Saturday, April 21, 2007

I'm not your typical teenager.

No, it's not because my name is Kitty Wilde. What were my parents thinking? I
guess they could have given me Panther or Tiger as a middle name or something
equally bad and tease-worthy. But, they didn't give me a middle name so I'm
stuck with Kitty Wilde. Oh yeah, Kitty isn’t short for Katherine either.
I don't see my parents that often – they reside mostly in the fifteenth
century but occasionally they'll take a trip here to the twenty first century.
Yip, this is the first indication that I am not your typical teenager.
You see, where I live and who my parents work for has a HUGE focus on history
and time travel.

It's called Interchron. Am I allowed to tell you that? Hmm, maybe not but I've
said it now haven't I? Anyway, what they do is send people back in time to
learn what REALLY happened in history. Problem is, most historians living now
dispute what the field researchers bring back because there's no evidence
today.

We can't exactly tell them where we get all our facts from because they'll
either: think we're crazy and deserve to be locked up, or they'll try and get
their hands on the ability to travel through time. Well, we know they won't
try for another two hundred and twelve days (we've had advanced warning).
To the outside world we don't exist. Or, if we do they think we're some weird
'society' and I've even heard us be described as a cult. If only they knew
what we did...

Growing up here is definitely different to growing up in the normal twenty
first century world. We get taught stories from history when we're just
toddlers and once we hit five not only do we learn maths, English and all that
other normal stuff but we learn history. And a lot of it. The coolest part
about getting this kind of education is once you turn fifteen the field trips
start.

Not everyone gets the chance to go on these field trips – only the best in the
class are selected. I don't know if that's really fair for the others but it
is definitely a great motivator to get on and study.

Anyway, the last field trip I went on was definitely the best. We visited the
Titanic. No, I’m not kidding. And no, I didn’t see Rose or Jack – they never
existed. I saw heaps of other people though: Captain Smith, Margaret Brown
a.k.a The Unsinkable Molly Brown, Ben Guggenheim, the Carter family and heaps
more. So many of them died though and I knew who wasn’t going to make it and I
tell you, it’s really hard not to run up to someone and tell them to do this
or that so that they actually survive.

Because there were so many people on board we didn’t get any funny looks and I
guess that everyone thought we belonged somewhere. We didn’t go to the first
class area much before we hit the ice berg because back then…society ruled. So
glad it’s not like that now.

We were well prepared – we had studied what we knew from books and biographies
and things and from a first hand account of one of our field researchers who
established himself on board. He left with us though and his pseudonym drowned
or froze to death. But with all this studying and learning what we had, there
was one thing that intrigued me – who let the dogs out?

Yes, there were actually dogs on board. And no, I’m not referring to that
catchy but derogatory song either.

My curiosity piqued, I made my way to the kennels when the ship slowly started
slipping beneath the Atlantic, to watch and see who it was. No one came for
ages and I started getting worried that no one was going to do it. I couldn’t
understand why no one was letting them go. Then I thought that maybe they
weren’t let go and that was just a rumour that got around later.

The ship was sinking and sinking and I thought ‘stuff it,’ and jumped out of
my hiding place. No, it wasn’t then that I came face to face with the person
who freed the dogs, so I started letting them go and I realised something very
profound.

I was the person who let the dogs go.

If you travel back in time you can’t alter anything because back in our time,
our present it’s already happened!

I wonder what else I’ve already done in the past and am going to do…in the
…future?

Nicola Temby

set the writing free/

tie the writing down/

'Sit down, Angelica'

Monday, November 20, 2006

Angelica came from El Salvador. She was large, square and appeared to be deep-fried.

She couldn't speak English well, but she spoke bad English very loudly. 'Honey, honey, honey,' to her husband, 'eating for me now, ha ha ha!' which meant, 'I'm hungry'. She laughed constantly and in a series of pigmy squeals.

She laughed at many things; her recycling bin, Easter, some beans. And when she found nothing to laugh at, she made something to laugh at. Such as the time she pushed her husband off a pier and into the sea. He was fully clothed at the time and carrying some bags. As he floundered and screamed for his life, Angelica pointed and laughed. He eventually made his way back to shore and was fine.

One day she took to wielding a stick. 'It make the bang, ha ha ha!' Of course, it was not such an impressive weapon. In reality, it was only a small, domestic stick, but it was company, and that's what mattered.

