Chapter 17: Connection vs. Attachment (I’ll find a better title for this chapter soon)

With less than a week to research and write the article, Jane decided she’d better get busy experimenting, trying out a few of the connection techniques she had researched, putting them to the test, and observing how well they worked.
It’ll be fun! she told herself, though it didn’t all turn out that way.

She began by saying hello to various strangers she passed in the street on her way home and observing their reactions.

“Hi,” she said as she passed a man in his 30’s, maybe ten years older than her. “Nice jacket.”
The man stopped in his tracks, looked her up and down, then said hello back and asked for her number.
“Sorry,” Jane replied apologetically, feeling flustered but thinking fast on her feet. “It’s just that my boyfriend has the same jacket, and I couldn’t help but admire it.”
The man looked slightly deflated, but nodded and turned away.

Oops, she thought to herself. Some of these techniques work a little too well! I’d better dial back the research a notch.

She reached the portal of her apartment building with no further misadventures, and stopped at the mailboxes to see if anything interesting had arrived.

“Hi,” she said absentmindedly to another resident who was extracting a few envelopes and a stack of junk mail from his own box.

“Hello,” he replied cheerfully. He shuffled his stack of mail into his left hand, then held out his right toward her. “I’m Chase, by the way. I just moved in.”

Jane shook his hand and looked up at his friendly face. Their eyes locked, and suddenly…she couldn’t look away. It felt like he had turned on a tractor beam and would not release her. It took her a moment to gather her wits and make her mouth function again. “I’m Jane,” she sputtered. “I’m up in 3C.”

“2D,” Chase replied, still clutching her hand lightly.

Jane had taken self defense classes, and the moves to twist Chase’s arm behind his back and utterly disable him flashed through her mind, but she had never learned a defense against his tractor beam gaze.

Then, out of nowhere, it struck her. It hit her hard, right in the chest, somewhere near her heart. A sharp inner pain there made her gasp slightly, and she withdrew her hand abruptly and finally managed to look away from his piercing gaze.

“Gotta go,” she said lamely, slamming her mailbox shut and heading for the stairs. Usually, she took the elevator, but she couldn’t stand the thought of waiting for it to arrive. She only wanted to get away from Chase and figure out what just happened to her!

Had he slipped her some diabolical toxin through their handshake? Was she about to pass out, or curl up and die, or transform into some disgusting alien creature designed to join him on his quest to take over the world, starting with some random Chicago apartment building?

No, probably not, Jane reasoned, but the pain persisted and she made her graceless exit as fast as she could go.

The post 1-2-3 Connect appeared first on Utah Fast Fiction.

I open my eyes in the darkness,
and with so few details yet visible
in my pre-dawn bedroom,
it feels no more real
than the still-fading dream.
It’s difficult,
tricky
to drag myself away from the imaginary loneliness
with its physical, grinding heartache
when the only real place I have to stand
is also all
alone.

I close my eyes again
and hope to find myself
fallen into a rerun
of yesterday’s dream,
escaping European cities and intermingled jungles
with the princess.
That would be something,
at least.
Actually,
it would be nothing,
but still better than nothing,
and I would be happy with that,
though not actually happy,
but better than nothing.

Instead,
there’s Katie,
a sweet girlfriend from three eons ago,
now a nurse,
at least in the dream,
and I realize what’s going on
when she begins telling me a story
I know I’ve heard before from someone else.
“What would you do
if you knew
you were only a dream?” I ask her.
Her face and head
entirely vanish,
leaving only
a light-blue Oxford
to wrap its arms around me
for 2.5 seconds
before the dream can no longer
hold itself together
and I find myself again alone
in the dark,
but with the grinding heartache
somewhat soothed.

So that’s something.
It’s better than nothing.

The post Nothing, Something appeared first on Utah Fast Fiction.

Of course cheering for opponents and underdogs came to an abrupt halt the instant anyone was beating his team. Not only in a game, but in the polls. If a team was ranked better than his team, he wanted them to slip just a little so that he could move back up to the top, back into his comfort zone, where nothing could threaten his standing and he could afford to be magnanimous once again.

