably was, but simply because being around him made everyone else feel better. No one was allowed to be in a bad mood around Nate.” You always spoke so well in front of an audience, but that's not entirely true Fabian, what I always said is if on any day nothing goes as planned...

“He always said “If your day doesn't go as planned, change the plan.” I don't think I truly understood what he meant until the day he died.” I'll forgive you for interrupting me this one time buddy... jokes aren't as funny when no one else can hear them. “People always say 'live each day to the fullest' but no one does, I won't even pretend that Nate did, but what he did do was make the most with what he was given. He didn't come from a wealthy family, but his parents instilled in him from a young age strong morals that carried with him to his last day. These morals drove him to exceed at every academic level, eventually leading him to succeed professionally, although none of us ever understood what exactly it was he did.” That wasn't funny people, stop laughing. I am... was a National Operation Manager overseeing the country wide vended business services for... never mind. If you couldn't get it when I was alive, no point in trying now.

“Nate was the first of us to meet our wives, even if he was the last of us to actually get married. He met Amber on a trip we took our senior year of college, and they started dating almost immediately after.” You old softy, you are sad. Why else wouldn't you mention where the trip was to? “They might not have gotten married right away, but everyone close to them knew that what Nate and Amber had was legit and would last forever. Sadly, none of us knew how short forever was. After years of dating, two of my best friends tied the knot.” You hate that saying Fabian.

“Having dated for so long, and growing as close as any couple could, they decided the only place they could get married was at the same location they first met.” Again you're avoiding the location. Not saying the place doesn't make the events any less real man. I'm sorry this hurts so much, but I promise you'll be happy again, all of you here will. “While they waited so long to get married they seemed to have rushed to have kids. I'm sure if someone were to actually do the math, we'd see that their daughter, Courtney, was born less than nine months from their wedding, but we'll let them have that secret.”

Fabian chokes up at her name, his first real sign of what he's dealing with internally. “Forgive me if this sounds cruel, but Courtney's birth really was the beginning of their problems. Understand, I loved that girl as if she were my own...” No one's blaming you man, no one's judging you. You're doing good, not much more to tell. “She was an angel, but she wasn't long for this world. I don't know why, but she was taken from them, from all of us too soon. Her health problems started before she was even twelve months, and she passed on her second birthday. The unimaginable pain Amber and Nate must have gone through was too much for Amber's body. She soon became sick, almost like her heart couldn't go on without her angel and two short years later, on what would have been Courtney's fourth birthday she left Nate also.”

This is it Fabian, you're almost at the end, stay strong get through this and go home to your wife and kids, and love them like I never had the chance to do. “Being Mr. Sunshine, Nate tried to hide the pain he was in, but he couldn't fool any of us, a complete stranger could have seen the pain he was in. For two years Nate put on the face of a man who was content with his allotment in life. What none of us knew, but we should have been able to guess is that he decided to 'change the plan'. Exactly two years after his wife's death, and four years after his daughter died Nate took his life. The spot he first met Amber, and where he shared his nuptials with her, will always be the placed he jumped out of our lives, and I can't blame him. No one should have gone through what he did, but you'll forgive me if I never return there. Thank you, and cheers.” You seriously snuck a beer onto the altar? Well played sir, well played indeed. I'll have one ready for you when we see each other again, which hopefully won't be for many, many years. “Here's to Nate, I hope the new plan brought you happiness.”

 I wrote this story nearly three times before I had this finished piece. The first two times were variations of people going over the falls in a barrel which seemed too easy of a pick. I now know more about the first person to go over the falls than I’d care to, and attempted to create the first married couple to do so together, but again it all seemed like the easy way out. However, it wasn’t all for naught because it led to the story you just read.

While it is a rather depressing story, I feel at the core there’s a great lesson, and the main character said it beautifully, “If your day’s not going as planned, change the plan.” I was impressed with myself when I wrote that one, hope you were too, and appreciate the meaning behind the words.

Niagara Falls

Niagara Falls

“I know it's clichéd and ironic to say this at a funeral, but Nate really was always full of life.”  Fabian says as he stands on the altar less than two feet behind my casket, and if he's half as sad as I expect him to be, he's hiding it expertly.  I wonder if he feels he needs to put on a strong facade for my mom.  Is it selfish to hope it is actually a false front and that he is genuinely upset at my death?  Probably, but this is my funeral, screw etiquette.   What else does my frat brother have to say?

“In college he was the de facto leader of our group, even after we'd grown into our own separate lives he was the one to bring us back.  When we'd be out he was always the center of attention, not because he was the most charming or funniest of us, although now that I think about it he probably was, but simply because being around him made everyone else feel better.  No one was allowed to be in a bad mood around Nate.”   You always spoke so well in front of an audience, but that's not entirely true Fabian, what I always said is if on any day nothing goes as planned...

“He always said “If your day doesn't go as planned, change the plan.” I don't think I truly understood what he meant until the day he died.”  I'll forgive you for interrupting me this one time buddy... jokes aren't as funny when no one else can hear them.  “People always say 'live each day to the fullest' but no one does, I won't even pretend that Nate did, but what he did do was make the most with what he was given.  He didn't come from a wealthy family, but his parents instilled in him from a young age strong morals that carried with him to his last day.  These morals drove him to exceed at every academic level, eventually leading him to succeed professionally, although none of us ever understood what exactly it was he did.”  That wasn't funny people, stop laughing.  I am... was a National Operation Manager overseeing the country wide vended business services for... never mind.  If you couldn't get it when I was alive, no point in trying now.  

“Nate was the first of us to meet our wives, even if he was the last of us to actually get married.  He met Amber on a trip we took our senior year of college, and they started dating almost immediately after.”  You old softy, you are sad.  Why else wouldn't you mention where the trip was to?  “They might not have gotten married right away, but everyone close to them knew that what Nate and Amber had was legit and would last forever.  Sadly, none of us knew how short forever was.  After years of dating, two of my best friends tied the knot.”  You hate that saying Fabian.

“Having dated for so long, and growing as close as any couple could, they decided the only place they could get married was at the same location they first met.” Again you're avoiding the location.  Not saying the place doesn't make the events any less real man.  I'm sorry this hurts so much, but I promise you'll be happy again, all of you here will.  “While they waited so long to get married they seemed to have rushed to have kids.  I'm sure if someone were to actually do the math, we'd see that their daughter, Courtney, was born less than nine months from their wedding, but we'll let them have that secret.”

Fabian chokes up at her name, his first real sign of what he's dealing with internally.  “Forgive me if this sounds cruel, but Courtney's birth really was the beginning of their problems.  Understand, I loved that girl as if she were my own...”  No one's blaming you man, no one's judging you. You're doing good, not much more to tell.  “She was an angel, but she wasn't long for this world.  I don't know why, but she was taken from them, from all of us too soon.  His health problems started before she was even twelve months, and she passed on her second birthday.  The unimaginable pain Amber and Nate must have gone through was too much for Amber's body.  She soon became sick, almost like her heart couldn't go on without her angel and two short years later, on what would have been Courtney's fourth birthday she left Nate also.”

