An Evening With Stephen King

Last week, I had the good fortune to head down to The Canon Theatre in Toronto for An Evening With Stephen King.

I'd say I'm a fairly average Stephen King fan. I've read all the "Dark Tower" books, (highly recommended, by the way), plus a handful of others, like, "The Dead Zone", "Hearts in Atlantis", "Desperation", "The Stand" and proabaly one or two I'm forgetting. I've also read a few short stories. I think that qualifies me for a night like this, but there were people in that theatre that could probably quote the man, line for line.

I do admire the hell out of him. For anyone who wants to write books for a living, there is no greater role model. The man's track record is almost superhuman when it comes to, not only spine-tingling and strange, but also sheer volume. He seems to put out a couple 600+ page books every few years. This latest one, "Under The Dome", clocks in at something like, 1200. I don't know the exact page count, but fuck!

Anyway, the whole thing was pretty darn cool. After an Oscar-like video montage of the man's impressive catalogue, local TV and radio personality, George Stroumboulopoulos, (you know that ain't no stage name), came out and briefly introduced one of popular fiction's most legendary storytellers. A man that will go down as the 20th century poster boy for his profession. Stephen King.

The next part, while entertaining, was basically just a regular old reading. Mr. King, (may I call you Stephen?)-- Stephen read a few choice pages from his latest take on the Simpsons Movie, (just kidding. Sidenote: For more on The Simpsons, check out my Simpsons Round-up, coming soon!).
After it was done, 'Steve' threw out a couple jokes to sooth his apparent nerves and George came out again to introduce another horror-legend, and no stranger to strange himself, Toronto's own, Mr. David Cronenberg.

Why David Cronenberg?

Well, aside from being one of the most noted horror/weird filmakers of his generation, and, as I said, a Toronto native, (guess that cut down on travel expenses), Cronenberg adapted Kings's aforementioned, "The Dead Zone", (great book and tv show as well), for the 1983 film, starring Christopher Walken as Jonny Smith and Martin Sheen as a George W-esque Greg Stillson.

The two men sat down to an intimate conversation before 500 or so adoring admirers and waxed on about inspiration, adaptation, (both have experience in graphic novels), narrative choices, as well as the changes to their respective approaches to writing and storytelling in today's tech-savvy, Google-ready world of McResearh. Not that I'm knocking it. Hell, I'm using it right now!

All in all, a good time was had by all, certainly me and my good buddy, Kev, (a much bigger King fan, I should add). Afterwards, we waited around for like, an hour to buy an autographed copy of his newest. A needlessly complicated raffle won us the honor. Yes, I said to buy, not win, said copy. And no, Mr. King, (Stevie), did not personally sit for the signing. That was done sometime beforehand, (hopefully the same day). Again, I'm not knocking it, just throwing in a little sarcasm for enhanced readability.

Ok, guess that about sums it up.
It was definitely an interesting experience, or 'evening' (more like an hour and a half), peering into the mind of a true living legend all up close and personal. I even plan to read "Under The Dome" one of these days, though I do have a few books to sift through first.

Seriously, thanks for the great stories, Steve.
Keep on writing.

Anvil

I just saw a really great documentary called 'Anvil: The Story of Anvil' and I had to come on here and talk about it.

The story surrounds two lifelong friends, Steve Kudlow, ("Lips", to legions of hardcore rockers and most of his friends), and drummer extraorinaire, Robb Reiner, (no, not Meathead), both from Toronto, (which also happens to be my hometown), who decide from the ripe age of fourteen to be rockstars - and, for thirty-plus years, refuse to take obscurity for an answer.
It was directed by their lifelong fan and friend, Sasha Gervasi, who did a fantastic job capturing the essence of these guys, their passion, struggle and enduring friendship, not to mention deep devotion to eachother and to Anvil.

