John and Sara

John and Sara were about as average as they could get. They lived in a nice house with a small yard surrounded by a white picket fence. John worked as an accountant in the block of offices just off the interstate, and Sara always had dinner on the table by six P.M. They had 2.5 kids and 1.3 dogs, and were generally satisfied with life.

But it was hard to live up to the standards of the average, middle-class life style. John worked as the manager of a retail electronics business, though he was often putting in overtime hours to make sure he got enough money squared away every month. Sara was always a little bit frantic, making sure their kids got to school, got to sports practices, got to their doctors' appointments. It was a real challenge to get dinner ready on time every day, and that it was something that would satisfy everyone. They made the best of it of course, and they went to bed every night with a smile — albeit a strained one — knowing that they had done their duties as parents, and done them well. Still, it was hard.

A lot of it, they conceded one night, talking softly as they changed into their pajamas, stemmed from their children. As an average family of average means, it was difficult to raise their children. Quite frankly, they didn't know how other people did it. And it wasn't even their two oldest children, (they noted over the bathroom sink as they brushed and flossed their teeth), it was their "point five."

Tommy and Caitlin were great, actually. They got decent marks in school; they were well-liked on their respective baseball and soccer teams; they were responsible and polite, if not altogether clean and self-sufficient. No, it was their youngest, Char, who took up the vast majority of their parental efforts.

They paused, a momentary shadow of uncomfortable guilt passing over them both as they rinsed with Cool Mint mouthwash. His name, according to his birth certificate, was Charles, but he had insisted on being called "Char" since he was able to speak. His full name wasn't him, he said. It didn't fit his personality, his life. And so he cut it in half, so to speak, and refused to go by anything else. He was that kind of kid — stubborn and strong-willed.

It wasn't his fault, (they admitted as they kicked off their slippers and climbed into bed); there was nothing to be helped. He grew up in a world where he was supposed to be part of an average family, only he couldn't ever really live up to the expectations. He tried to join Tommy's baseball league, but with only one arm he couldn't wear a glove without making it impossible to throw. He tried to join Caitlin's soccer league, but with only one leg he couldn't keep up with the other children, let alone kick the ball without risking falling down and hurting himself. They had even tried a table tennis league, which required only one hand and limited movement, but with only one eye and the resulting depth-perception issues, he could never manage to get the ball over the net.

It was also a shock to John and Sara both, (they finally admitted as they set their separate alarm clocks on their separate night stands), when they learned that the average American family does not, in fact, have to deal with these issues. That all of the articles they had read talking about families having "two-point-five children" were describing the average number of children over a wide sample base, and that the average family had either two or three. Very few, if any, have half a child.

But despite all this, (they concluded, heads resting on their pillows, facing each other in the dark), they had done well as parents. Or at least, they had done the best that could be expected of them. And who could ask for more?

I Saw A Squirrel: "The Box, III"

Nine Beginnings

John and Sara were about as average as they could get. They lived in a nice house with a small yard surrounded by a white picket fence. John worked as an accountant in the block of offices just off the interstate, and Sara always had dinner on the table by six P.M. They had 2.5 kids and 1.3 dogs, and were generally satisfied with life.

* * *

He was wary of his surroundings, and not without reason. A shadow slid past the gate and melted into the fractured lamplight that cut jagged shapes across the gravestones. He felt a shiver run up his spine and radiate through his arms to the tips of his fingers, and he feared very much that it wasn't from the icy chill of the surrounding night.

* * *

"Take a look, Mr. Wilkins," the man in the suit said to him. "All this could be yours one day. All this could be yours." The man spread out his left arm before them, his right wrapped soundly around Wilkins' shoulders, cigar clenched between his yellow teeth. Wilkins wasn't sure at that moment why in the world he would want this mountain of garbage spread out before him, but somehow the cigar smoke and the cut of the man's suit made it seem like a dream worth having.

* * *

The dog sat down and watched as the ball bounced down the hill, gaining momentum every time it flexed and recoiled on the sloping concrete. He saw the glint of the sun on the red rubber, and also on the hard metal frames of those monstrous vehicles rushing through the intersection below. He panted, tongue waggling, waiting patiently for the inevitable.

* * *

Six sticks, a few paper clips and a piece of gum are not enough to rebuild a boat engine, I don't care how god-damned clever you are.