This is it Fabian, you're almost at the end, stay strong get through this and go home to your wife and kids, and love them like I never had the chance to do.  “Being Mr. Sunshine, Nate tried to hide the pain he was in, but he couldn't fool any of us, a complete stranger could have seen the pain he was in.  For two years Nate put on the face of a man who was content with his allotment in life.  What none of us knew, but we should have been able to guess is that he decided to 'change the plan'.  Exactly two years after his wife's death, and four years after his daughter died Nate took his life.  The spot he first met Amber, and where he shared his nuptials with her, will always be the placed he jumped out of our lives, and I can't blame him.  No one should have gone through what he did, but you'll forgive me if I never return there.  Thank you, and cheers.”  You seriously snuck a beer onto the altar?  Good for you sir, I'll have one ready for you when we see each other again, which hopefully won't be for many, many years.  “Here's to Nate I hope you found your happiness again.”

I wrote this story nearly three times before I had this finished piece.  The first two times were variations of people going over the falls in a barrel which seemed to easy of a pick.   I know more about the first person to go over the falls than I’d care to, and attempted to create the first married couple to do so together, but again it all seemed like the easy way out.  However, it wasn’t all for naught because it led to the story you just read. 

While it is a rather depressing story, I feel at the core there’s a great lesson, and the main character said it beautifully, “If your day’s not going as planned, change the plan.” I was impressed with myself when I wrote that one, hope you were too, and see the meaning behind the words.

Mardi Gras

Mardi Gras

While it may seem like this would be an easy topic, it proved more difficult than expected.  All I knew when this topic was chosen was that it had to be about a virgin nerd.  Initially I had planned on the main character being a female, but with the ending I had in mind it would have proven to be too dark, and I wanted to lighten the mood after my previous entry.

“I can’t believe I didn’t want to come here!” Mark says as he leans over the shoulder of one of his friends. “Thank you for convincing me to come, best birthday ever!”

Not amused at Mark interrupting his conversation with a girl, his friend tells Mark “Go hit on some girls.”

Not needing any further prompts, Mark shouts to a nearby girl, “Show me your tits!” with no beads in hand.  Following a look of disgust the girl unsurprisingly walks away. “Fucking prude, go back to Idaho.”  Mark uses the same line on the next five girls he sees; three of which oblige.

Finding his best friend, Hank, at a bar two doors away, Mark runs up to him.  While standing between Hank and the girl he was talking to, he exclaims “I’ve seen thirty five tits today! How great is New Orleans, man? Why are you just standing here alone?”

Looking over Mark’s shoulder, Hank sees that the girl has walked away. “Have you talked to any girls Mark? We’ve been here for nearly a week and all of us have gotten laid.”

Feeling his buzz slowly die down, Mark sheepishly answers, “Come one Hank, you know I can’t talk to girls like that, I’m too shy.”

“Back home maybe, but you also wouldn’t tell a girl to show you her tits back home; you wouldn’t even drink back home.”  Waiting for his comments to sink in, Hank then continues “This is Mardi Gras, you don’t have to be the Mark who puked from non-alcoholic beer.  You can be the Mark who loses his virginity.”  Seeing that Mark is catching on, Hank enthusiastically adds, “You don’t even have to be Mark, you can be Pilot Dan, Firefighter Bill, or Tom ‘fuckin’ Cruise, but that might not help anymore.  This is Mardi Gras and you can be anyone, so why the fuck are you talking to me?”

As if he was just prepped for war, Mark screams a primal yell then turns and runs… right into a six foot three bouncer built like a tank.

In a deep yet nonthreatening voice the bouncer warns, “Easy there killer.”

Unphased by the ebony mountain of man, Mark defiantly shouts, “This is my birthday, this is now my bar, I don’t have to take it easy!”

Seeing the exchange, it is now Hank’s turn to step in between, “I’m sorry sir, he doesn’t usually drink. I’ll go lock him in his room for the rest of the trip.”

Pulling Mark away from the bouncer by the collar of his shirt, “Dude, you clearly got the wrong message.  When I said you can be anyone, I didn’t mean you’re suddenly a seven foot tall black belt who can take on the black Hercules guarding this place. I meant you can lie to girls to get laid.”

Defeated Mark acknowledges Hank’s reasoning and exits the bar through a door the bouncer is far away from. “I need to get laid.” Walking on the famed Bourbon St he’s quickly distracted by the novelty of legally walking in public while holding a drink. “The whole world should be like this.”

Paying more attention to his diminishing drink then where he’s going, Mark ventures off of Bourbon St., something his friends warned him about.  Content in his stupor Mark travels away from the festive lights and sounds.  The further he walks the sparser the people on the street get, until he comes to a group of youths walking in the middle of the street.

No paying them any mind, Mark continues walking undeterred when the silence is broken. “Hey cracker, you a long way from the party, eh?”

***

Mark wakes up the following afternoon by the jostling of his friend, “Hey man, wake up! What happened to you?”

Wiping the sleep out of his eyes, Mark replies with a condescending tone, “Obviously I had a great time, I don’t remember a thing.”

“Listen douche, something’s wrong.  You’re bleeding, looks like you got the shit kicked out of you.” Hank practically carries Mark to the mirror to reveal the many lacerations on his face and upper body. “Someone beat the beat your ass but didn’t take your wallet or money, so you must have pissed them off.”

With concern in his voice Mark barely manages to utter, “I don’t know what happened. Last I remember, we were eating dinner.”

“Shit man that was 10 o’clock, fourteen hours ago.  I didn’t think someone could black out for that long.”

Panicked, Mark exclaims, “We need to go to the police.”

“And say what?” Hank rationalizes the situation, “You got beat up for reasons unknown, by a person or group of people you can’t identify somewhere in the city.  Your injuries aren’t that bad, and nothing was stolen.”

“Where are my glasses?”

Hank squeezes the bridge of his nose, “Probably in a pool of your blood.” We leave tomorrow afternoon, just survive today and you’ll be fine.”  Pulling a shirt from a shopping bag, he tosses it to Mark, “One of the guys hot you this, thinks it’ll help you get laid.”

Mark holds up the white t-shirt and reads aloud, “Still a virgin, Please help.” Crumpling it up he scoffs, “That’s so gay.”

“Wear it or not either way just be careful today. I’ve got a date with a bartender so I won’t be able to babysit you.”

***

Three bottles of electrolyte filled sports drinks and a half hour shower later Mark has just begun to regain his bearings.  Even knowing Hank was right about being more careful tonight, he took exception to the way he said it.  “I’m twenty-one now, I haven’t needed a babysitter since I was sixteen.”

Deciding he was going to teach his friend a lesson in respecting the new Mark, he drinks the remaining four beers and half bottle of orange flavored vodka in the hotel room.  Reinvigorated by the hair of the dog, Mark tries to map out his plans for his final night in Paradise.  He knows his only goal has to be to finally get laid.