I have to confess, I'd never heard of Anvil before hearing about this movie, which, I understand, has been rocking the festival circuit for some time, but, like most of you, do know fairly well their many high-profile admirers and, dare I say, imitators. Bands like Metallica, Guns and Roses, (more specifically, Slash), Anthrax, Twisted Sister, (ok, they're not so high profile nowadays), Scorpions, and more. In fact, Metallica's Lars Ulrich speaks at length about listening to Anvil as a teenager and rediscovering their many timeless tunes lo these many years later. Songs like "Metal on Metal", "666", "Jackhammer", "Tag Team", "This is my Life", etc. (download a few for yourself and try em out), off an impressive fourteen album discography that includes classic titles like, "Forged In Fire", "Backwaxed", "Hard N' Heavy", "Back to Basics", "Past and Presence", "This is Thirteen", the list goes on and I hardly do it justice.

Okay, before you say it, no, I do not work for the band or have any connection to them whatsoever. The music, though good, quality stuff, isn't why I'm championing these guys so much. It's the movie I most want to recommend. Why?
Well, because at the end of the day, it's a deeply moving, deeply inspiring story of two friends who refuse to give up on a dream and seem to enjoy following it as much, if not more, than it's inevitable manifestation. I liked these guys a lot and could feel their strong passion and unbreakable bond. Perhaps, as someone who knows the cruel sting and, maybe worse, casual numbness that goes with rejection after rejection, setback after maddening setback while the world around you goes on fine and dandy and can't quite understand your devotion, I needed to see there are others out there that go through shit as well, and that, yes, it is possible to come through to the other side - no matter how many times you stumble. Even if you can't quite relate, though, everyone does have their stories and dreams, some realized, many long cast aside. For those people, I urge you to check out this flick. It just might get you banging your heads to a different tune.

D.A.



Want to know more about Anvil?

Check out their site here:

http://my.tbaytel.net/~tgallo@tbaytel.net/anvil/

An Axis Oblique - Chapter Four

And so, it continues. Hope you're enjoying Volume One of my horror-epic, An Axis Oblique. Today's installment is Chapter Four. To read the three previous chapters, plus the prologue, simply scan the post index and take your pick.
Now, without further adieu...