In time the stick was replaced by a baby. Angelica carried her small, square and deep-fried baby with her at all times.

'Talk to my baby, ha ha ha!'

The man lifted his eyes from his newspaper. He smiled at the baby, nodded to Angelica, and promptly returned to the page. Angelica's jaw stiffened.

'Talk … to … my … baby.'

A pause.

The man thrust his paper aside.

'Yes, of course. Hello … baby. How are you, today?'

The baby made no response.

The man looked pleadingly to the other passengers on the train. They ignored him. He looked to Angelica.

'Ha ha ha!'

What did that mean? The man had no idea. He proceeded as before.

'So … baby. You have a very nice … hat?'

'Is beanie!'

'Yes, sorry. It is a beanie.' A pause. 'And … a very beautiful beanie at that.'

The man trailed off. Angelica's face was suddenly expressionless. Keeping her eyes fixed on the man, she took the baby's hand in hers and slowly, very slowly, made it wave.

The man raised his hand and slowly, very slowly, waved back at the baby.

Angelica's eyes did not move. 'Baby … saying … good-bye.'

As the train pulled to a stop the man seized his possessions and rolled out of the carriage.
Angelica sat, unfazed, and watched the man run. She turned to the baby.

'I make friends, ha ha ha!'

But, of course, Angelica had not made a friend. Angelica never made friends. And when she came home neither was her husband a friend.

'What is this? What … take that off the baby!'

'No.'

'No, I told you.' Her husband snatched the beanie. 'This is a stupid hat. This … the baby does not wear this.'

'No!'

'I am not having this conversation with you again.'

'No, is beautiful beanie at that!'

Her husband threw the beanie towards the bin.

'And, oh my God, what is this? What … why is the baby wearing tinsel?'

'Is belt.'

'Is not belt, Angelica. It's insane. We look insane. Just stop it. Give me the baby.'

'No.'
'Give me the baby!'

'Cretin! Cretin!'

'I'm taking it back to Mum's again if this doesn't stop. You … just stay out.'

'No, baby stays!'

Her husband suddenly bellowed. 'No! Now, you stay there!' He pointed down to the chair. He took the baby to his room and Angelica sat down.

Mia Timpano

set the writing free/

tie the writing down/

No More Added Extras

You’ve got the clipboard, the notes for the presentation and the Super-Pump bottle. Pausing in the hall, you re-collect your thoughts for the day. The dog tries to sneak out with you for a sojourn; knowing this trick well, you knee him lightly back into the hallway and close the door. His ears remain pricked for a couple of moments in case you return. You don’t.

On the pavement, you achingly notice the absence of female footsteps beside you. Your own have a hollow sound that you remember from sometime ago. You recall hurried paces rushing to get to work after rising late and lazily from the bed. This morning you are early.

On the train to work you imagine seeing her four times; in the corner store buying the paper, at Stempsy’s coffee shop with the morning latte, four cars up as the train came in, and getting out of a cab on Breakers Ave. The thing is, you search for her; although you try your best to erase images you find her in implausible locations: the strip club, the weights room, page 104 of the book you’re reading. She’ll be at the presentation today, you presume. Strangely, you look forward to this. As if in a cartoon strip, you entertain a question mark appearing above your head and an expression of confusion on your face.

Off the train and over to Kornelly’s. You are trying a new coffee shop. You think you’ll need an edge this morning for the presentation. You are aware that you’ve gotten your coffee her way, before work; you hate the thought of this. Her morning coffee always made you late. Now that you are early, you have been able to re-think some things. In the coffee shop, things are welcoming in a wood-panel kind of way. The girl at the counter gives you a ‘new-guy’ smile, the bus boy allows you a frantic glance in between the clang of his dish collection, and other young professionals grant you fleeting looks.

“Single flat white, thanks,” you say, approaching the counter and opening your wallet. Brief eye-contact here.

“Four dollars please. Have here?” She inquires. Yes please, you think, but instead you say takeaway; after all, you’re still checking places out for quality.

“Sure, won’t be long.” She takes your money.

You perch at the leaner and open a section of the paper lying there. You’re looking at the paper, the counter girl, the paper. You turn the page. Anna’s picture is there. Top right. She’s giving a speech on some new environmental law. She’s smiling, she’s gorgeous, she is in your paper as you’re waiting for your morning coffee. Closing the paper immediately, you collect your coffee and leave. The counter girl doesn’t get another look, but you feel her gaze follow you out the door.