Emerging from his room at ten Mark joins most of the friends for dinner ad is already more drunk than any of them would like.  Not wanting to have to care for him they all promptly finish their dinner and head out on their own, leaving Mark to pay the bill.

An hour later Mark is walking along Bourbon St still complaining about dinner, ignoring the many flashers along his way.  That is until he collides with a large woman with even larger breasts. Amazed at the size of the tits he just accidentally touched, Mark isn’t even aware that he split his drink.  Either too drunk or too happy, the woman wasn’t upset at all. “Don’t worry about it cutie, just look where you’re going.” The woman jovially says with a pat on Mark’s butt.

Happy with the compliment and semi-sexual touch, the anger leaves Mark, the alcohol does not.  Ignoring the advice he enters the closest bar without looking where he was going.  The alcohol renders Mark unable to identify the multicolored flag that’s all over the door and interior of the bar on the corner of Bourbon St. and St. Pete St.

Although the bar had more guys than Mark would have liked, they were all friendly and the girls their seemed to be having a god time.  He figures it’s worth staying for a couple of drinks.

Befriending a group of guys and explains he needs to lose his virginity hoping they could be of more use than his friends.

***

***

Mark will wake up the following morning to discover that his new friends did in fact help pop his cherry, however perhaps not in the way he intended.

“I can’t believe I didn’t want to come here!” Mark says as he leans over the shoulder of one of his friends. “Thank you for convincing me to come, best birthday ever!”

Not amused at Mark interrupting his conversation with a girl, his friend tells Mark “Go hit on some girls.”

Not needing any further prompts, Mark shouts to a nearby girl, “Show me your tits!” with no beads in hand.  Following a look of disgust the girl unsurprisingly walks away. “Fucking prude, go back to Idaho.”  Mark uses the same line on the next five girls he sees; three of which oblige.

Finding his best friend, Hank, at a bar two doors away, Mark runs up to him.  While standing between Hank and the girl he was talking to, he exclaims “I’ve seen thirty five tits today! How great is New Orleans, man? Why are you just standing here alone?”

Looking over Mark’s shoulder, Hank sees that the girl has walked away. “Have you talked to any girls Mark? We’ve been here for nearly a week and all of us have gotten laid.”

Feeling his buzz slowly die down, Mark sheepishly answers, “Come one Hank, you know I can’t talk to girls like that, I’m too shy.”

“Back home maybe, but you also wouldn’t tell a girl to show you her tits back home; you wouldn’t even drink back home.”  Waiting for his comments to sink in, Hank then continues “This is Mardi Gras, you don’t have to be the Mark who puked from non-alcoholic beer.  You can be the Mark who loses his virginity.”  Seeing that Mark is catching on, Hank enthusiastically adds, “You don’t even have to be Mark, you can be Pilot Dan, Firefighter Bill, or Tom ‘fuckin’ Cruise, but that might not help anymore.  This is Mardi Gras and you can be anyone, so why the fuck are you talking to me?”

As if he was just prepped for war, Mark screams a primal yell then turns and runs… right into a six foot three bouncer built like a tank.

In a deep yet nonthreatening voice the bouncer warns, “Easy there killer.”

Unphased by the ebony mountain of man, Mark defiantly shouts, “This is my birthday, this is now my bar, I don’t have to take it easy!”

Seeing the exchange, it is now Hank’s turn to step in between, “I’m sorry sir, he doesn’t usually drink. I’ll go lock him in his room for the rest of the trip.”

Pulling Mark away from the bouncer by the collar of his shirt, “Dude, you clearly got the wrong message.  When I said you can be anyone, I didn’t mean you’re suddenly a seven foot tall black belt who can take on the black Hercules guarding this place. I meant you can lie to girls to get laid.”

Defeated Mark acknowledges Hank’s reasoning and exits the bar through a door the bouncer is far away from. “I need to get laid.” Walking on the famed Bourbon St he’s quickly distracted by the novelty of legally walking in public while holding a drink. “The whole world should be like this.”

Paying more attention to his diminishing drink then where he’s going, Mark ventures off of Bourbon St., something his friends warned him about.  Content in his stupor Mark travels away from the festive lights and sounds.  The further he walks the sparser the people on the street get, until he comes to a group of youths walking in the middle of the street.

No paying them any mind, Mark continues walking undeterred when the silence is broken. “Hey cracker, you a long way from the party, eh?”

***

Mark wakes up the following afternoon by the jostling of his friend, “Hey man, wake up! What happened to you?”

Wiping the sleep out of his eyes, Mark replies with a condescending tone, “Obviously I had a great time, I don’t remember a thing.”

“Listen douche, something’s wrong.  You’re bleeding, looks like you got the shit kicked out of you.” Hank practically carries Mark to the mirror to reveal the many lacerations on his face and upper body. “Someone beat the beat your ass but didn’t take your wallet or money, so you must have pissed them off.”

With concern in his voice Mark barely manages to utter, “I don’t know what happened. Last I remember, we were eating dinner.”

“Shit man that was 10 o’clock, fourteen hours ago.  I didn’t think someone could black out for that long.”

Panicked, Mark exclaims, “We need to go to the police.”

“And say what?” Hank rationalizes the situation, “You got beat up for reasons unknown, by a person or group of people you can’t identify somewhere in the city.  Your injuries aren’t that bad, and nothing was stolen.”

“Where are my glasses?”

Hank squeezes the bridge of his nose, “Probably in a pool of your blood.” We leave tomorrow afternoon, just survive today and you’ll be fine.”  Pulling a shirt from a shopping bag, he tosses it to Mark, “One of the guys hot you this, thinks it’ll help you get laid.”

Mark holds up the white t-shirt and reads aloud, “Still a virgin, Please help.” Crumpling it up he scoffs, “That’s so gay.”

“Wear it or not either way just be careful today. I’ve got a date with a bartender so I won’t be able to babysit you.”

***

Three bottles of electrolyte filled sports drinks and a half hour shower later Mark has just begun to regain his bearings.  Even knowing Hank was right about being more careful tonight, he took exception to the way he said it.  “I’m twenty-one now, I haven’t needed a babysitter since I was sixteen.”

Deciding he was going to teach his friend a lesson in respecting the new Mark, he drinks the remaining four beers and half bottle of orange flavored vodka in the hotel room.  Reinvigorated by the hair of the dog, Mark tries to map out his plans for his final night in Paradise.  He knows his only goal has to be to finally get laid.

Emerging from his room at ten Mark joins most of the friends for dinner ad is already more drunk than any of them would like.  Not wanting to have to care for him they all promptly finish their dinner and head out on their own, leaving Mark to pay the bill.

An hour later Mark is walking along Bourbon St still complaining about dinner, ignoring the many flashers along his way.  That is until he collides with a large woman with even larger breasts. Amazed at the size of the tits he just accidentally touched, Mark isn’t even aware that he split his drink.  Either too drunk or too happy, the woman wasn’t upset at all. “Don’t worry about it cutie, just look where you’re going.” The woman jovially says with a pat on Mark’s butt.