He was a good friend in the same way, cheerful and affable, always reliable to be there for you when you needed a hand, generous almost to a fault. You could easily count on him 98% of the time. And because anything above 93% earns an A, who could complain about that?

And that other 2%? He was never a bad friend, exactly, at least not in any way you could clearly point out and make him look bad. It’s just that he could feel a bit insecure at times, and if you happened to be a little better looking or more interesting or successful, well, that left him with two options.

The first option was to compete and catch up. He worked hard, which won him many successes and accolades. He found various ways to become more interesting and set himself apart from the crowd.

He took up hunting, and decorated his high-ceilinged living room with trophies of “the big five.” One plaque remained empty, however, and when anyone commented on it, it gave him the opportunity to humbly and magnanimously repeat the story of the one that got away, proving how comfortable he felt in being a regular mortal like the rest of us.

Truth be told, he probably had that mild insecurity to thank for the majority of his drive and half the successes in his life, so how bad could it be? In fact, could you accurately judge it as bad at all? Nobody’s perfect, after all, and maybe insecurity, which in his case so often played out like humility and other admirable virtues, is one of the best imperfections to have.

The second option was much easier than hard work, and it came even more naturally to Beckett. When you analyze it logically, it even makes more sense. If you wanted a house with a better view, would you be wiser to go to all the trouble of moving, or set hydraulic jacks under your house and raise it up a few feet, or simply chop down the trees blocking the vista?

So whenever Beckett found himself near anyone who triggered his sense of insecurity, who was perhaps a bit taller or better looking, or more interesting or successful, whether friend or opponent, why not jokingly point out that one minor flaw, or cheerfully relive that one time they did something stupid, or draw attention to some other area where Beckett excelled, as long as that made him feel a bit better, and no one was ever really injured.

You may be thinking that Beckett had a third option for comportment in such circumstances, but you would be wrong. You may argue that he would have been wise to choose to address his true enemy instead, to face and vanquish his insecurity once and for all. But choice requires awareness, and because it never occurred to Beckett to do so, he was never free to make such a choice.

Beckett’s life may have continued thus indefinitely, and perhaps he would eventually have grown aware of the third option and chosen to exercise it, had not his best friend and top competitor (secret competitor, that is – he would never admit it, even to himself) won a large promotion at work.

In order to reset the scales in his favor, Beckett requested two weeks of leave and flew to Africa to complete his trophy room.

He awoke on the third morning of his safari and sat up in bed, yawned, then turned and set his feet on the dirt floor of the tent, which happened to be where a king snake had slithered in overnight to rest in the relative warmth.

He hadn’t yet fully woken up or recovered from the shock of the snake bite when he found himself standing, rather dazed, at the Pearly Gates.
“You suck,” said St. Peter with a disapproving shake of his head, “but come on in.”

The post Grade-A Frienemy appeared first on Utah Fast Fiction.

On the very first day of trying out her new self, her new plan paid big dividends. She quickly discovered that being positive allowed her to share her private thoughts that she had never spoken aloud before, albeit with a positive twist that she would attempt to talk herself into believing. It wasn’t easy, but if she could do this, she could do anything, and she would become the most cheerful person in town in no time!

“I love your musk,” she told him that evening.

“I’m not wearing any musk,” Tom said with a sneer. “You know I detest cologne. Leave that for the girly men.”

“I know,” Melissa agreed. “I mean your natural musk after working at the garage all day and when you don’t take a shower before you come over. It reminds me of buck scent, or goats who pee all over themselves to attract hot goat babes.”

Melissa knew all about buck scent because Tom sometimes wore that during hunting season. “Why wash it off,” he asked, “when I’d just have to reapply it tomorrow?” It was the most pungent aroma she had ever smelled, and she gagged whenever Tom got too close with it, so she would hold her breath as long as she could, then find an excuse to step away for a moment, long enough to take a few deep gulps of air from a distance.

Tom’s second most common complaint was about Melissa’s cooking. “These alligator tacos could use more avocado,” he mused over dinner, “and the ice in the grape juice is a little too cold.”

“I love your attention to detail,” Melissa replied, “and the fact that you’re willing to eat avocados, that you don’t say they’re only for girly men anymore.”