Sipping the coffee, you march headdown to work. Your stomach is taking its time to unclench itself. Images move around in your head: the picture, the presentation, one side of the bed neatly left. The coffee’s not hot enough and under-extracted. Under-extracted, strange, you think. Distracted by this you step off the curb without looking. You are nearly hit by a red sedan. The driver looks back after swerving suddenly. He raises a hand at you then speeds away. You salute him back sluggishly, and peer down at your steps. You wonder how you will ever make it to work.

Up the stairs into the office. “Hello Grant.” “Hi Grant.” You nod replies to your colleagues. There is one hour before the presentation and you decide to tidy up some files you have been unable to face. You start reading, typing, reading and typing, reading, Anna… Anna again. You soon realize all tasks are futile and instead amuse yourself with the blue rubber ball on your desk. Anna didn’t believe in orthodox office furniture. You remember when she took you shopping for your office to celebrate your new job. You laughed at most of her suggestions. The ball stayed. You think these words in your head. The ball stayed. A slow progression of thought follows. She didn’t want to take the dog although you had witnessed the torrents of tears when she left him. Why had she only chosen one chair and the sofa? Why not both chairs? You could never understand her motives for doing things, and she could never understand why everything should match. You get an image of Anna standing at the door of a shop with a paper bag announcing MISC on it. She’s smiling to a new friend. Then she’d be happy, you think, some one who understands her spontaneity. You sulk, tapping your pen on the ball. What did she do after she made that speech yesterday? Is she seeing someone…someone miscellaneous? Battling with this idea, you picture other people with her, people you do not know, appreciating her for the first time, making her laugh. Her hair would move and they’d be mesmerized. You miss her again. The phrase “it’s what she wants” flops over in your head.

Later that day you take the dog out. He hasn’t noticed yet that only one of you will live there now. He poops on the pavement. Getting a dog was her idea. He looks at you apologetically before running off on to the grass. You notice the leaves are dipping on the branches. There aren’t as many people out. There is more space. You try to reflect on the presentation. It was organized well but you find you can’t really remember any specifics. There was no one to tell everything to when you got home. This thought makes you ache. You throw sticks for the dog. He crunches the soft ones up in his teeth.

That evening you eat a meal prepared yourself. It tastes good because there are no added extras in it, no special herb or mix of nuts. You’ve made too much. After the meal, television is satisfyingly numbing but bed remains unwelcoming. You read your book to ensure sleep and she’s there again, page 112.

In the morning, you wake early, no breakfast. The dog is fed and tries for the door with you again. On the train, you only see her three times. You watch the apartments go by. Deciding to read at Kornelly’s is a good idea. The counter girl gives her ‘guy-from-yesterday’ smile and you notice she has the same earrings on. Hoping the in-house coffee will be more lovingly crafted than the takeaway, you order a latte to have there.

R. E Webber

set the writing free/

tie the writing down/

Santa III – V

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

III
The walk back is long and hot but I make it. I find the door that says manager. Duty is written with black marker on a card in front. I knock and go in. His name’s McMasters.

“Where the hell you been,” he says. “It’s 9:30 already. I run a tight ship an’ this ain’t a good start.”

“I missed my stop,” I say.

“The hell ya did,” he says. “ya can’t miss it. Biggest bloody stop for miles. What, ya thought there was another mall down the road?” I shrug and he goes on. “You’re a bit small for a Santa aren’t ya. Shit… I asked for someone fat. Wha’do I get? Another scrawny fucker.” He looks at the bag. “That your suit?

“Yeah,” I say.

“Here…pad yourself out with these.” He throws me some small pillows and bulky material. They’re clammy and smell of stale sweat. “We had a skinny runt yesterday too for fucks sake.”

I ask if there’s a place to shower and change.

“Nah,” he says, “it’s out of order, but you can change in here. I’ll get some water so ya can wipe yourself down on your breaks,” he says. “ But understand, I’ve gotta be in here at all times.”

I look round, wonder what I’d steal, and ask about the pay.

“One-twenty paid at knock-off,” he says. “So long’s you got a tax number. Otherwise, withholdin’, and it’s down to ninety.”

“Any chance of half up-front?” I ask.