Happy with the compliment and semi-sexual touch, the anger leaves Mark, the alcohol does not.  Ignoring the advice he enters the closest bar without looking where he was going.  The alcohol renders Mark unable to identify the multicolored flag that’s all over the door and interior of the bar on the corner of Bourbon St. and St. Pete St.

Although the bar had more guys than Mark would have liked, they were all friendly and the girls their seemed to be having a god time.  He figures it’s worth staying for a couple of drinks.

Befriending a group of guys and explains he needs to lose his virginity hoping they could be of more use than his friends.

***

***

Mark will wake up the following morning to discover that his new friends did in fact help pop his cherry, however perhaps not in the way he intended.

Hypothermia

Hypothermia

Alex Azar

Winter is over. It’s this belief that damned Sophie Ting. She’s not used to the difference in seasons from Japan to Jersey. Growing up in Japan the passing of winter was immediately followed by the sprouting of new flowers, and blooming of trees. She didn’t know that in New Jersey you can still wear a t-shirt through November, and that April showers sometimes turn into snowfall.

That very same snow caused Sophie to lose track of the path in the woods that led to her awaiting friends. Thinking she’s headed in the right direction, Sophie quickens her pace, but the realization she was heading the wrong way sets in when she comes to a brook, rapid with fresh melted snow, a brook that she didn’t cross when heading into the woods to go to relieve herself.

Turning to return in the direction she came, she sees a figure move behind a tree. A figure much too large to be any of her girlfriends who have more than likely stopped smoking up just long enough to ask if Sophie returned from taking a piss. She calls to the wind and the mystery figure she’s no longer sure she even saw, but there’s no response. Deciding it best to not to find out, she begins to follow the bank of the brook assuming she’ll eventually come to some landmark of significance.

After half an hour of following the river, Sophie's jeans and hoodie sweatshirt no longer suffice in fighting off the cold. Again she can swear she sees a shadow move behind a tree to her left. Already scared of the impending nightfall this is enough to push Sophie as she breaks into a run as fast as her cold bones allow her to move.

Five minutes of this brings Sophie to a patch of grass devoid of any snow. Figuring she's put enough distance between her and the shadow, Sophie takes a seat on a relatively dry stone. Just as she gets in a comfortable position, she hears a branch break. Without a second thought Sophie's in another full sprint yelling for help. Scared beyond all reason, Sophie decides to cross the brook at a point she feels is thin enough to jump across. On any other day if her legs were working up to par, Sophie may have made the jump; unfortunately, her jump is just short and she lands near the opposite bank and slips on a stone beneath the water.

No longer able to run, Sophie goes to hide within the trees. Rounding a tree she trips over a root that in a week’s time would surely have been visible, but as it stands today is mostly covered with snow. She lands head first into a tree bending her neck at an awkward position, not hard enough to break her neck, but it's guaranteed to be sore if she regains consciousness. During her fall a low hanging branch catches on the hood of her thin sweatshirt, ripping it down the back in jagged fashion.

Revealed on the back of her limp body, is the upper portion of an elaborate tiger tattoo. A tattoo that suggests more of her past than any of her stoned friends know about. A tattoo that may hold clues as to Sophie's paranoia and fear of being followed, or simply a tattoo that will entice the possible stranger in the shadows.

I owe the origin to this story entirely on my trip to Florida in the summer of 2010.  While there, I attended a tattoo/comic convention that was mediocre at best.  However, my friend’s tattoo booth was next to an old Asian man who had a lot of ‘tattoo art’ on display.  They were mostly Asian girls with elaborate tattoos.

One painting in particular caught my eye, of a girl crouched on one knee in the middle of a snow covered field, with dead trees and rocks around her.  She was only barely covered by a blanket, and revealed on her back was the majority of a large tiger tattoo. 

But what struck out the most were the streaks of mascara running down her face from tears as she stared at the ground.  I couldn’t help but wonder how she came to this situation, but even more so what happened next.

Admittedly, I altered some of the aspects of the painting to fit the story.  I submitted this in for a seasonal anthology calling for stories set in spring.  Ultimately, the story was rejected, but I’m happy with how it turned out.

Landslides

I started this story while at the airport waiting to fly to Tampa. This piece was a long time in the making in that I took a several month hiatus after “Kinetic Art”.  At the airport I decided to continue the project by completing another entry by the time I landed back in Jersey.  As it turns out the story was completed mere minutes after the plane took off; essentially the piece was completed less than two hours and really invigorated me on finishing the Alphabet Project. 

Landslides

by Alex Azar

“Don’t worry baby, you heard the lady from Off*Moon. We have about an hour of air and they know where we are.  She’s sending rescue people now.” Lauren tries to comforting her five year old son, Lester.

The truth of the matter is that she’s just as scared as her son, if not more.  Still not sure what happened, all she remembers is driving along the coast and suddenly her car being surrounded by mud blacking out her windows.

Lester was in his ‘big boys’ seat playing with his action figures and didn’t notice what was happening until it was over.  This helped delay his reaction, but siting in the buried car for fifteen minutes has pushed him to the limit. “But mom, we’re going to be late and miss dad at the airport.  Can’t you just drive?”

“Baby, the car is surrounded right now.”  Wanting to save what air they do have, Lauren doesn’t want to talk too much.  “Go to sleep and I’ll wake you up when the get here to help us out.”

Lester quiets down, but she can tell that he’s not comforted at all, “Daddy will wait for us, I promise. Come sit up here with me, we’ll nap together.

Fifteen minutes later Lauren is woken up by Lester shifting in his seat. “Baby what’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry mommy, I have to make pee-pee.” Squirming some more Lester explains, “I don’t want to mess your new car.”

Laughing Lauren is surprised she’s able to find any humor in this situation. “Baby, I don’t think we have to worry about that anymore.” Reaching into the back seat she asks, “Did you finish your sippy-cup?”

“No, there’s still some.”

Finding the cup, Lauren can tell it’s just less than half filled, “Why don’t you drink what you can, then go pee-pee in it.”

Shaking his head violently, Lester nearly shouts, “I can’t mommy.”

Seeing the pain on his face, she bites the bullet and drinks the juice even though she has to go herself. “Go in the back and be sure to hold the cup steady.”

After doing his business, Lester hands his mother the cup, nearly filled to the brim, but spills most of it after he steps on one of his action figures. “I’m sorry mommy.” Crying before Lauren can even react, he throws his face into the cushion of the back seat.

“Baby, Lester, it’s okay. I’m going to have to get a new car anyway.” Reaching back with both arms, “Come back to the front.”

Picking up her son, Lauren exclaims “Wow, you’re a big boy now, huh? Soon you’ll be able to sit up front with me, and we’ll make daddy sit in the back.” As soon as the words left her mouth she knew it was a mistake.

“Daddy is at the airport now, isn’t he?” Lester barely whispers as he nuzzles his head into his mom’s bosom.

Finding no other options but to tell the truth, “Yes he is already waiting for us, and don’t you think he’s going to be surprised at the story we tell him when we get there?”

Petting Lester’s head Lauren is able to lull him back to sleep, but the panic of the situation is weighing too heavily on her to sleep again.