–– Four ––

The Community Medical Center was a welcome addition to the evolving Maplewood landscape. There were a few local drop-in clinics in the area already, but nothing to rival this state of the art family facility. Even the closest hospital, while more than adequate, was little more than a nuisance to the average impatient patient, with its bloated wait-times and stuffy bureaucracy.
The waiting room at the CMC was almost luxurious by comparison. It was spacious, spotless and quite methodical in its carefully-researched aesthetic. Certain walls were painted soothing shades to bring out their calming influence, while others donned dreamy works of art; bright, colorful and always symmetrical.
Cynthia was unconscious of her tennis shoes tapping the anti-microbial carpeting. Across from her, a small boy about the same age as Patrick fidgeted next to his mother, sobbing and carrying on…while all around, people grew exceedingly intolerant...
“Sue Brevetski?” the Asian nurse called, and a very pregnant woman hoisted herself up from her chair and waddled off after her.
“How you doing, Patrick? Any better?”
“No…” he squeezed out. She wasn’t expecting much else, but didn’t want to appear unsympathetic to this roomful of strangers. With the overhead clock, she crosschecked her wristwatch. At least one was off. Either way, the boy’s mother was late.
“It hurts…” whined the child across the way.
“I know, honey. Just a little bit longer.”
“Mommy!”
“What do you want me to do, Eric? Everybody has to wait, okay? There’s nothing I can do.” It didn’t take a keen observer to see she was fed up.
“Sonya Belange?” the nurse called from the alcove. Behind her, an elderly couple acknowledged. Cynthia looked on, while on her lap, Patrick was fast asleep.
About five minutes later, the nurse re-emerged to a chorus of raised heads: “Roberta Luan…?” A woman in the second to front row stood up, excited.
“Cynthia…” Spinning around, she saw Mrs. McAllister coming toward her; hair tied back, wearing a dark brown winter coat with a white, imitation-fur collar. Her boots were tracking slush across the carpet and, though she did appear to notice, did not seem to care. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said, sitting down. “I had one more house to show and figured on plenty of time, but…these people…” She sighed––then stopped, turning attention to Patrick. “How is he?”
“Bout the same,” Cynthia replied. “He just fell asleep about ten minutes ago…”
“Well…at least he’s resting...” she said, eying the room suspiciously. “Has he been throwing up? Did you give him anything to eat?”
“No, Ma’am.”
“What about medicine?”
“Only two teaspoons of Children’s Tylenol, which I found above the sink.”
“And…?”
“He said it didn’t help.”
“Well what else did you try? Do you even know anything about first-aid?”
“I have two younger siblings, Mrs. McAllister,” she said, “and plenty of hands-on experience. I’m also certified with the New York State Lifeguard Association, trained in CPR and many other life-saving techniques, in case you’d like to check up. I promise you, if there was anything else I could think to do I would have done it.”
“Well then. I guess there’s nothing left to do but wait and see what the doctor says.” And that was that––for awhile.
The two sat in silence…ten; fifteen; twenty minutes…before the nurse re-emerged from what seemed like her hiding place. “Gil Galavann?” A man in his mid-to late thirties looked up from behind a seven month-old swimsuit issue.
“Jesus…” muttered Mrs. McAllister; “That guy doesn’t even look sick.” and eyed him doggedly all the way down the corridor. “Maybe I should say something.” She may have been waiting for Cynthia to respond––but not long––for, before she could open her mouth, the anxious woman was halfway toward the reception desk…
She couldn’t do much but watch as the two of them argued at a barely-strained whisper; the former turning and pointing toward Patrick routinely––but to no avail. Cynthia figured the receptionist dealt with people like Mrs. McAllister on a semi-hourly basis.
“I tell you there is no reasoning with these people,” she said, tail tucked between her legs. “For Christ’s sake, all I want is for them to look at my son…” She stopped, clearly distraught––and crazy.
“I know, Mrs. McAllister.” Cynthia tried to sound reassuring. Mrs. McAllister looked up, placing a hand on her son’s tiny head, sliding it down to softly caress his back.
“You say you were a lifeguard,” she inquired…sort of…
“Four summers strait.”
“Henry never mentioned that.”
“He didn’t know. And you’re right. He never did delve too deeply into my credentials.”
The woman laughed to herself and Cynthia couldn’t help but feel a little insulted.
“Don’t take that personally,” she said. “If there’s one thing my husband’s a sucker for it’s a pretty face.” Cynthia was even more offended now––and flattered.
“How did it go with Nick?” She changed the subject. “Did he give you any trouble?”
“Nothing serious.”
“You know if that one wasn’t feeling well he’d be screaming it into a megaphone,” she said, looking down to Patrick with soft eyes. “But Patrick here just isn’t like that at all…” She was stroking his face now. Except for his tiny mouth, quietly pushing the air from his child-sized lungs, one might never have known he was in such discomfort.
