The Trouble With Smiting Envy

"And Lo, with my cart I shall smite thy ankles..."

I think all writers embed traits in their characters that they identify with on many levels whether or not we’re even aware that we’re doing it. Sure, we can make our characters noble, strong, and full of integrity and other do-gooder stuff. It’s always fun to write a hero because just about all of us spent hours in childhood running around with blanket-capes, make-shift swords, or feather duster magic wands rescuing neighbor kids or the family dog from some unthinkable dragon or other beast. As a kid, you dream about being the hero everyone loves. But then we grow up and start secretly dreaming about being the villain because at some point we discover that the bad guys really do have all the fun.  Think about it… how often during the day do you pause to daydream about saying what you REALLY want to say to that customer, or getting even with the jerk on the road, or saying something inappropriate to the 8-year old in the line behind you at Walmart that keeps banging your ankles with the cart while his mom plays on her iPhone?

If any of those last three scenarios ring true to you, then Congratulations: You’re well on your way to villainy! Maybe not on a world domination level, but you’re certainly not alone in your secret evil-doer desires. In fact, just last night Steven made me aware of one of my own villainous day dreams I've been living out through my writing, completely unaware (or in denial), of course. 

We were trying to leave Publix during rush hour and it turned into a game of Dodge the Idiot about to back into you, Dodge the Idiot about to walk into your car, and ended with sitting stuck behind the person who took a good 5 minutes to decide which way to turn. That trip gave me a fresh reason to curse someone on an average of every five seconds. And curse them I did! That was when Steven made the connection for me: “It’s a good thing you don’t have a smiting problem,” he said.

But oh, how I wish I did!

The smiting problem referenced is a constant growing pain of the young demi-goddess Trotter in my fantasy series. Her smiting finger has a mind of its own; anytime something frightens her or just particularly irritates her, her out-of-control powers decide to smite the offender for her. Usually it’s by accident. But Steven made me realize that I’ve been writing my own secret revenge dreams not into my villains, but into my hero! I’ve had a ton of fun writing about the smiting debacles, but with her it’s an unconscious reaction rather than a conscious intent to burst some annoying person into flames.

Maybe it’s because I managed to sneak my own villainous urges into my hero that I didn't recognize it for what it was – apparently my guilty subconscious pulled that one off right under my nose – but now that I've made that connection to Trotter, I feel like I’m more open to explore this dark side that I've already planted in her from my own evil roots. Even heroes blow up at people when they’re stressed (notice I said blow up AT people, not blow people up), so it might even help me make her a more tangible character as I work my way through this series. Nobody can believe in a perfect hero anymore, after all.

I think my next writing exercises are all going to involve putting her in some dark scenarios and letting her just do what comes naturally. Besides… I have to make a Walmart trip again soon and I’m sure I’ll have plenty of pent-up villainous urges to deal with J

Short Story - "The Cloak"

Tara crinkled her nose again and again as she clung to her mother’s dress. The smell in the subway was awful; it made her think of the dirty children who urinated on themselves at the shelter where her mother volunteered. When the children smelled too terrible to endure she could walk away, but in here the stench was everywhere and it made her eyes water.

                

Her father had never allowed her mother to take her into the subway before and now she could see why. When she’d heard her parents arguing about whether or not her mother would be allowed to take her this time the idea of the subway he kept bringing up sounded somehow exciting. “Dangerous” to her was not a word to invoke fear, but was instead an incitement to her ample curiosity. Standing here amid the silent Sunday crowds she still did not feel afraid, and as her nose adjusted to the initial onslaught of odors she looked around herself for the first time.

Her first thought was that there were too many people there for it to be so quiet. The crowd was scattered into small silent groups across the grimy brown tiles, and if they spoke amongst themselves at all it was in the lowest whispers. Those who were there alone stood in any empty patch they could find with their eyes cast down to the ground or at the tattered posters on the walls, ostensibly unaware, or at least uncaring, that anyone else was near them. Tara wondered why they weren’t all talking and making friends. She wanted to ask her mother if it was supposed to be quiet like church, but she was afraid that she’d be hushed.

To the side of everyone was an older shabby woman wearing a dingy feather cloak. Tara could see spots on the cloak where the feathers seemed to almost shine when the light hit them and thought it might have been white at one time, but it was now just as filthy as the lady herself. She studied the old woman’s face and was surprised to see that the skin itself didn’t seem wrinkled so much as dirty, yet she couldn’t shake the impression that standing here was a very, very old woman. The woman caught Tara’s eye and her mouth spread into an attractive grin, despite the grime that had to rearrange itself to make way for her smile.

“Don’t stare, sweetie,” her mother quietly admonished her from above, pulling Tara closer to her side. 