Its been half an hour since she spoke to the Off*Moon representative, and Lauren has figured there’s other cars trapped as well; after all she wasn’t the only one on the road. She thinks to herself, ‘What if there’s a car with a toddler also trapped, or more than one baby?  They’d have to save them first.’ Panic sets in, and although she doesn’t want to wake Lester, she’s compelled to call Off*Moon and check on the status of Lester’s rescue.

As a lifelong career woman, Lauren never wanted kids, but due to a reversal in her husband’s vasectomy, Lester, most definitely a mistake, was brought into this world and she’s been thankful every day since.  It’s these events from five short years ago that has caused Lauren to care more for Lester’s survival than she thought was possible.

Connecting the line with Off*Moon Lauren can’t  take her eyes off of Lester. With tears running down her cheeks, she asks “Are you going to be able to save us?”

Without any pause for thought the faceless voice replies, “Ma’am, rescue workers are on scene and we have every confidence you’ll be safe long before air runs out.  Off*Moon has reports of three other cars in your immediate area, and you are each a priority.”

Scared of the situation, Lauren takes out her frustration on the monotone voice, “You say we’re all priorities, but have any of the other cars been rescued yet?”

“Ma’am, I understand the situation you’re in, but…”

Once again cutting her off, Lauren screams “No you don’t! I don’t know where you are, but I know you’re not trapped in your car with your five year old son!”

The exchange wakes Lester, but his young instincts tell him to keep quiet while his mom vents. Instead he silently shifts from the driver’s seat to the passenger seat.

Lauren sees that Lester is trying to be brave but her yelling didn’t help the situation. She looks in his eyes, but can’t find any words to comfort him.

Lester breaks the silence by asking “Why do you and the lady keep talking about the air?”

Unable to answer his question without further frightening her son, instead Lauren deflects and suggests “Why don’t w play twenty questions? You think of something or someone and I’ll ask questions.”

Already thinking of someone, Lester just nods his head, so Lauren asks, “Are you a person?”

“Yes, 19.”

“Are you famous?”

“No, 18.”

Knowing who her son picked, Lauren draws the game out for his benefit as well as hers “Are you someone in this car?”

“No, 17.”

“Are you someone I spoke to today?”

“Yes, 16.”

“Do you work for Off*Moon?”

“Mom, I said I’m not someone in the car.”

“Okay, okay. She’s not really someone in the car anyway. Are you flying on an airplane today?”

“Yes, 14.”

“Are you dad?”

Excited he thought of someone that took his mother so many questions to answer, Lester exclaims, “Yes, your turn.”

Seeing the smile on her son’s face Lauren can’t help but take a moment to wonder how she brought something so precious into the world.  She questions how she ever thought about not having children.  Then she sees the time, and notices there’s only ten minutes until she was told she’d run out of air.  “OK one more game, then let’s take another nap.”

“Are you a person?”

“No, 19.”

“Are you something famous?”

“More like infamous, but no, 18.”

“Are you something hard?”

“No, 17.”

“Do you smell?”

“Yes, 16.”

“Do you smell bad?”

“Definitely, 15.”

“Are you a kind of water?”

“You mean a liquid? Yes, 14.”

“Are you pee-pee?”

“Be more specific.”

“Mom you can’t be my pee-pee in the car. I said I was sorry.”

Laughing together, “You’re very smart to get that so quickly.” Patting Lester’s head, she continues, “Now let’s get some sleep.”  The smile and mirth leaves her face when she sees that the game ate up five more minutes, and there’s still no sign of rescue.”

Watching Lester slowly drift back to sleep, Lauren whispers nearly inaudibly, “There’s no one else I’d rather be with.”

Lester’s sleepy response is little more than a mumble before the silence is disturbed by the Off*Moon chime. “Mrs. Lancaster, are you still with me?”

Not wanting to get her hopes up Lauren calmly responds, “Yes, we’re here.”

“Good, I’ve been informed that responders have reached the block your car is trapped on. I have notified them of your current air situation and they will be there momentarily.”

Lauren whispers a “thank you” that belies her joy. Lester has fallen asleep and she would like the next sounds he hears be his rescue.

After drifting in and out of sleep Lauren notices that it’s now one minute until they run out of air.  She confirms the time on her watch and anxiously presses the Off*Moon button.

The limited air has made it difficult for Lester to breath.  What begins as a low whine builds to a full blown cry.  Lauren can only shed tears of her own as she hears the whirring machines of the nearby rescue workers.  As the air dissipates so does Lester’s energy, as well as his cry.

Understanding the urgency of the situation the voice on the other end begins explaining immediately, “I’m sorry I can’t be certain, however responders are currently digging a car out now with a child screaming. I believe they have found your car, can you confirm this?”  with no response the voice questions, “Mrs. Lancaster are you there?... Mrs. Lancaster?”

Sorry for the delay, but I plan on continuing this project until it's completion and to avoid needing to take another lengthy hiatus, I aim to post the next story in a month, and hopefully continue every month until 'Z' has been completed and posted.  Thank you for sticking with it, and you can expect 'M' in a month.

Kinetic Art

Kinetic Art

by Alex Azar

This was an interesting letter. I'm pretty sure I bent the subject matter a little but technically it's still mostly accurate. I really like the concept of this story, and feel it has room to grow from flash fiction into at least a short story, so keep your eyes out for a revisit here.

“Fuck my life.”

“Please refrain from cursing, the audience can hear every word you say.” The voice informs Kenny with a stern tone through the mesh circle of the speaker above his head.

Kenny looks up at the speaker, shrugs his shoulders, “Sorry, I'm not even the type to curse much, but I never expected my life to bring me here.” He motions up and down his body indicating his lack of clothing, save for his wedgie inducing speedo.

“I'm a struggling artist confined to a store front window, damn near naked, as a piece of living art.”

“Kinetic art.” the voice corrects.

“Whatever you call it, I say FML.” As he gently bangs against the glass.

“Its only been three hours, Mr. Anderson. You're companions have yet to begin to complain. Do you plan on continuing this everyday?”

Kenny gives the speaker the finger before contemplating the terms of his contract: 12 hours a day for 30 days to do whatever he likes, however he;s provided no electronics or contact with the outside world beyond the ever watching crowd opposite the window. He's to bring his own food and use the crudely built toilet in view of all. And for reasons he can't finger out, he must only wear a speedo at all times.

These companions that this voice referred to are three other individuals under a similar contract. All four subjects have supplies and resources to work their chosen craft. For Kenny that means an easel and canvas with a full arrangement of brushes and palate of colors. Supposedly the others each specify in a different medium, but he can't say for sure since he's never met any of them.

Additionally, he hasn't even met the coordinator of this 'kinetic art' display. All communications thus far have been via email. Kenny was concerned at first, but when he was offered ten grand for a month's worth of no-work, he couldn't pass it up.

“Come on, hasn't it been twelve hours yet?” frustrated Kenny asks the faceless voice box.