* * *

Ellen couldn't concentrate. It wasn't her fault, either. She had successfully blocked out the ticking of the wall clock, as well as the quiet slurping noises coming from the desk next to her, where a kid called Billy was chewing on the end of his pencil. It wasn't the stress of the exam, because she had memorized all the mathematical equations she would need, and it wasn't the fact that her boyfriend had just told her that he was considering joining the army and so thought that maybe they should see other people. It wasn't any of that. Sadly, Ellen's brain was rupturing, and there really wasn't anything she could do about it.

* * *

Eight bananas nestled comfortably in the crook of their tree, all bunched together, as happy as ever. They watched the monkey with increasing glee, knowing that soon all their hard work would come to fruition.

* * *

Tourists are everywhere. In every niche of life, there are those who simply come to watch. They see the sights, they drink your beer, and then they go home and tell their friends. And the number of tourists grow, while we sit here and are consumed.

* * *

The music rippled through the air like water, concentric circles bouncing off of every corner and surface in the room. With every heavy step, I pushed through the crowd of half-asleep ghosts in search of the exit. It glowed just beyond reach, the invitingly cool air brushing seductively against my lungs...

On Tiptoes

Once Upon A Time

...Once upon a time there was a girl who was a princess. She had golden hair the color of corn silk, and skin that was smooth and pale and glowed like the full moon. Her eyes, as I've heard it told, shone so brightly that they could be seen from across the sea, and her laughter was known the world around for the light and warmth that it brought to those that heard it. And she was beautiful. More beautiful than anyone you've ever seen, that's for sure.

That was, of course, quite a long time ago. The princess did all the princess-y things: she out-smarted an old witch who was trying to trick away her youth and beauty; she trekked through the forests in search of ancient wonders long ago hidden away; and she went to a fancy ball and danced with the handsome prince who, as I'm sure you know, then went on to ask her hand in marriage. And at the wedding she laughed, and her laughter rang with the bells in the steeple, and everyone in the kingdom felt a certain joy to have heard it. And she knew, from all the story books she had read in secret under her goose-down blankets when her parents thought her asleep in her bed, that it was about this time that she was supposed to live happily ever after. And so she grew up, and ever after drew ever closer.

And she smiled and laughed to herself when she thought about it all, about what had happened and what was to come, and even her quiet laughter sprinkled like snowflakes over the land. It was quite pleasant, she supposed, to live in a huge, enchanted castle with servants who adored her and accommodated her every whim. It was very nice that bluebirds came and fluttered about her as she sang in the garden, chirping and rustling their feathers. And it was great to have an attractive prince for a husband, if you know what I mean.

But the girl, now grown up, knew that something was missing. She felt that, despite the smiles that she put on peoples' faces as she passed them in the marketplace, the life she was living was predictable. Her life was a fable, a tale passed on by mothers to their children as she tucked them in at night, and she couldn't ignore a certain nagging feeling at the back of her mind.

And so she cut her hair and enrolled at a liberal arts college, taking courses in psychology and women's studies. And she learned about female stereotypes, and archetypes, and learned to dissect the idealism and fantasy that had always troubled her a little bit down to their roots in oppression and egoism. And she joined the crew team -- though she wasn't thrilled about getting up at four in the morning, what with psych at 10am and barely enough time to bolt down a frozen waffle for breakfast -- and she got a part-time job at Cafe Libra on the corner across from the campus bookstore. She began to hang out with the hipsters, and listen to National Public Radio -- I mean, Terry Gross says some really insightful shit sometimes, you know? -- and she really loved her job at the coffee shop because they only sold fair trade coffee, and she could like totally dig that.

And one day her cell phone rang, and it was her husband the prince calling to ask if she was going to come home when the semester was over, because he and the rest of the people in the kingdom just weren't as happy without her beauty and her laughter to brighten the days.

And she gave him a derisive snort, a laugh drenched in sarcasm, cutting off his words. And she said, "You know, that sounds like an emotional dependency issue, and it really isn't my responsibility."

And then she hung up. And, wearing a little smirk on her face, she curled up in her 100% cotton sheets and went to bed. Well, first she checked her email, and played a few rounds of Text Twist. But then she went to bed.

And she felt good.

I Saw A Squirrel: "Terminal Velocity"