“Look mister,” he says, trying to be hard-arsed, “there’s no bars in this mall, an’ the one down the road don’t open till after midday. I catch ya drinkin’, I’ll make sure you don’t see your money for weeks.” He’s found my weak-point. “There’s bottomless-cup at the Coffee House and a fountain in the atrium,” he goes on, “jus’ tell em who you are.”

I know about the fountain. I’d stopped on my way through. Drank a gallon and need a piss. It’s twenty degrees cooler in the mall, I’m feeling better but still need a drink. McMasters shows me round; Toilets, Coffee House, fountain. Next he wheels out some kinda barrel. It’s covered with a sheet.

“This is the lucky-dip,” he says. “The kids with the blue tickets get one go. If the ticket’s yellow, it’s hohoho – merry fucken Xmas an’ all that crap an’ ya push the button for the picture. Got it…? An’ don’t let the little bastards double-dip. Last years Santa was too soft. Don’t be soft. That barrel’s gotta last all day.”

I tell him I understand, then back-track to the toilet and Coffee House. I order two long-blacks, plenty of sugar, say put it on McMasters tab. The young thing behind the counter hands them over.

“You’re way to skinny to be a Santa Claus,” she says. “How come they never get fat guys to be Santa Claus anymore. Like when I was a kid.”

I tell her I don’t know, maybe it’s because all the fat people are too happy to be working Xmas in some shitty mall. They’ve got husbands, wives, families, kids I tell her. Probably hohohoing in their deck-chairs at home.

“Listen,” I say, “your boss hasn’t got a bottle stashed out back anywhere? Could ya splash a bit in each. Stop it bein’ bitter. It bein’ Xmas an’ all eh?”

She looks at me kinda funny. “You’re miserable, aren’t ya,” she says.

“Yeah. I’m miserable,” I say.

She sizes me up. I don’t flinch. She goes out back. Comes back and takes the coffees. I hear a screw-top and healthy splashes. She gives back the coffees.

“I like miserable people,” she says. “Happy people are so boring, don’t you think?”

I tell her yeah, and to keep the bottle handy.

IV

Back in the office, I change in front of McMasters. There’s no mirror so he helps with the padding and straightens the beard. When he asks about the wet patch I don’t answer. I’m glad there’s no mirror. It’s hard to walk and I stroll about to get a waddle going.

“Fuck me,” says McMasters, shaking his head. Instilling confidence doesn’t seem his strong point. I’m waddlin’ round and that padding waddles with me, my sympathy for fat people going up a notch from zero.

“I’ll be right once I’m sitting,” I try to convince us, but McMasters looks like he needs a wee lie-down.

“C’mon. Let’s get this fuken show on the road,” he says. He leads me out through the mall, and shows me to the seat. Those two coffees had taken some drinking but I’d persevered and now the whiskey’s kicked in, I’m starting to feel okay. Maybe I’ll survive afterall.

Then I’m on the seat. Santa’s seat. It’s big and makes me small. Fear, whiskey, and caffeine fight for my attentions, and fear’s ahead by a nose. I’m placed central, surrounded by gaudy lights and business signs, three types of music waft about and four sign-posted tunnels begin the labyrinth of consumption. I’m starting to heat-up again. It’s the bloody suit. The extra padding stifles circulation and as I squirm into the seat I take a look around. The young thing at the Coffee House delivers more coffee.

“Two long-blacks,” she says. “Lots of sugar.”

“You do understand misery,” I say to her.

She places them steaming beneath the chair, turns and walks back to her job. I watch the wiggle of her buns. She’ll make lots of men miserable with buns like those. They’ll get too much then not enough, then get none at all. Now that’s misery. I drink the first coffee before it’s cooled and burn my mouth. A small price to pay.

The mall’s getting busy. I’ve been on the seat about an hour I guess. There’s no clocks anywhere and I wonder about that. I’ve had half a dozen kids up on my knee, all about four or five. They complain I didn’t bring them what they wanted and have blue tickets. They go to the barrel and I keep watch for double-dippers. Hell – if some kid wheeled that whole barrel away I would’ve let it go.

I’ve finished the fourth coffee and I’m all light-headed. The flash-bulb hurts my eyes and there’s a strange ringing in my ears. Between the next two kids I catch the eye of the girl at the Coffee House. A few minutes later she slides two more steaming cups under Santa’s chair.

“Listen,” I say. “This coffee’s makin’ me weird. Hows about next time, more from the bottle, less the machine?” I don’t plead but know what too much coffee does to a mans insides.