“It's only been five hours Mr. Anderson. The door will automatically open when the twelve hours have elapsed. This exhibit is not intended to be interactive with me, please cease all communications, unless it is directed to the audience.”

“Does this mean you won't answer any more of my questions?

…

“Douche”

During the following two weeks, Kenny develops a routine: reporting in at two, 'people watch' for a few hours, have dinner, work on his new piece, but since he doesn't know what it'll be, progress is slow. Also since this project has begun, he's done more reading than in any other period in his life.

Not once in these two weeks has he heard from the speaker, but Kenny has this unconfirmed feeling that the person behind the voice is still watching. He often entertains the thought that one of the spectators that passes by daily is him, but he doesn't even know how to narrow down the field of spectators to make a choice.

Most of the day there's at least several people that pass by in an hour, but the street is just off the beaten path enough that around midnight there isn't anyone. It's at this time that he saves for his business on the toilet. Most days he'll sleep till the door opens, or tries to paint something.

On day seventeen his daily defecation was interrupted by a high pitched scream. Kenny looks up just in time to see a woman being dragged into a van. Kenny yells for help, which prompts the abductor to turn to Kenny. Upon noticing him, the abductor gives Kenny a devious grin and the middle finger.

“Hey, stop! I'll call the cops.” Banging frantically on the glass window, Kenny warns the abductor while simultaneously pleading for the speaker box voice to intervene. “Hey buddy, do you see what's going on? Call the cops! Hello!”

Without a response, Kenny is left to watch as the van drives off with the helpless woman in the back. He tries to break the glass while continuing to call the anonymous voice. “What the hell are you doing? Did you not see what the fuck just happened? You're not even watching anymore, are you?”

The door release Kenny soon after. Without his cellphone on hand, he quickly runs to a nearby diner and calls the police. A few hours later and the police are off with their investigation. The lead detective advises Kenny to continue his day as normal and they'll be in touch with Kenny with any developments.

An unmarked police car was stationed halfway down the block for the next two days. With nothing to show and an unrelated murder in the neighborhood, the cops were called off and reassigned. Kenny felt assured that whatever had happened was an isolated incident, and after more days was comfortable enough to resume his routine with one adjustment.

The days passed as though nothing had happened, and Kenny was once again with his pants down on day twenty eight. A similar scream as he heard over ten days ago, he looks up to again see the same man grabbing a woman, and tossing her into a similar, if not the same, van as before.

Kenny panics and stumbles when pulling up his pants, “Stop damn it, or I'll shoot!”

The abductor turns and laughs at Kenny, “Oh really? And with what gun?” With the prompt Kenny produces a .44 magnum, like the one Dirty Harry used, from his lunch bag. “Woah man, don't do anything stupid! Listen Mr. ...”

Before the abductor can finish what he was trying to say Kenny fires the gun, sending a bullet through the window and hitting it's target square in the shoulder. Over the cries of pain from the abductor Kenny hears the woman yelling back at him, “Kenny, what did you do?”

Fighting past the pain the abductor says through gritted teeth, “Mr. Anderson, you don't understand. You weren't the art, you were the subject, and you reacted beautifully!”

“Do I still get paid?”

The End

Unfortunately, at this point The Alphabet Project will be going on hiatus.  I wanted to be able to consistently post these stories until it's completion, however this will not be the case.  I've currently been working on other writings to actually be published, and have decided to focus my attention on those stories.  I'm very happy with how this project has developed and will definitely revisit and complete the alphabet, so keep an eye out for 'L' in the near future.

Juicing

Juicing

by Alex Azar

“Sweetie, you know I hate seeing you do that.”

With the needle still in his arm, “Then turn around bitch.” Doing what Jermaine says, Tabitha turns so he can’t see her tears. “You know I can’t let this slip, without football I’ve got nothing.”

Looking over her shoulder, “You’ve still got me.”

Not bothering to make eye contact, “Yea, for how long?”

That was the last straw for Tabitha this week, and she storms out of her boyfriend’s dorm.

The repetitive act of making and breaking up with his current flame enrages Jermaine. He punches the wall with his left hand, for fear of injuring his throwing arm. Grabbing a bottle of low-grade tequila from his top drawer, “Coach Conic, she just doesn’t understand. All this is to prove to you how much I still love this game.” He takes a long disgusting swig of the brown liquid, “Wish you were still here.” Another swig, “Just don’t know why you did it, what made you do it?”

***

Three years ago, a full year after Jermaine’s high school graduation, Coach Conic was found dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. A nearby suicide note explained that after his team’s perfect season and ensuing retirement he feared spending a lifetime “post perfection”. He ‘knew’ that no experience would ever be as satisfying.

He went on to address the players that served under him this season, and everyone before, asking them to not follow in his footsteps, but to remember what he taught them. Stating, that although he had no kids of his own, Conic was as proud of them as any father could be.

His funeral was attended by nearly every player he ever coached, including the two that made it o the pros. He was given an incredible ceremony, despite his unchristian death. He was even buried in his coach’s jacket.

The shock of his death affected his players differently; many who hadn’t continued to play in college joined teams almost immediately, some who had been playing quit, despite protests that Coach Conic wouldn’t have wanted it.

Jermaine, who was accepted into school on a full athletic scholarship, viewed Coach Conic’s suicide as a challenge to prove he will always play football for the love of the sport. Unfortunately, his dedication became an obsession that caused him to turn to steroids. He’s become too blinded to realize that he’s fallen into the same pitfalls the coach warned him, and the other players, about.

***

The day after his most recent break up with Tabitha, Jermaine played the worst game of his career, with two missed snaps, six sacks, three interceptions, and no touchdowns. Blaming Tabitha, the scene in his dorm was something out of “The Program”, resulting in him throwing her across the room.

Hearing the commotion, Jermaine’s center, Carl Teicher stormed the room, restraining Jermaine. “Tabitha, don’t you say a fucking word of this to anyone. Your damn fault his game was off today anyway. How the hell you gonna give him shit the night before a big game like that?”

As Carl has Jermaine pinned to the floor one of the wide receivers and another lineman enter the room. Carl tells the receiver to get Tabitha to her room and make sure she’s all right. But before she’s out the door, “Remember girl, don’t tell anyone.”

By this time Jermaine’s calmed down, “I’m cool. I’m cool; get your fat ass off me.” He explains he was so upset over the game and that he just snapped, didn’t mean to take it out on her, but she was the closest one around.

“Well QB, I think you need to stay away from her till the season’s done. At this rate we ain’t making the championship so we only got a few weeks left.”

Noticing a stash of needles exposed on the dresser the lineman interjects, “You should lay off of this too, man. You can’t deny this shit’s been fucking with you anymore.”

“No, it’s not that… I mean it is yea, but I fucked up. I was stressing, so I doubled the cycle. If I go back to my regular, I’ll be good, I swear.”

***

Jermaine did as promised, he cut down his dosage and it greatly helped his anger issues. So much so, that when his second promise resulted in Tabitha dating a basketball player, he didn’t snap. In fact he congratulated her, and warned her new boyfriend to treat her right.

