Story-A-Day #154: Swinging

SWINGING

He wondered what it would be like to be Spider-man, to have the ability to defy gravity and swing through the streets of the city. It would be liberating and heroic, an exceptionally freeing experience. How could it not be?

In the movies, it looked like a blast, so much grace and freedom. The heroic figure in his bright red and blue tights dropping and rising through the canyons of the city with the thrill of effortlessness, a narrow line of webbing the only thing keeping him afloat. It would be a thrill.

It could also be sickening though. He had been on enough roller coasters to know that those lurching falls and dread-inducing climbs were not for the light of constitution.

If he could swing like that through the streets, would he still be heroic? He was hardly a hero now, but would having those powers make him so, or would he use them for more personal or nefarious gains?

Would he use his powers for good and noble accomplishments, or would he be tempted by other less-pure motives?

Perhaps he might perch on the side of a building and peering through windows at naked lovers entwined in their silky moment of passion. Worse still, maybe he would turn his abilities towards a life of crime, robbing banks and committing other crimes.

Then again, maybe he wouldn’t be able to control himself as he swooped through the city. Maybe he was not capable of steering through the streets from above. Imagine having all those powers and still having to walk everywhere you went? That would be no life for anyone.

It was probably best that he was reduced to a life of daydreaming on city transit. There were less unknowns and what-ifs this way. Everyone wanted to be special in some way. He just needed to figure out what his way would be.

Third-year accounting was probably not it, but maybe what came next would be. He certainly hoped so.

Story-A-Day #153: Redeemer

REDEEMER

He wasn’t a religious man, but he appreciated the comfort that could be attained through the pursuit of beliefs in a higher power. Why not? Life was full of hardships and challenges and if you could blame the bad times on the will of a higher power, then why not do so? It seemed like a straightforward solution to the age-old question: why me?

On thing he never understood, was attributing the good fortunes as a result of hard work to those higher powers. That one escaped him. He was a hard worker. He had raised three intelligent and loving children and was still married to his beautiful and gracious wife.

They were a team. The five of them set out to confront any challenges they might face, and they were all the happier for it. Still, there came a time in a man’s life when he needed to turn to the unknown for the solution.

There was a young girl at the office, not like a teenager or anything, but young enough that her attentions towards him were quite baffling. He was a decent looking man, charming and intelligent, but this vivacious young woman had no reason to express her interest in him, just as he had no reason to reciprocate.

Still, she had made her interests clear, and had continued to do so for nearly three months now. He loved his wife, and he loved his family, but it was hard not to notice the press of her firm breasts against his shoulder when she leaned over him at his desk; the sweet vanilla aroma of her long cascading hair as it brushed across his cheek.

He had no intention of pursuing her, but his mounting attraction was getting harder to deny. He had asked her to back off, and now at the advice of a friend, he would ask for additional support.

There was a man who attended this church on the second Wednesday of every month, and he had been told that this man could help him with his problem. He found it hard to believe that things had come to this point, but he was running out of will power. Something needed to be done, and this man was the one who could help.

He braced himself for a moment, then stepped through the heavy wood doors at the side of the church and walked down to the basement. It was just as his friend had told him it would be and he could hear the anticipated refrain as he slowly descended the steps to the basement: “God give me the strength…”

Story-A-Day #152: The Glob

THE GLOB

She whistled a happy tune as she cut into the alley. It was a nice short cut and would get her to his place at least three minutes sooner than if she took the long way around the block.

He had sounded so excited on the phone. “Great news,” he had told her. She couldn’t wait to hear what it might be. Maybe he had finally received the promotion he had been promised all those months ago. Whatever the case, she was excited to find out the news that he had almost spilled over the phone.

As she made her way along the alley, she admired the graffiti. To many, it was a blight on society, but she could see the artistry involved in the murals. This wasn’t the generic curse words and crude anatomy most often associated with street art, it was a bright and vibrant expression.

She rounded a corner in the alley and skirted around what looked like a large mound of snow, a shade preserved remnant of the winter gone by. She would have continued onward at the same pace, but something caught her attention out of the corner of her eye.