Tom found so much love and affirmation and cheerful positivity disorienting. Every time he turned around, there was more love just waiting to knock him off his feet, putting him in unfamiliar territory, which made him feel like he wasn’t in control anymore, and that made him grumpy.

“Will you please stop saying you love everything?!” Tom shouted.

“You certainly know when enough is enough!” Melissa replied, skillfully avoiding the word ‘love’.”

“You certainly don’t!” Tom accused, pointing a finger in her face.

Melissa drew in a sharp breath. An astonished look crossed her face. An epiphany lit up her brain. “You’re right!” she whispered as she abruptly realized the truth. The truth that had been kicking her in the shins for three years, trying desperately to get her attention. “I don’t!” The past three years of dating Tom flashed through her mind. All the crap she had endured, and for what???

Brand new possibilities began to flat through her mind – or rather, one new possibility flashed through her mind over and over, in full color, like a string of Christmas lights. She could leave Tom. She could be with someone else, or be alone! Any other option would be better than this!

“Okay, I learned. Now I do.”

“Do what? I hate how you always have full-blown conversations in your head and then expect me to read your mind when you bring me in to the tail end.”

“Now I know when enough is enough,” she explained. “And I just realized what I like best about you.”

Ever ready to hear a compliment, ever eager to reinforce his arrogant belief that he was great and everyone else was the problem, ever hungry to punch the much deeper belief that he wasn’t good enough in the face, Tom paused and put his next complaint on hold. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“I love…,” Melissa began, “when you leave.”

“Because you miss me?” Tom asked with a charismatic smile. “Because you realize how much you love me and how great I am, and absence makes the heart grow fonder?” he prompted.

“The opposite, actually. Now please make yourself lovable and vamoos.”

“Ha ha,” Tom replied, unsure of what else to say. “Very funny.”

“I’m serious,” Melissa said, standing up from the table and waiting for him to do the same.

“What’s gotten into you?” Tom asked, lifting his fourth alligator taco to his mouth.

“Would you like more avocado on that?” Melissa asked.

“Yes, please!” he replied, putting it back on his plate and handing it to her.

Melissa took the plate, stepped into the kitchen, and dumped to the whole thing into the garbage can.

“Looks like we’re all out of avocados,” she said flatly, setting the plate back on the table. Tom looked down at the empty plate, then up at Melissa with a confused look plastered across his face.

“Go,” Melissa ordered, nodding her head toward the door impatiently.

“You’re crazy,” Tom said slowly, still trying to figure out what was going on.

“I certainly was!” Melissa agreed. “Whew! I’m glad I got over that!”

“Go!” Melissa ordered more loudly when Tom still hadn’t budged.

Tom stood slowly, the confused look lingering in his eyes, and took one furtive step toward the front door.

“Ew!” Melissa exclaimed, taking an abrupt step back when he leaned forward for a goodnight kiss.

“You’re weird,” he merely observed then.

“Okay.”

And then Tom stepped out the front door and out of her life and I’ll update this story with a better ending line when I think of one.

The post Love, Love, Love appeared first on Utah Fast Fiction.

A delivery truck turned the corner, then drove past his house, and it somehow reminded Logan that his father would come driving down the street in a few hours. He’d better get everything tidied up before dad got home if he wanted to avoid another scolding about being responsible.

The garage door stood open, with his latest woodworking project still cluttering the floor. That, too, would need to get put away, or perhaps he should finish the project. The design was simple, but elegant – half a dozen 2x4s hammered to a plywood sheet would soon become the perfect jump for his bike, unlike the boards lain across bricks that tended to topple the second his front tire hit it. That didn’t seem safe, and that, as his father had pointed out, was not responsible.

The thought of finishing the jump felt exciting, and suddenly a brand new idea popped into Logan’s brain – maybe he should become a carpenter! If the jump turned out good, he could mass produce them for other kids in the neighborhood, then other neighborhoods, then he could invent new projects, pay his way through college or trade school with the proceeds, which would mean he wouldn’t have to study quite so hard now, because he wouldn’t need to earn a scholarship! “Don’t worry,” he could tell his mother next time she asked whether he had finished his homework, “I’ve made my own scholarship.”