All was in order again. Jermaine’s next two games were among his best, putting the disaster of a game in the back of his mind. Now it was the last game of the season, and while they may not have had the best year, Jermaine was ensuring The Timberwolves ended on a high note.

During the halftime speech, the coach is busy hyping the team up, telling them what he thinks they need to hear. Jermaine, excited to get back on the field and finish what he started, can’t help but compare his coach to Conic, and long for his high school days. Getting up to shout the huddle chant to finish the coach’s inspiration Jermaine quickly falls to his knees.

***

With it looking like The Timberwolves were going to end the season with a string of wins, they finish on the lowest note possible. Jermaine Worthman died at the age of 21 during halftime of the final game of the season from steroid abuse. It will later be discovered that he was supplied the drugs by his coach, as were several other players on the team, and players from years before.

After the tragedy, the football program suffered greatly, resulting in its eventual termination. Marred with controversy and negative press, the school would change the remaining teams’ name to The Wolves.

Several years later, a football program is reestablished, and because of Jermaine’s example, drug tests are no longer conducted by school officials, but instead by the state. The team never regained its prominence, but Jermaine Worthman’s jersey is proudly hung in the stadium.



This was a difficult one. Thinking of ‘juicing’, every story I came up with seemed like a different version of ‘Anger Management’. It was later I remember a scene from the movie The Program, which inspired the whole story. For those of you who have been following me on this project, you should recognize the main character and his mentor from a different story previously in the project, and in fact is a sequel to the ‘director’s cut’ of Coaching Team Sports that I mentioned in that ‘outro’.

Internships

Internships

}Ira worked at Marshal, Clearwater, and Bell for a month…

{No, he was an unpaid intern at the law firm.

}Excuse me, I’m telling this story.

{Well, I’m here to make sure you narrate it correctly.

}After a month of interning at MCB, Ira had made no friends or more to the point no connections for his future profession. No one at the firm even knew his name.

{Correction, the lunch lady knew his name. He ordered the same exact meal everyday he was there. And the recruiter knew his name.

}But technically, the recruiter doesn’t work at the office. So, yes the lunch lady knew his name, but no one that could have helped him with his career.

Everyday he’d make copies for this person; retrieve records for that person; almost always for the assistant of a lawyer, once or twice for an actual lawyer, and never for any of the partners.

{To make matters worse, Ira just moved to New York from Ohio. So, not only did he have no friends at ‘work’, he had no social life at all.

He would go back to his apartment every night thinking about quitting and returning home, but he didn’t want to give his father the satisfaction of being right.

}I think he was more scarred of being proven wrong. He put everything he had in law school, and spent more money than he had on his apartment. Failing at this, felt like an admission that he failed in life.

He didn’t make any of the sports teams in high school…

{And trust us he tried for all of them.

}…and his only girlfriend was in college and she left him for a professor. He had nothing left going for him. He forced himself to make it.

Speaking of females, he was quite smitten with Lynn from the office. Unfortunately for him, her last name’s Clearwater. She’s the daughter of one of the partners and on the path to be one of the top persecutors in the city. Unbeknownst to Ira, or anyone in the firm, Lynn is in a serious relationship with a lawyer from a different firm.

{Not that he’d have had a shot if she were single. I know I’m supposed to be defending the guy, but he really was a loser.

}That may be true, but he was also a good person. It may not be our place to say but he deserved a better lot in life.

He even baked Lynn a cake for her birthday, but he was asked to do a copy job that kept him away from the entire celebration. Lynn’s secretary by the name of Sheila even took credit for the cake

On his final day, it was all falling apart for Ira. Not only did he miss his opportunity to impress Lynn, he discovered the lie of the cake in the most demeaning of ways. He took a walk during his lunch, once again contemplating quitting the internship he found Lynn sitting on a park bench eating the cake he made. Then he watched as she fed the cake to her boyfriend from her own tongue.

He overheard Lynn’s boyfriend say that the cake was good, and Lynn responding that her secretary made it. Having taken more than he thought he ever could, Ira stormed over to the couple to expose the lie.

However, he was stopped with a pleasant surprise. Lynn recognized him from the office. About to express his joy over her knowing who he was, Lynn once again stopped him, she threatened to have him fired and beaten if he told anyone what he saw.

{That was enough for him, he ran away crying, not knowing what he saw that warranted a threat like that

}Sadly, that was the last straw. After, the deception of the cake, and the threatening by Lynn, he took his life.

{We’ve been doing this for a while now, and we just did not see this coming. He kept threatening to quit, never to actually kill himself.

}And after checking, no one thing done could be considered severe enough…

{Except maybe for the cake thing.

}…and they weren’t done maliciously…

{Except for the threatening.

}…He was just viewed and treated like a loser for so long, that he finally believed what he was hearing.

{He had no outs, so he created one for himself.

}It’s our opinion this was going to happen eventually, no avoiding it. Just so happens, this job was the catalyst.

{Even worse, it was an unpaid internship.


I wasn’t too thrilled with the topic from the get go, and everything I was thinking of for it was all cliché. So I decided my challenge for this story would be to do something new, I wrote it with two narrators and no dialogue. I don’t think it’s ever been done, and admittedly, I’m not too sure how well it works.



In my head the narrators were actually Ira’s guardian angels explaining to God why they failed. I didn’t want it reading like a religious story, so I didn’t play to that too much if at all. It was just for my amusement.

Grandparents

Grandparents

[For my non-Arab readers; Cedo means grandfather, where Tete is grandmother.]

I want to begin by saying that I am writing this as me, not a character, not some persona, but just (not-so) little ol’ me.  This is the first, and hopefully last, non-fiction story I’m writing for my Alphabet Project.  The point of this project for me was to expand my writing style.  I tend to focus on the supernatural, paranormal, and pretty much anything beyond normal life (for example take a look at ‘D’).  So to expand my styles, I knew I’d eventually write something personal, something about me, but I didn’t expect it to come up as soon as ‘G.’ 

            I’ll be the first to admit that I could have come up with a fictional story about grandparents that would have been great, but once I started thinking about it, I couldn’t get my real grandparents out of my head, and then my lack of knowledge of my paternal grandparents really drove me.  The conversations I had with my dad made me realize how ignorant I was to my own past.  I’m glad I took this little detour into the world of nonfiction, but I don’t plan on returning anytime soon.

     By the time I was born my paternal grandparents had already passed away.  Even worse than never having met them, my memories of the stories I heard about them are shoddy at best.  I think my grandmother died of Alzheimer’s several years after my grandfather passed.  I recall my father mentioning that his father was a jokester, vaguely remember my dad telling me a joke his father would say about wearing pants backwards so when he farted, the gas wouldn’t have to travel to the front to exit via the zipper.  Unfortunately, at this point I could be completely off, my memories typically are.  I feel to properly convey who they were I’d need to do a little research.

     My research begins by asking my sister if she knows whether our dad would be comfortable talking about his parents.  She doesn’t think he’d have a problem with it.  After explaining to her the nature of my inquiry, she tells me that she recalls that our grandmother was “very petite and sweet” and that she thinks they both died of old age. It was a little more information, but not enough to explain the mystery of who my grandparents were.