“Patrick McAllister…?”
“Right here!” his mother blurted, waving her arms like the next contestant on The Price is Right. Cynthia rose with more dignity, looking out at the sea of angry im-patients: Those that were once my allies are now my enemies, she thought. Oh well.
* * *
The office was off-settingly generic and unimpressive. The doctor keeping them waiting went by the name of Pierce; a young man, or so Mrs. McAllister had been informed during her less than subtle questioning of the patient Asian nurse.
“I thought Dr. McGrady was on call today.”
“Dr. McGrady’s on sabbatical, Ma’am. There’s no need to worry, though. Dr. Pierce is an excellent physician,” she responded, making sure she got out cleanly.
“Wonderful. Shit! I can’t believe my luck this morning. First Henry, then the Diego showing, and now this…I mean, what kind of family doctor abandons his patients during the busiest cold and flu season of the calendar year…?”
“I’m sure the doctor on call knows what he’s doing.”
“Not to worry...” A young man in his thirties was strolling in, wearing a white lab coat with a chart in hand. “Dr. McGrady left you in good hands, I promise.” He looked the three over, extending a hand to the nervous mother. “Mrs. McAllister? I’m Dr. Randal Pierce.” She took it with an insincere smile. Pierce seemed oblivious, shifting his attention to the groggy little boy on her lap. “And you must be Patrick...” he said. The child acknowledged with a non-committal nod. “Not feeling too good, huh? Well, why don’t we have a seat up there on my special table and see how to fix you up, okay?”
“Okay...” Patrick made no fuss whatsoever as Mrs. McAllister stood up and carried him to the paper-draped examination table.
“Has there been any nausea, fever…?” Cynthia, who was about to speak––
“No.” Mrs. McAllister cut her off. “But he does have a temperature.” But Pierce had already felt the boy’s head and did not need her diagnosis. Moving over to a countertop, he opened up a drawer and retrieved a plastic-wrapped ‘popsicle-stick’...
“Okay, Patrick, now I want you to open your mouth real big and stick out your tongue like you’re making a silly face…” Unenthusiastically, the boy obliged, (though his face wasn’t all that silly). “Good. Now say ‘ahhhh!’” The child sounded more like a wounded animal. “Oh come on now, I know you can do better than that...”
“Ahhhh!” he repeated, considerably louder, which was good to hear.
“Open up now, as wide as you can…” With his free hand, the doctor began feeling along Patrick’s throat. “His glands are a bit swollen…some hints of a budding infection; antibiotics ought’’a clear you right up. It’s probably a good thing you came to see me when you did.” Mrs. McAllister was abnormally quiet. Removing the stethoscope around his neck, he positioned it against the boy’s back from under his shirt. “This little guy’s just to help me hear your heartbeat, Patrick, okay? Nothing to be afraid of. Though it may feel a little cold.”
The doctor instructed him to breathe in through his nose and exhale normally, over and over as he moved the stethoscope around periodically. After about thirty seconds, he retrieved the device and went back to the desk to write a prescription.
“I’m going to put him on penicillin to start with. Have him take one immediately then another before bed. Continue twice a day till they’re gone and I’ll schedule a follow-up in two and a half weeks, but be sure to call me if his condition worsens…” The young doctor continued with his instructions as Cynthia’s mind began to wander.
He was kinda cute, she observed; if one went for that straight-laced, J-Crew-type… Then she caught sight of something sinister––just barely––as he hiked up his sleeve…the traces of one badass tattoo concealed not quite all the way up his forearm. Now that was more like it.
Out in the parking lot, the woman re-sharpened her edge, spouting noisy opinions on everything from Dr. Pierce to the A.M.A, fully preparing to take on Hell itself, if it became necessary.
Cynthia was relieved to finally be rid of her when she took Patrick to fill his prescription. And so it was she who saw them first. Arriving a good ten minutes prior, she thought them an illusion; reflections out of focus…even as the flashing lights drew closer… Then why is there a man coming down the McAllister driveway, stupid…?
Good question.
She parked across the street; (a Squad car in her usual spot), and noticed a man coming toward her; about fortyish, and dressed rather shabbily in plain clothes; kind of scruffy looking for a cop, she thought, getting out of her car…
“Mrs. McAllister…?”
“No, um…she had to stop at the Drugstore. What’s going on?”
“Forgive me, Miss…?”
“Caldwell. Cynthia...”
“Miss. Caldwell, I’m Detective Keith Merrimac with the Maplewood Police Department. I’m terribly sorry to have to inform you of this but…this morning, your employer, Dr. McAllister was found murdered at the Bluemont Palisades Shopping Center.” The words took a moment to register––which felt like forever…and as soon as they did, she knew nothing would ever be the same again.