With school and career all worked out, his thoughts proceeded to the next tasks, which included raising a family, he supposed. What else was there? Step one: find someone to marry. Janet, who lived across the street, was pretty cute, and she would probably become even cuter as they grew older. Not that he would admit this to anyone. The topic of girls still made him feel a bit squeamish. Anyway, once he finished the jump, she would surely see him fly off it over and over, and probably feel impressed, whether she was ready to admit it or not. She would probably peek outside from behind the curtains just to watch his daredevil exploits. Maybe he would build an even bigger jump to jump over cars and stuff. How could she possibly not be impressed by that?

And then…then what? He guessed they’d have kids and take them on vacation to Disneyland. He’d teach them to be responsible, too, so everything would turn out right for the rest of their lives.

And then, he would retire. He would sit in his recliner and read the paper. He would take slow walks around the block and chat with neighbors about the good old days. He would complain about politics and prices, about his goiter (what’s a goiter?) and his aching back. He would tell and retell stories from his glory days – his youthful victories and heart-wrenching defeats. He would dwell most of all on his regrets, on wasted opportunities never to return, and wistfully wish he could do it all over again.

He would look back at this very afternoon, the day when his entire future began. He would look longingly at the sprinkler sitting peacefully in the middle of the lawn and wish he’d have turned it on, then run back and forth through the airborne water with abandon, setting responsibility aside for just a few minutes, or a few hours, and soaking in all of life’s beauty that he possibly could before it withered and vanished from before his eyes.

Logan stepped off the porch, turned on the water, kicked off his shoes and pulled his shirt over his head, then took an eager step onto the lawn, his skinny torso giving a small shudder as the first cold drops splashed against his bare chest.

Across the street, Janet pulled back the curtains just enough to peer out the window and watch.

The post Down the Road a Ways appeared first on Utah Fast Fiction.

“Use your words,” her mother often chided to help Jesse through frustration and impatience of childhood, and once she mastered those infinite combinations of letters, those endless compilations of phonemes, her childhood seemed to fall behind her, and everyone around her began to treat her, more or less, as an adult.

“Sticks and stones may break my bones,” she often replied to children who teased her about her advanced vocabulary, “but words will never hurt me.” She stopped saying that after one child picked up a small rock and hurled it at her, striking her in the neck and bruising her sternocleidomastoid.

Even her father, a school psychologist at the local junior high school (who secretly wished to be a motivational speaker, Jesse felt certain), reinforced her powerful conviction that words shape reality each time he reminded her that, “Your reality is nothing more than the story you tell yourself.”

The teachers she most admired further entrenched her faith in nouns, verbs and prepositions, showing real-life, world-changing applications throughout history, including the Civil Rights Movement and famous quips like “The pen is mightier than the sword.”

As her knowledge and understanding of the wider world expanded, so did her confidence and her willingness to step into new roles and try out new experiences. “What’s the worst that could happen?” she asked herself simply. “If anything goes awry, words will always be there to rescue me and set everything aright.”

During freshman year of college, in a creative writing course, Jesse met her soulmate, Jimmy. They were kindred spirits, sharing an equal fascination with all things lexical. Together, they attended plays, sat in the shade on campus and read, and argued about their favorite punctuation. Jesse loved the interrobang above all others, for obvious reasons, while Jimmy revered the pilcrow more than it deserved. Sure, it was cute, but utterly useless. Somehow, though, she found it in her heart to forgive his lack of practicality and taste.

Incrementally, inevitably, they fell irreversibly in love.

They married after spring semester, and by winter, a bouncing baby boy entered their home. The child was adorable, much of the time, but less so when he cried, when he filled his diapers with the most offensive-smelling goo several times each day, when he peed in the bath, which often hit her in the face, and when he laughed and laughed at that like it was the funniest thing he had ever seen in his entire, short life.

Jesse longed for her past when she had plenty of time to read, but now, even when the infant fell asleep, she felt too tired to crack open a book, and even when she did, she was too exhausted to sink into its plot like a warm bath, to absorb its comforting illusions, and to escape this unruly and unkind reality.