     Still unsure of whether the topic would upset my father, I decide to ask my brother.  Although he’s younger than our sister, I recall him talking about them. And… he remembers about as much as I do, maybe even less.  But both he and my sister think it’s a safe topic to approach our dad about it.

     Having dinner with my dad I bring up the topic of his parents, but I do so timidly.  Since my dad just cooked, I asked if his father cooked, knowing full well that men in the old country didn’t do a damned thing.  My dad actually scoffs at the question saying that men didn’t lift a finger.  I press a little further, and ask if grandma cooked.  He tells me that she was the best cook he ever knew.  Now I’m getting somewhere. Tete was a “very petite and sweet” great cook.  He goes on to tell me that she was the sweetest woman, and not just because she was his mother.  Ask anyone who knew her, and they’d verify this.

     “And what about Cedo?” I ask, thinking to continue the story of my late grandparents. 

Let me tell you, I was not expecting what my dad said next, “He was a son of a… gun.”  Clearly meant that he was a son of a bitch, but this was at the time he and Tete met.  He tells me that Cedo carried a gun with him almost everywhere he went because when he was younger, some Turks killed his brother in front of their mother, and he was justifiably jaded because of it. 

     Now, I’m definitely thinking that my jokester memory of him is way off, but he then tells me that upon meeting my grandmother Cedo wanted to marry her.  I doubt it was love at first sight, but he wanted her.  So when war broke out and he had to move his family he also moved her, and her three sisters (who she was caring for at the age of 14) and her son (understand this was a different time and a different country, it wasn’t unexpected for a girl to be married and a mother in her teens, in fact if a girl was in her 20’s and single there was something wrong).

     My father continues to tell me a story of his entire family that truly is worthy of a feature length movie.  He tells me of being so poor at one point that his brothers, cousins and himself would have to pool money together just to buy a soccer ball to play in the streets, or even having to fill a large sock with rags and whatnot to make a ball.  Furthermore, he talks of a war torn country, and being stranded in a different country for months with his brothers until an uncle was able to retrieve them.  And of his father giving shelter and a job to a son-in-law after becoming extremely poor.

     He told me that for all the hard times he experienced when he was younger, his brothers and he had fun; which really threw me back.  Obviously I knew things were different back then, and over there, but their social network was actually talking to people around them, including family.  And while I may be close to my family, I have to assume there’s a certain bond that can only be forged, by picking wheat out of cow shit to clean and eat as your only source of food for days.

     There’s still one question I haven’t built up the courage to ask, but won’t be able to properly finish this without.  How my grandparents died?  That, and if my dad can confirm my memory of Cedo and the fart joke.

     The following week I had a second conversation with my dad, and holding nothing back I asked how his parents died, thankfully there was a death at the time in the movie we were watching so there was some kind of segue.  At least one of my memories is correct, Tete died of Alzheimer’s, however she died after I was born.  The timeline is sketchy, but she visited America around the time I was born, she died a few years later overseas.  My dad believes she saw me as a baby, but he can’t confirm this. 

     Cedo died several years after suffering from a stroke in 1976.  Also, as with Tete, one of my memories is confirmed, Cedo was a jokester.  Unfortunately, Cedo did not tell the fart joke.  My dad tells me a different story involving Cedo, farts and a rooster, that isn’t appropriate here (ask me and I’ll gladly tell you about it).  He also tells me that Cedo was excellent at playing the oud, (*ah-ouhd) an instrument that resembles a cross of a guitar and a banjo (Google it).

*            *            *

     Maternally, I knew my grandparents fairly well for most of my life.  It would be at their house that every major holiday was spent.  The house is big enough for any typical family, but with my mom being one of ten children (that survived) we had anything but a typical family, but somehow that house always seemed the right size.  No matter how cramped it would get around the kitchen table or T.V. room table, there was always room for one more cousin or sibling. 

     My grandmother would spend countless hours cooking a meal that seemed to have no end, while my grandfather would silently sit in his favorite chair, with a sly smile on his face watching his grandkids scurry about.  A trickster in his own right, whether it was purposely miss-calling Justin – Jackson, or nonchalantly pulling an ear of a passerby, he was always able to bring a smile to others. 

     My favorite story of my grandfather is when he was driving me home after I had borrowed his car because mine had broken down.  He was known for being a notoriously bad driver, I say it with a smile on my face and mean it in the best way possible.  He’d driven onto people’s lawns, had to have the police bring him home, but most significantly (at least for this story) was how slow he drove.  He wasn’t just ‘old man’ slow, he drove like molasses going uphill in the winter slow, which is surprising because of how young hearted he was.  So on the return trip home, he had decided to drive, and being the respectful grandson that I am, I didn’t interject.  We were driving, having a good conversation, while he drove 20 MPH, in the fast lane of Route 17 South, all throughout out the conversation I’m wishing I were driving.  All of a sudden he stops the conversation, and points ahead of us on the road, and tells me (in Arabic) ‘This is how close you should be to the car in front of you while driving.’  I actually had to struggle for several seconds to even locate the car in question.  Upon seeing it, it was safe to surmise that two Mac trucks could have fit between us and the other car, that was quickly and steadily expanding the gap between us.  It’s a simple story with a punch line worthy of a chuckle, maybe, but thinking about it brings a bigger smile to my face now then when it happened in the car.  It entails everything worth noting about him: reliable? Check, he took the time to take me home while in the midst of his chores (and anyone who knew him knows how important they were to him). Bad driver? Double check. But most importantly, brings a smile to my face? Check.

     Unfortunately, that’s not the only story that comes to mind when thinking about him.  My cousin, Anthony, and I were at my brother’s house watching a football game, when Chris got the call.  Upon instantly seeing his face, I mouthed the word ‘Cedo’ to Anthony and we both knew without another word that he passed.  He wasn’t sick.  Yes, he was in the hospital several times in the last few years of his life, but he wasn’t ‘dying.’  He had no terminal illness, and was still putting smiles on the faces of all those around him.  His was the first death I’ve had to experience, and unfortunately, in the few short years since his death, too many have joined him.  His were also the first initials I had tattooed on me, as part of a memorial cross tattoo.

     Together my grandparents kept the family together.  Him, a carpenter by trade, working till the day he passed. And her, always quick to point out ones flaws, and sometimes a plus. However, when my grandfather passed, it had a major affect on the family.  Suddenly, Thanksgiving dinner is no longer held at the house, while the new location is equally inviting, the food is just as good, and family is still the epicenter of the event, it’s not my childhood memory.  Easter, has become a nonexistent event, lucky if three of the families show, and not likely at the same time.

     Most dramatic of all, is the affect it had on my grandmother.  She tries to be the matriarch of the family, tries to be ‘big momma’, but she squeezes too hard, and many of us have slipped through her fingers to go a different direction, myself included. 

     Reading that last sentence, I tell myself that I’ll see her more often, but deep in my heart, I know chances are I won’t see her until Christmas.  I write this in March.