Thanks for reading. Comments are both welcome and appreciated.

D.A.

Minutemark

In honor of my pulp-thriller, Minutemark, advancing in The Writer's Network Screenplay and Fiction Competition, (Yipee!), I thought I'd celebrate by posting a working synopsis.

The intent of this story is much more in line with the hard-boiled, noir-ish page-turners penned by the likes of Ian Fleming, (James Bond), Raymond Chandler and others. Though meant to stand on its own as a novel, Minutemark also acts as a companion piece to five other stand-alone stories, which collectively make up the six-part saga, The Mantra. The next book in the series, Impetus, is currently being written.


Running in short, succinct chapters at approximately 115 000 words, Minutemark paints a stylized picture of a past and present world, where no one is quite what they seem, says what they mean, or means what they say. Filled with intrigue, pathos, adventure and a slew of colourful characters who use aliases to cover their aliases, it spans several decades and surrounds a self-estranged man and his crippling regrets pertaining to his two estranged children; one whom he fears it too late to save, and the other who longs to save him.


MINUTEMARK


Who is Sam Jett?
And why do so many seem to want in his head?

Estranged son, David Drake has flown all the way to Paris just to make a connection, only to be brutally rebuffed over and over, left in limbo at last by a ransacked apartment with one possible clue to his crude disappearance––
To top it all off, he’s been followed.
By the government, no less. They too want their piece of Sam Jett, with whom they’ve an old score to settle. After years of cold trails and downright indifference, it takes veteran war-horse, ‘Mr. Wednesday’ and his kindly old ‘missus’ to put things back in order, setting their cataracted sights on the man’s next of kin, in the hopes he will lead them right to him.
Then there’s Bianca.
A disfigured old adversary, she has taken and tortured Sam Jett to extract her mysterious reward. But is that all she’s after? Or is there, perhaps, something even more priceless between them?

But who is Sam Jett, anyway?
And what makes him so special?

To some, he’s insignificant; an aging playboy with a hasty bravado and flare for frivolity.
To others, a war hero turned spy, trained to survive and steal secrets, (or thoughts), straight from the mind of the enemy.
Some may even know of him best as a philanthropist and collector of rarities.
And still, there are those who would see little more than a scoundrel; a liar, manipulative, without one bone in his body worth trusting.
Though by far, the majority would simply dismiss him. A mere shadow of who he used to be, he now lives a reclusive, tentative non-existence, soaked in booze and self-loathing. A hermit on the verge of full mental collapse.

So who is Sam Jett, after all? And, perhaps more importantly…
How on earth did he get this way?

If there’s hope anywhere to redeem him; not the crafted persona, but the man who lies somewhere beneath, it rests squarely with David, disgruntled in his own right with a lifetime of regrets to prove it, and so many questions.
Now at the precipice of fatherhood himself, he seeks out his reclusive “father-by-birth,” Sam Jett, a fantastical figure he remembers mainly from cheques made out to his family and half over-heard stories that were mostly good fiction.
A man who, when last he’d inquired, wanted nothing to do with him.
Too bad.
Every bit as stubborn, David tracks this disparaged old hermit to Paris, where he lives out what remains of his not-so-golden years, embittered, veering into senility.
When he rudely goes missing less than twenty-four hours after their disastrous initial encounter, David risks life and limb to recover him alive, amazed along the way, to learn what he never dreamed possible; that most of those embellished stories––might turn out to be true after all.





As mentioned, the next book in the 6-part The Mantra saga, Impetus, is nearly through a first official draft. I'm having a blast with it so far, (as I did with the first), and can't wait to see how it shapes up.

D.A.

An Axis Oblique - Chapter Three

You asked for it. Okay, maybe not in so many words but I know you were thinking it. So here you go, no need to keep persturing me. Chapter Three of my horror-epic, An Axis Oblique, for which, incidentally, I've been sending out queries again after a fairly lengthy hiatus. For earlier entries, please check the Post Index over there on your right.