I’m watching her disappearing buns when I catch sight of Amberlee. Her and the kid are in the food court but not eating. No doubt saving themselves for Xmas dinner. I’m thinking about that when I hear McMasters voice.

“Listen,” I hear. I swing my head, go dizzy, my vision’s gone and he’s out of focus, “I’ve been watchin’ you,” he’s saying amidst the blur, “an’ I don’t like it,” his two shapes settling into one, “That last kid was cryin’ when it got back to it’s mother. What the fuck ya say to it?” He’s got an ugly face to go with his demeanor and I’m glad. I can’t remember what I’d said to the kid.

“You told me don’t let ‘em double-dip,” I say.

“For christs sake,” he says. “You’re fucken Santa Claus, not fucken Don Brash.” He looks at his watch but doesn’t tell me the time. “I’ll be back in half an hour. You can have a break. I’ll find some one to watch the barrel.” He strolls off looking every bit a duty manager.

Out of now where, four kids are lined-up, each with a mother, none with a father, but I don’t have time to think about that.

“Mummy said I gotta thank you for the stuff you give me,” the kid on my knees started, “but I don’t like much.”

“Hohoho,” I say. “Sorry ‘bout that little girl but I was very busy this morning. What was it you wanted? I get mixed-up there’s so many of ya’s to visit.”

“I wanna Barby an’ a shaker-maker an’ a house for Dolly and Rupert an’…”

“Whoa now…gee…” I say, “that’s a lotta stuff for a little girl to be wanting. Crickey. Now…did ya send a letter? You know…me an’ Mrs Claus we… and the elves an’ stuff…you know…we’re kinda busy…an’ if you didn’t send a letter then…well… you know. Talk to your mum about it. She’ll explain.”

The kid doesn’t say anything, just looks at me funny, and I spose I am, so I move right along, pointing, “See the camera, big smile…” and take a picture. She’s got a blue ticket so I send her to the barrel. Sweat runs down the inside of the suit and settles in the crack of my arse.

John Nuttall

set the writing free/

tie the writing down/

A False Life

The woman stared deep into the man’s eyes and realised how much she loved him. The man held her close and whispered in her ear, making her giggle a little. He briefly kissed her cheek and neck, then apologised to her because he had to leave. She longed for him to stay, but understood that he had lots to do. He pulled the door shut behind him and left her counting down the hours before he would return again.

The wife of the man stood over the kitchen sink with her cousin, washing up the remnants of lunch. They spoke of travel, love, the new baby and the old boyfriend. The cousin cried, the wife consoled, and then together they laughed. Just as the final dishes were put away, the man came through the door and kissed the wife and cousin in turn on the cheek. They all spoke of their day, and then the man cooked dinner while the wife went to check on the baby. The man and cousin made small talk as the rice cooked and the mince fried and the vegetables were peeled. The cousin found something about the man’s manner mildly off-putting, but decided to ignore it and blame it on stress.

The woman, too, was cooking her meal, and at the time she sat down to eat, the wife was preparing the small dining room table for their meal. The man, the wife and the cousin all enjoyed a good meal, good wine, good music and exceptional company. When the cousin cleared the table, the woman put her last pot away in the cupboard. She went through to the living room and turned on the late news. A glance at the marble clock about the TV showed 8.45. Two and a quarter hours to go.

At almost 10pm, after the cousin had long ago left, the husband received a phone call. He profusely apologised to his wife, but work had insisted he go immediately to the office, with no promised returning time. She accepted what he must do and had a pang of regret for marrying a journalist. She kissed him goodnight as he walked out the front door.

At 10.35 the wife headed for bed but spotted some papers on the coffee table. Picking up the first (a telephone bill) she got a paper cut on her thumb. Like the girls she has been 30 years ago she sucked her thumb and continued leafing through the pile. She spotted a letter addressed to her husband, intended for her eyes to never see it. She guiltily removed the single sheet of paper and read its contents. She then stuffed the page back into the envelope noted the address; somewhere in the city, an hour’s drive away. Putting the baby into the car she hastily pulled out of the driveway and onto the motorway.

At 11.43 she pulled up outside the address that was on the envelope. She grabbed her bag out of the glove box, locked the baby in the car and snuck in through the open front door.

Upon her arrival in the bedroom, the wife, the man and the woman all stared speechless at each other and no one but I saw the gun.