Where there had been overwhelming silence before there was now an overwhelming noise approaching from the tunnel in front of them. The breeze that accompanied it stirred up the smell again and Tara frowned as she found herself disappointed yet again when the train slid into view.  Her imagination had polished the reality of what was now on the platform in front of them; this graffiti-covered and tarnished beast was nothing like what she had pictured when her mother told her the subway was like a train, only underground. Tara had been anxious to hear her first real train whistle, but the only sound that greeted them was the shrill whine of the brakes screeching to a stop. She didn’t want to ride in this twisted betrayal of her imagination.

Sensing her reluctance to move, her mother picked her up into her arms and carried her onto the train. She hurried into a seat in the very back of the car where she could hold her daughter on her lap and from here Tara could see everyone as they entered. The people on the platform pushed their way wordlessly into the car. A priest took his seat on the left just a few feet away from them and her mother instinctively put her hands to the crucifix around her neck and smiled.

“We’re almost home, honey. This wasn’t so bad, was it?” Feeling cheered, she kissed the top of Tara’s head.

Almost as soon as she’d spoken her words of comfort Tara felt her mother tense again. Rushing through the quickly closing doors were two teenagers dressed in a way that did not actually frighten her but caused her to feel sure that they were not what her mother would have called “good children.” The taller of the two teens wore his hair in long, purple-streaked braids with what looked to Tara like a spiked dog collar similar to the ones worn on the bull dogs in her cartoons. The smaller one was completely bald with the exception of long bangs which he let hang down over his face. Their dark clothes were paired with jeans that were full of rips and they wore many piercings in their faces as well as their ears. There were no places left to sit and the taller of the boys scanned the car and let his eyes fall on the priest with an impish grin. He nudged his friend in the ribs and they deliberately went to stand at the hand holds directly in front of the priest, bringing them closer to Tara. Her mother quickly repeated her earlier admonishment about staring with more urgency.

Obediently, Tara turned her gaze to the right side of the car and met the eyes of the old woman from the platform again. The people nearest the woman had moved to the edges of their seats to reduce to possibility of coming in contact with her dingy feathered cloak. She felt herself smiling at the woman despite her mother’s warnings. There was something comforting about her gentle face. It was her eyes, she realized. The woman had perfectly gray eyes with no color of their own, but they reflected a bit of whatever shade crossed her sight. At this moment her gaze was upon Tara and her deep indigo coat, giving a sparkle of blue to her eyes. It was not surprising to Tara when the woman’s gaze flicked to the teens across from her that her eyes were suddenly tinged with the darkness from the boys’ clothing.

“Sad, ain’t it?” The taller boy was telling his friend loudly, gesturing toward the priest less than a foot away from him. “You know this guy probably ain’t never been laid.” The priest did not look up at the two.

“Just ‘cuz he’s a priest? Nah, man, that don’t stop ‘em.” The shorter boy leaned closer to the priest to force him to look into his face as he spoke again. “You been suckin’ some little boys dick, right? Or maybe all you priests get together somewhere and jerk off to each other in your skirts.” He laughed harshly, the priest flinching in the onslaught of the teen’s breath.

The other passengers tried to ignore the conversation but Tara heard her mother gasp.

“Son, I don’t care what you say to me, but please don’t talk like that in front of children,” the priest pleaded with the boys.

“Dude!” The taller boy elbowed his friend. “That fag just called you ‘son.’ Don’t that piss you off?"

“Shit, yeah, it does. If what I said is so bad,” he continued with the priest, “why don’t your God just shut me up right now?"

“Because he gave us a choice! You didn’t have to choose to act this way any more than I had to choose a life of service. You can always make new choices, too,” the priest pressed more softly with him. “He always welcomes back his children."

The boy was still smiling malevolently at the priest. “Tell you what, Padre. I’ll make a deal with you.”

“I’m not interested in any deals,” the priest replied.

The train was slowing for the next stop now and the gray-eyed woman was gathering her cloak about her to take her leave. She cast her gaze to Tara one last time and nodded once sadly as she turned to leave. Only a few people got off the train with her. Tara turned on her mother’s lap so she could still see the platform through the window as the doors began to close. Everyone else, including her mother, had their attention glued to the teenagers and the priest.

“You’ll like this one, man. I’ll shut up and I won’t say anything else you don’t like if I’m wrong."

On the platform those who’d exited the train made their way hastily up the stairs, eager to return to the open air. Only the old woman lingered. She turned slowly and faced Tara, her smile returning.

“I’m gonna give your God a chance to prove himself.” The boy stood back and spread his arms dramatically, his faced lifted to the roof.

Tara smiled back at the woman, noticing that she suddenly seemed younger and cleaner, as if the dirt and filth were falling away from her feather cloak as she watched. Slowly, her cloak began to open.

The boy grabbed for the hand hold as the doors shut. He cupped his free hand around his mouth and called out, “Hey up there, God? Look man, if you’re up there why don’t you just give us a sign? Obviously, you didn’t have time to keep my mom from dyin’ of cancer and it’s probably been too much trouble for you to keep my dad from drinking a bottle of gin every night and beatin’ the shit out of me, so how ‘bout somethin’ simple? Like strike me down with lightening, that should be fun for you. Come on!"