The mound of snow seemed to shift. She paused, scrutinizing the pile closer, and sure enough, it almost seemed to be pulsating, a strange throbbing from within.

She placed her hands on her knees and leaned in closer. Sure enough, the pile heaved outward, and sank back in, like a lung taking in and expelling air.

What could cause such a strange occurrence? It was almost as if there was a living, breathing entity trapped within. A sudden wave of panic washed over her and she reached out, intending to dig out whatever poor creature was trapped within.

Her fingers just brushed the warm surface of the mound when a pair of glistening tendrils shot out. They entwined themselves around her arms and throat and slowly pulled her downward.

It seemed impossible, but the mound of snow opened before her, a gaping maw admitting its prey. She tried to call out, to scream, but the searing hot tentacles around her throat cut off all air. She realized with dawning horror, that the good news would never come.

The glob slowly folded over her, and everything went dark.

Story-A-Day #151: Play Ground

PLAY GROUND

It is supposed to be a place of joy and mirth. Even the name itself communicates a happy sense of optimism: Play Ground.

This structure should be crawling in laughing, playing children. Infants should be sliding down the plastic ramps, hands and feet extended to the skies, while the shock of static electricity bristles their hair. Their older siblings should be charging back and forth across the ramparts, fending off imaginary hordes, or leaping from surface to surface without touching the lava sands that separate them.

This should be a place of unmitigated content, but on this cold spring morning, it appears more desolate than anything. A playground is a place for coordination to blossom, for energy to be spent. It is a place where the imagination can run wild and any adventure is possible.

A simple structure such as this can travel the seven seas, fending off legions of attacking pirates with ease. Sure one might have to walk the plank now and then, but it is an easy climb back up the riggings to victory. A simple structure like this can lift off from the ground in a billowing cloud of smoke, explore the cosmos, and touch down on a strange forbidden planet.

There are scores of forgotten dreams buried in these sands, adventures left to be continued on another day; perhaps by a whole new group of youthful explorers. This is a place where potential is built, where even the impossible is attainable. If you listen closely, no matter your age, you can hear the call of the game.

Take this man here: a solitary figure dressed for success. He crosses the empty space, making his way around the battered storm fence. He is in his late thirties, possibly his early forties, and his business-casual attire stands in stark contrast to his muddy surroundings and the lonesome plastic edifice.

He climbs a tiny plastic staircase and surveys the structure: slides: swings, huts and bridges. A look of remorse crosses his face and he slowly makes his way up to the highest point, head hung low.

He pauses at the top, and surveys the broader surroundings: the empty beach, deserted promenade, and vacant stretch of parking lot. He is alone. Not another soul to be seen.

In a sudden burst of activity, he dashes across the rope bridge to the next tower and hurls him self, quite abruptly, down the short plastic slide at its peak.

He stands, a little stiff in the knees, and smiles.

This playground is a vessel. It is the embodiment of youthful exuberance. Even for that older professional, it represents the untapped potential of youth. That is the true magic of these places. As many things as they can be, what they are most is a time machine to the better, halcyon days of youth.

Story-A-Day #150: By Gas Light

BY GAS LIGHT

There was something to be said for the olden days, the turn of the last century on the cobbled streets of London. Gas lamps burning on the street corners, merchants peddling their filthy wares, and prostitutes showing their pasty white thighs in promise of a good time to be had.

It was easier to figure out your place in society then. You either had, or had not, and a good day’s work was easy to come by. Society wasn’t so rigidly defined by class or societal positions, at least not in the hearty of Olde London Towne. It was different here in the new world, in the new millennium. People were always in a rush to get to their next destination, hesitant to make eye contact, or exchange a witty retort.

This is not the world I knew.

I suppose that makes me lucky though. I can actually recall those better days. Food was plentiful, if you knew where to pinch it, and money was more of a benefit than a requisite.

In my other life, if you wanted something, you could just take it. In my days, taking something you wanted was all it took to enter the realm of legend. I am a testament to that.

I never wanted to kill, but my desire to feel the warm lifeblood spill from the whores of Whitechapel has rendered me immortal. Ponder it for a moment, and you will recall my name.

I yearn for those days, but I am happy to begin anew. This new life is so full of light and noise it becomes overwhelming, but within that chaos, I will reign once more.