The evening after the toddler’s first birthday party, when a weary Jesse realized that she had only made it HALF WAY through diapers, and that the “terrible twos” would then begin by the time potty training stopped, that she might need to wait until the child turned five and spent half the day at school before she could hope to properly balance her life again, sank to her knees in despair and wept. How could everything have come to this?!

The desperate interrobang at the end of her question comforted her just enough to regain the slightest grip on her senses. On her inner strength. On her determination, and above all, on her savior – words! Words had never let her down before, and they would not desert her now in her hour of need! “Use my words!” she reminded herself, a desperate hope suddenly welling up inside.

Two words, that is. Two words that would fix everything! A sentence, sort of, despite the lack of predicate. An exclamation, actually, which she had learned from her creative writing professor the year before.

Jesse slowly rose from the floor. She stood, tentatively at first, then firm and determined. Yes, she would utter the words. She would make all the bad go away. She would set everything into its proper place.

She took half a dozen steps to the front door, opened it, then turned her face back toward the home’s interior and its two occupants, and shouted the words:

“Plot twist!”

With that, she stepped outside and strode away into the gathering dusk.

She didn’t know where she would go, or where her new plot would carry her, but she would work everything out in good time. She would revise as needed and create happy endings to each and every day. Reality was nothing more than the story she told herself, she told herself, and she would tell herself the best story she possibly could.

The post Plot Twist! appeared first on Utah Fast Fiction.

The world’s most famous private detective stepped off the train onto the platform and glanced briefly at the woman waiting there expectantly.

His mind used the word “expectantly” because he instantly observed that she was three weeks pregnant, give or take a week. Not even she would realize it yet, but to his perspicacious eyes, the rosy glow gave her condition away like the Bat Signal beaming into the skies above Gotham City.

His mind did not use the words “Bat Signal,” because Batman would not be invented for another hundred years, but the general idea formed briefly in his mind, and he felt certain something like that would eventually occur. That much was obvious, elementary.

“The butler did it,” he told the woman before she could so much as introduce herself and explain why she had summoned the great Sherlock Holmes.

The woman looked momentarily flustered, but then continued as if the detective had not spoken. “Several items have gone missing from our silver collection,” she began to explain, but Sherlock immediately cut her off.

“With the candlestick, in the pantry,” he stated matter of factly.

At that, the woman blushed deeply. To Watson or any other bystander, it would appear that the color rising to her cheeks resulted from Sherlock’s lack of decorum in cutting her off so abruptly. You can hardly steal silver from a food pantry, after all!

Noting their typical obtuseness, Sherlock continued obligingly, as always, to point out all the obvious tell-tale signs of the crime committed.

“Note the flour on her dress,” he pointed out, indicating the white powder which had not been completely brushed away from her skirt, “and the way it falls in horizontal lines, rather than vertical ones as would typically occur if one were to spill it upon oneself.”

It was true, that was rather odd.

“Further note her lipstick, the way it has been smeared around the corners of her mouth, then reapplied hastily, also with a bit of flour blending with her makeup.”

Also true, but what was the point?

“Finally, note the smells of cheap cologne, and the trace of sulpher emanating from her fingertips.”

No one else had such an acute sense of smell, so they’d have to take his word for it.

“Lady Beecher is clearly having an affair with the butler, most recently in the pantry where she dropped her skirt before tipping over the jar of flour, and where she lit a candle for a tiny bit of light.”

The pink of Lady Beecher’s face drained to an ashen white as her chin dropped in astonishment.

“I can only assume,” concluded Sherlock, “that she’s paying the man for his silence with the silver.”

The woman’s eyes dropped to the platform and she began to tremble.

“Qui tacet consentire videtur,” he appended with a tone of finality, then translated for the others who had forgotten the Latin they studied as children. “Silence gives consent.”

With that, he turned and stepped back onto the train as it began to pull away from the station. Watson followed, casting a final glance back at Lady Beecher who stood clutching her purse and not knowing what else to do now that the truth had come out.

Deep inside, we’re all a little like Sherlock Holmes.

Well, maybe not so deep….

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