Pieta Pemberton

set the writing free/

tie the writing down/

And the Point of the Exercise Was. . .

Harold grinned with pride. Not with the kind of pretentious, comparative, my-life-is-better-than-yours-because-of-what-I-just-did kind of pride – the variety normally associated with small children and politicians however; – this was a far more self-satisfied form of pride, the kind that makes you happy, even if nobody else ever finds out what it was that you’re proud of. Harold was grinning – with self-satisfied pride – because he had just finished stacking an entire bag full of marshmallows on his kitchen table, one on top of the other– all twenty-three of them. It had taken him over an hour, and he had dealt with over half a dozen gravity-related incidents; but there it was… Harold’s tower of marshmallows. He had even managed to alternate the colours of the confectionary between pink and white the whole way up.

He stood back and admired his masterpiece.

“What are you doing Adam? Why are your cheeks all puffy like that? Why are you changing colour? Why are you turning blue? Adam, you’re turning blue, why are you turning blue Adam? Adam? Adam, what are you doing? What are you doing Adam? Come on Adam answer me. Adam? Adam? Why aren’t you answering me Adam? Adam, say something. Come on Adam, why aren’t you saying anything? Say something Adam. Adam, you’re still turning blue, you’re getting bluer. Why are you turning blue? Are you dying Adam? Do you need a doctor Adam? Come on Adam, say something. Adam what are you do…”

“BGAHHH! ––– HFIII – HUMMPPH! HFIII – HUMMPPH! HFIII – well – HUMMPPH – I – HFIII – HUMMPP – did - HFIII – HUMMPP – it.”

“Did what Adam? What did you do Adam? Adam, what was it that you did?”

“I managed to HFIII – hold my HUMMPPH – breath for HFIII –two – HUMMPPH – HFIII – whole – HUMMPPH – minutes.”

“Really, two minutes? That’s a long time to not be breathing.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“What’s the point in doing that?”

“Because now I can say I’ve held my breath for two minutes.”

“So what’s the point in that?”

“’Cause I’ve held my breath for two minutes.”

“So?”

“Ummm…”

With a flick of her duster, and a kick of her broom, Ann proceeded to remove whatever evidence she could find that would link her to living in the same house as two teenage sons. Realignment of furniture, a few tweaks of the sofa cushions, strewn papers piled neatly and efficiently. Television remote placed carefully on top of the television set, as seemed so obvious to someone as cleanly as Ann. Dishes washed and stacked, stove scrubbed, bench-tops wiped. Beds made, clothes picked up off the floor, lampshades re…

“Mum! We’re home!” The sound of a schoolbag being roughly thrown into a corner with the accuracy and finesse of a blind, thumbless chimpanzee wielding a hand gun. Something toppling off a shelf, an innocent casualty in the hunt for a glass, or a mug. Or a water-bowl. A splatter, a thump, a crash, a squealing animal.

Ann looked at the bottle of window cleaner in her hand.

“Why do I bother?”

Harold’s face fell. He had to remain focused on his original objective. This tower of marshmallows, no matter how impressive, was merely a precursor to his original purpose. With a distinct air of intention, Harold climbed onto a chair beside the table, opened his mouth as wide as the give in his lips would allow, and began to slowly lower his open mouth over the spire of marshmallows. The occasional tweak of his head was necessary to push some of the tower’s components aside and into the expanding pouch to either side of his jaw, and even after that; by the time he reached the bottom of the tower, Harold was unable to close his lips around the twenty-three marshmallows in his mouth. Just after he had begun chewing – slowly; and carefully – his mother walked into the kitchen, to find her son with cheeks bulging, face open, a pink marshmallow threatening to leap out of his mouth onto the floor.

“Harold, what in the world are you doing?”

Harold hoped the question was rhetorical.

“Is that an entire bag of marshmallows in your mouth?”

Another rhetorical question? Harold nodded meekly just to be sure.

“Why did you do something like that?” The look in her eyes indicated that this probably needed an answer. Or at least whatever Harold could do to imply one.

“Aai ushh aaea eeo eee aai iih aasss aiie.” Fearing that this explanation would be insufficient, Harold tried to back his reasoning with elaborate gestures, and impromptu sign language.

“Harold, you amaze me sometimes, what was the point in doing that?”