Do not ask how I have come to be once more. It is more important that you ask what will come to pass once my obligations have been fulfilled.

It is rare to see a gas lamp such as this in this day and age, but in that flickering illumination, I have been awakened; inspired to begin anew. You may not wish to make eye contact, or pass civil greeting, but know that I feel no such limitations.

Should I see you out in the dark of night and decide your warmth is something I wish to possess, you will feel me. I will be next to you, over you and all around you, one cold slice at a time.

Story-A-Day #149: Lake Monster

LAKE MONSTER

His breath echoed eerily loud in his head. A rhythmic gushing in and out through the plastic snorkel that was loud enough to drown out all other sounds but the gentle splashing he made as he manoeuvred in towards shore. It was almost deafening.

He dug his fingers into the soft, sandy bottom of the lake and slowly pulled himself forward, inching ever closer to shore. He paused for a moment, hovering weightlessly in the water, and surveyed the shoreline.

The 16-foot aluminum boat was pulled up on the beach next to the canoe and two kayaks. Behind the watercrafts, he could just make out the stacked firewood and scattering of plastic lawn chairs that surrounded the fire pit on the beach. A weathered wooden dock jutted out from the beach, ending about fifteen feet from where he floated.

He could just make out the long gleaming length of her leg, shining with perspiration under the hot summer sun. A tattered corner of beach towel drooped lazily over the edge of the dock.

He inched a little closer, picturing the blue and yellow bikini that barely preserved the modesty of the sunbathing beauty on the dock. He could picture she soft blonde hairs on her arms, gleaming in the sun; the beads of perspiration pooling in her belly button, and the shallow indent of her sternum. He could picture the cascade of her long flowing hair, framing her angelic face; the oversized sunglasses that were undoubtedly perched across the bridge of her small, button nose.

He inched in a little closer, breathing shallowly, the snorkel now dangling useless from the side of his head. It was too loud, too much of a giveaway.

He slowly pulled himself closer, inching ever closer towards the foot of the dock. He could smell the subtle-sweet aroma of her coconut tanning lotion now, a delectable aroma that set his heart aflutter.

He was at the end of the dock and he paused for a minute, bracing himself. When he was ready, he burst upward in an explosion of water, an animal roar bursting from his chest. She leapt up from the dock, a scream twice as loud as his own rising into the summer sky.

It took her a moment to realize what had happened, and when she did, she leapt at him from her stance on the dock. They tumbled backwards into the water, frolicking momentarily while her anger slowly subsided.

Eventually, their lips came together, and they fell into a passionate embrace, choking on mouthfuls of water and laughter. It was an old game, but one that never seemed to grow tiresome.

Story-A-Day #148: Moving On

MOVING ON

The sun shone brightly in the sky above denoting a beautiful Spring day. Birds sang in the air and leftover piles of snow slowly seeped away in trickling rivulets. The air smelled earthy and moist, a hint of melting dog feces lacing the fresh, crispness.

The platform at the station was deserted except for a porter and a mother and her two small children. He made a note to let the family board first so that he could select a different carriage.

He tugged his luggage along and stacked it against the exterior of the station, then entered the quiet terminal to collect his ticket.

He was excited about the new opportunity he was headed for, but remorseful to be leaving his family and friends behind. It had been a difficult decision, but the money was to good to pass on.

Back on the platform, the man handled the paper luggage tags onto his bags and slowly hauled them up onto the train.

It was antiquated, but the 8-hour journey north would be far more pleasant than in the confined space of the bus. It had been a smart choice.

He settled into a seat in the nearly deserted car and pulled out his iPod. He would nap for most of the trip, then maybe hit the bar car for a few beers. The porter came by and he handed over his ticket.

There was a gentle lurch, and the train slowly nudged forward. He was off. He glanced out the window for one last peek at his hometown and noticed a group of people standing on the platform. They waved excitedly, jogging slowly along next to the train.

He waved back, happy that they had made it after all. He would only be gone for a month, but the gesture was definitely appreciated. He craned his neck and watched as his family and friends receded with the station platform.

He would see them again soon enough, but the gesture was appreciated.