–– Three ––

Just a few hours before his death, Henry McAllister had the Grand Slam Breakfast at Denny’s, right off the Langferth Expressway. Normally, the cholesterol alone would have dissuaded him, but on this particular morning, heightened anxiety had trumped other considerations. It was time, he thought, soaking up the last of his syrup with a half a piece of toast. It had been a good four, maybe five minutes since he looked her straight in the eye; Abigail Waike, sipping her steaming hot tea. She really was a sweet kid. And part of him really hated himself. It’s not that he meant to hurt anyone. He had a disease.
“I don’t think we should see each other any more.” There, he said it. It was out there at last. Poor thing. She was looking at him with those pouty, puppy dog eyes, which usually made him want to ravage her but––no––must stay strong. “Please say something.”
Her expression changed.
“What do you want me to say?”
She had to have seen this coming. Not today perhaps. Or any time soon. But surely somewhere down the line.
“Sweetheart this isn’t about you,” he attempted clumsily. “It’s about––”
“I love you, Henry.” She interrupted him, then paused, probably just for effect. And, though tempted, Henry held his tongue. “If you can honestly say that you don’t love me back…well…I guess that’ll be that.”
“Abi, honey, you’re my hygienist.” He stopped. What more was there to say? “Look, you know I’m married. And you… You’re a beautiful, smart, sexy…sexy…sexy girl…” Off-track, off-track, off-track. “What I’m trying to say is…you’ll have no trouble attracting the right kind of guy.” About to break in, he held up his finger–– “I have to make it work with my family. My boys…are the most important thing in the world to me, you know that.” He sighed. “Then, of course, there’s Mary…”
“The Ice Queen,” she murmured. “I thought you ‘fell out of love’ with her…”
“I thought maybe I had, but…she has her reasons for being angry, believe me…”
It was almost as though he believed himself for the very first time.
“So that’s it then…”
“I’m afraid so. I’m sorry.” Next came the uncomfortable silence. “If you like, I can write you a killer referral with Dr. Abbott. Seriously, the man owes me a––” Oops.
“Thanks.” She snipped; the last straw.
“I am sorry, Abigail. Please believe that. If there’s anything I can do––”
“I’d say you’ve done enough.” She folded her hands on the table. “Now I’d like to be alone, if you don’t mind…”
Beautiful.
Henry stood from the table and reached into his back pocket. “Say no more.”
All in all, he was grateful to her for not making a scene; (one of the reasons he’d suggested this very public venue to begin with). Thank God he’d asked her to mail that little letter to Leon back at the office, putting to rest yet another ugly chapter in his personal book of shame.
The ordeal had gone much smoother than he’d any right to anticipate. There was anger, sure; hurt, guilt; perhaps even a little betrayal...but to his reasonable astonishment, she’d taken the whole thing like a grownup. Better than some grownups he knew.
By the time he got out to the parking lot, he’d already begun to reconsider. Perhaps he was giving himself too much credit. She was a very attractive girl, after all, who’d likely broken her share of hearts along the way. She’ll be fine, he unlocked his whipped-cream white S-120 from half an aisle down, repeating the silent mantra all the way inside, pulling out and due north onto Bluemont Drive.
He still had a good deal of growing up to do, but he felt a weight lifted and longed to hold onto the feeling. With nearly two hours to his next appointment, he decided to get in some holiday shopping before heading back to the office. Things were gonna be different, he sternly proclaimed, circling the lot for a space, and in his mind, it was already true. After all, he’d been strong so far with Cynthia, despite clear opportunity. Yes sir. Henry was going to grow up if it killed him.
It was just wrong, what he’d had with Abigail, and he’d always known that. She was just so…there. And life with Mary could be so…predictable. ‘Boring’ was the only real word for it. He meant every word at the restaurant. Mary was the most patient soul he’d ever known and over the years, had a million and one reasons to leave––and only two to stay. Granted, those two carried considerable weight, but there were plenty of women out there who would’ve opted for personal happiness over a sham-marriage any day.