“…”

“Three point one four one five nine two six five three five eight nine seven nine three two three eight four six two six four three three eight three two seven nine five zero two eight eight four one nine seven one six nine three nine nine three seven five one zero five eight two zero nine seven four nine four four five nine two three zero seven eight one six four zero six two eight six two zero eight nine nine eight six two eight zero three four eight two five three four two one one seven zero six eight!”

“Wow, was that…?”

“Yup, the first one hundred digits of pi.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, I know…”

“Umm…”

“What?”

“Yeah, well…err…”

“Mm?”

“– Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you need to know the first one-hundred digits of pi?”

“Everyone’s gotta know something.”

“Mmhmm…”

Robert climbed out of bed at the shrill command of his alarm clock. A little over sixteen hours later, he drew the covers of his bed back, and climbed in again.

“What was the point in that? I could have just stayed here.”

Oliver Burns.

set the writing free/

tie the writing down/

Processor

This is the preface.

There was a girl ten years ago in a coffee shop who was lonely. This was Carin. She pulled out a huge array of papers and fanned œthem out. She pretended to work.

Carin found a husband who was in the Marines and had homophobic dreams, and they were married. That was Jeff. Later, she left him, and a dented gray word processor, and moved to another town where she finished school in other coffee shops. She studied this time. She had a baby which she kept on a leash.

There was a garage sale advertised in the newspaper. I went. I bought the dented word processor for five dollars. The woman who sold it to me said it worked, that she wrote her thesis on it a long time ago.

He’s been sleeping in the tent for ten days, where it smells like plastic lining instead of the slightly sour strawberry skin behind her ears. He’s been taking long bike rides for ten days, since she left him for political science and gender studies, since he laughed and she left. The house has gotten progressively more his, and more empty, and more full of pizza boxes and Chinese takeout white cardboard cartons. He sleeps in a sweatshirt and sweatpants and socks up to his knees, covering himself from night air and backyard monsters that could get him. This is better than sleeping in boxer shorts and bare skin in her bed, letting her get him.

She started to hate him a little bit before they even got married, gave him a tight smile at the altar, all lips and no teeth. She saved the teeth for later, for the big angry grin that looked like sharks when they tear a chunk out of some passing tuna and smile and eat. She looked smug. He smelled like cheeseburger grill smoke and generic lotion.

Buried on my yard sale computer are Carin and Jeff. They were married once. I learn about Carin after I’ve met her, after she sold me this sun-faded gray machine, not much more than a typewriter. She said it works, that she wrote her thesis on it. She did not say anything about Jeff, and how she left him, and his bad poems, and his journals, detailed descriptions of making waffles, eating waffles, and getting annoyed at his neighbor who shows up uninvited to bottle homemade beer.

She didn’t look like the type of woman who would leave.

She looked average, with her kid on a leash. I wonder if Jeff has seen this house, on Busey and Race, deep in Urbana normalcy. I wonder if he has seen this child, if he would approve of the child-leashing, or whether he would comment on the philosophical implications of imprisonment at a young age, with mediocre prose. His journal entries are milk toast and boiled eggs thinking about paprika.

She sold me this computer for five dollars. I talked her down from ten. It was labelled word processor, and came with a faux leather case, a mouse with a bulky connection, and a battery pack that would look comfortable on a villain's utility belt. It is heavy to carry, it carries like a briefcase for a mason, for a bricklayer.

Jeff does not mention wanting her to have his children in his journal entries detailing yard work and bedtime. The kids I saw at the sale are not as old as her 1990 thesis, as her times with Jeff must have been. These kids are Microsoft Word 1998 at least, not an offbrand computer with Windows 3.1.

The first time I opened it, a desktop screen showed briefly: bricks, a simple grayscale brick wall which I broke through, chipping away at Word Perfect files saved under names like journal2 and carin and weddingplan, files left behind. The next time I open the screen, instead of the brick wall there is a Paintbrush file, I LOVE CARIN written by cut fingers, by slit wrists, by a finger on a mouse. This JPEG file replaces the brick wall and I don’t remember changing it. The computer is haunted by Carin and has her political science essays interspersed with Jeff’s bad poems, saved in the same place.

He writes that he has nothing to write, except novel ideas that are not found in this file. He goes on to describe his dream from last night: I was in a hotel room. There was a girl there who left, and I went to take a shower, when I got out of the shower there was an old man with white hair and a red face in tropical uniform. He was drunk and had a shiny face and he stared at me when I was naked. He dropped his pants and I could see his erection which was red like his face. I stabbed him in the gut with a pair of scissors. Then I woke up.

This file was named journal3. These files were sold to me.

The dream is abrupt and intact. After this, it is hard to like him, poor Jeff, who sleeps in a tent without his wife. The next is named carin:

Today I carved your name into a table in a coffeeshop. It was already scarred with other people’s names, obscenities, the crudest American flag I’ve ever seen. I put your name right by the edge, right where it is in danger of falling off, right where you would see it, if you had your laptop out. You would see it, and I would earn you back. Carving your name on a table. It’s so stupid. So small. It’s nothing.

There is no closure with this. He wrote in a journal, a laptop journal, from August 2 to August 7, 1990. Five days, he carved her name into a table, then nothing.

I drive past that house in Urbana, on my way to a softball game where the object of the game is to get to second base, which is a cooler, and chug a beer. We smoke cigarettes in the outfield. We run, careful not to spill. The oldest of us is 26 and we are not married, we are barely real, playing fake ball with these beers, with these smokes, with these popups straight into the pitcher’s hand.

This sad little laptop life is not mine. I run outside and suck down coffees, laughing at these files I inherited, bad poems detailing his wife’s “warm, sweet meat,” and pretend there’s no way anyone could ever read the files that I add to this hard drive; this computer is already obsolete and no one could inherit it. My teeth are grinding as I read.

Carin has written a paper on the Freudian analysis of sex and violence. It is an obvious first draft, full of typos and quotes with question marks next to their authors. But it is so bad, so drivel. Do I want to add more to this? Do I want to put more thought into these people who talk about guns as phallic symbols? I do. I bury myself in Jeff and Carin again. A detective studying what went wrong ten years ago. I treat them like celebrities, like their lives belong to me. And they do. Five dollars, including the faux leather case, attachments and personal histories. It is hard to know they live in my town, sending Christmas letters to their neighbors:

Happy Holidays from the Bowers: Carin, Jeff and Howard. No, we did not sneak a pregnancy past you; Howard is our dog. This is a quick letter extolling the wonders of married life, or at least married life as we have lived it since our wedding in May. Our European honeymoon was a whirlwind tour of Germany, Poland, the Czech Republic and Austria. In Poland we visited Auschwitz, yes the not very romantic death camp. Prague was our favorite, even though it rained on us almost the whole time.

Carin is now working on her Master’s degree in Political Science. September through November were busy months for Jeff. I cannot tell you what was going on, but if you watched CNN in late November then you know what I am talking about. As a reminder, Jeff’s job is evaluating Anti-Submarine aircraft.

We both hope your holidays are joyous, and the New Year brings good things your way.

I try not to grimace as I save my files in the same folder, on a dinosaur machine that has retained its memory, a fossil with disks for my revisionist additions. I could erase their files, save more hard drive space.

I scavenge out a pixelated portrait of Jeff. He looks like Art Garfunkel, watery eyes and blonde hair, wailing about his love melodically but sounding a little crazed without a partner to harmonize with. This is a Jeff without a Carin, without balance, a normal guy who enjoys yard work but has startling homophobic dreams of murder.

There is a detailed wedding plan, done by Jeff. The telling detail is the keg party on the beach the night before the wedding. “What is left of the keg can be used at the wedding.” As gross as it sounds to have flat Icehouse served at a wedding reception (giving him the benefit of the doubt that he didn’t mean the church service), it is romantic to have a $500 wedding weekend on a California beach, with 35 guests maximum, 29 minimum. This list of invitées includes the “happy couple.”

I am that middle aged woman in a bathroom who never leaves her apartment, who has groceries delivered, a weekly supply of cat food and peanut butter. I can’t tear myself away from my telescope, looking in old text files for when the marriage failed. I am anything but twenty and young and looking at a laptop life lived in 1990.

One file demonstrates Jeff’s desire to be a writer. He says “I want so badly to tell you a story. I promise that it is a good story, despite the words in which it may be written.” This is the preface, saved under carin2:

Carin I really miss you. Last night I slept in our bed for the first time since you have left. The first thing I noticed was a complete absence of my wife. It truly was awkward. I stretched out my feet and that is when they found the socks at the bottom of the bed. Immediately the tears came. I miss you Carin.

Keri Mullen

set the writing free/

tie the writing down/