Jessica Todd came as close as anyone to breaking up their not-so-happy home for good. What happened to her was a tragedy, and not a day went by when he didn’t wonder what might have been if he hadn’t––a thought that usually kept him up at night…
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” His blinker was clearly blinking when some hipster college-boy in a trendy Mini Cooper, (not the Classic, mind you; one of those new plastic knock-offs), slipped right into his space from nowhere. Henry leaned on the horn a good ten seconds before begrudgingly moving on.
This is hopeless, he thought, adjusting the heat to his liking. He would be damned if he was going to walk up from half a mile out. Driving up one of Lot Purple A’s many crowded aisles, he noticed a white minivan with its reverse lights on. No time to be diplomatic. With the skill of a Formula One driver, he threw the standard transmission into the reverse position and backed his way down the aisle, cutting off the car behind him in the process. A loud honk let him know it.
“Okay, guess I deserved that...” he maintained, doing almost ten now, backwards all the way to the other end of the fifty-car stretch. And just as he came within a few dozen feet, a faded-gray, piece of shit Buick signaled its intention to move in on his territory. “Oh no. No fucking way, pal!” he declared, flooring it as a Dodge Caravan unintentionally ran defense.
Mr. Buick didn’t like it one bit. Henry could see him ranting through the rear-view mirror. For a second, he thought the large driver might get out of his car, but seeing a space on the other side of the aisle must have made him think twice, (though he made sure Henry could see his lewd finger as he drove off to go after it).
On the short walk inside, he again thought of Jessica. She would have been thirty next month.
_____
“Do you love me?” she once asked out of thin air.
“Well, I…I care about you, Jessica, you know that. I care about you a lot.”
“But do you love me? As in the way you used to love your wife.”
“I think that’s a little different. She and I were in the same place when we fell in love. We had our whole lives ahead of us. With you and I it’s…well, more of a spiritual connection, don’t you think?” She didn’t respond. “To answer your question, though, of course I do. You make me so happy, hon. Happier than I ever thought I could be...”
Things just weren’t quite the same between them. Not since ‘the scare.’ He could still see the pain in her eyes; every time he closed his own––and Mary, on the night she confronted them. The bitterness. The resentment. The betrayal.
Looking around her immaculately clean apartment that afternoon, he’d wondered just how often she went around with a duster––before noticing what had somehow escaped him till right about then. The bookshelves. They were…emptier. The walls…bearer… And then there were the two empty boxes in the hall near the bedroom.
“I’m leaving,” she said, and he stood from her sunken half-sofa. He recognized her tone; one he had tendency to use himself when he knew it was time to move on.
_____
Unlike all the others, he believed himself when he told her he loved her. Not necessarily more than his wife––only different. She’d had it all planned out; resignation typed-up and on his desk at the office; a suitcase packed and ready; a full tank of gas for the four hour drive to her sister’s in Rochester; and most important of all, the courage, which had been building for months; to make a clean break––
until he so selfishly stopped her––
Somehow, he’d managed to make his needs, his desires, his priorities more important than her own. Perhaps if he hadn’t been such a self-absorbed son of a bitch; perhaps if he’d put her first just once in all the time they were together, and let her go, she would be here today, or at least somewhere; alive. Sometimes he truly hated himself.
“Hey why don’t you watch it?” someone snapped.
“Sorry…” he mumbled into some idiot with his head down in the housewares department. It was time to get focused …new leaf, new leaf, new leaf…let’s see, new roller blades for Nicky, no brainer, and, um, for Patrick, something Spiderman, easy enough. Mary’s gift would be the toughest. He wanted something sentimental, to remind her of the happy times, but also convey what he felt for her now, after all they’d been through. Better go Tiffany’s…but first something to drink… The aftertaste of morning coffee left his mouth uncomfortably dry.
So he headed out, hanging a right toward the food court.




Thanks for reading. And for those of you who just skimmed it, what's a matter, you too busy? Go back and read it again, I'm very dissapointed in you.

D.A.