Her cloak kept opening, each feather now a pristine white, until each side stood straight away from her slender, strong body. Her white gown underneath held the same immaculate radiance. Tara gasped as the train began to pull away from the platform.

“See?” The boy dropped his arm angrily, but also a little sadly. “There’s nothin’ there. Nothing. You can spend your whole life believing in a lie, but I ain’t. No way."

Tara returned her attention to the priest as the platform slid out of sight. He looked worn suddenly with the heat of the boy’s rage. “Son, faith just doesn’t work that way. You’ll never see God if you’re only looking for miracles."

“It’s all just bullshit anyway, man,” the taller of the two boys interjected, less passionately than before. He took his friend and they moved away toward the opposite end of the car.

Her mother kissed the top of her head again. “I’m sorry, sweetie. It’s almost all over. We’ll get home and I’ll fix us a nice dinner, OK?"

“It’s OK, Mommy.” Tara didn’t know why her Mommy was so upset, but she wished she’d thought to show her the angel before it flew away.

It would have made her so happy.

Flash Fiction - Short Post-Apocalyptic Noir

As she watched the cab meter slowly tick upward in increments of forty cents, she reached into her coat pocket and lovingly thumbed over the paltry heap of change that remained.

$4.40… $4.80...

The loose bills were few and had been saved only by her decision to exchange her dinner for a few minutes of warmth.  Only a bit more and I’ll have to tell him to stop, she thought bitterly.

$7.20… $7.60…

She shuddered at the thought of going back out into the bitter cold that had the city in its deadly grasp, but she had no choice. She would have to fight with the other women who had been driven to similar desperation for the few dollars that their “clients” could afford to spend on such temporary distractions from the dying world around them.  She shuddered even harder.

$9.60… $10.00…

“You wanna tell me where yer goin’, lady?”

“Just head toward the center of the city.  I’ll tell you when to stop.”

The cabby looked into his mirror and saw her eyes focused on the meter as he spoke and smiled grimly.  This was not the first time one of the girls had sought out his cab for relief from the ever-present winter.  Suppressing a sneer he flipped down his visor pretending to search for an elusive piece of paper while intentionally showing her the wad of cash he stored there.  He always kept a large amount on hand for the occasions when he would need bribe money.  He watched his mirror for the moment her eyes would register the stash and betray the cold mask she wore for the look of pain that was always underneath.

$11.20… $11.60…

His battle with the sneer was lost as her eyes were torn from the meter and to the visor with a look of helpless rage and despair.  Before the war he’d never have be able to imagine that such an expression would become a common greeting for the eyes that passed one another on the streets.  As for now, the only thing left was to take advantage of it where he could.

She dropped her head as she blinked back the tears.  What he had tucked into his visor had to have been less than $100, but to her now it seemed a fortune.  So many memories of her life before the war had been washed away like a dream she clung to as she awoke, but she could still remember a time when she’d carried purses worth more than that without a second thought.   Suddenly, she felt more desperate than ever and a secret resolve in her flared into life.  Had this strength always been there, hiding deep within instincts civilization had buried with laws and etiquette?

$12.40… $12.80

Feeling that he’d seen his opening the cabby shut his visor and clicked his tongue, feigning sympathy.  “Now don’t you worry about it, little lady.  I’ll bet we can work out something to keep you warm in here for a while, and maybe even get you a little something extra for yer trouble, if you know what I mean.”

Unable to hold a straight face, his sneer widened into a chubby grin.  Until he smiled, the dirt might have been mistaken for an unshaven chin, but the grisly leer he wore forced the filth into the crevices and was now unmistakable.  She said nothing in response but felt herself steeling her reserve, being careful not to question it lest it left her when she needed it most.  Would she really be able to?

He started pulling over to the curb and patted the seat beside him, believing he had made her an offer she was in no position to refuse.  “Why don’t you come sit up here by me an’ we can make a deal, huh?”

She heard her own voice agree but all she could think of was the tiny blade she wore in the ankle of her worn out boots for her own protection.  Sudden panic gripped her as she thought about what she had planned to do.  Justification came no less quickly. 

I have to have that money, I’ll die without it! 

As she gathered her strength she deftly slid her hand across her blade to reaffirm its presence, drawing strength from its cold steel as she left the back seat of the cab.  She stole a quick glimpse of her reflection in the passenger window of the front seat before she opened it and smoothed down her matted and graying hair.  It was a reflection she could no longer recognize.  So this is what a murderer looks like, she thought grimly.  Heaving one last sigh she climbed in.

Alexandra had been beautiful once.

Short Story - "Debt Collection"

It’s a common assumption that in the absence of light there are no shadows.  As with many common assumptions, this is simply not true.

 In the absence of light are the deepest and darkest of shadows, obscured from sight by the darkness itself, thankfully hiding from sight the things which we would prefer to commonly assume don’t exist. Still, despite our very human certainty that there are no terrors that lurk in dark corners and underneath beds, we find ourselves casting second glances toward darkened doorways and wondering if it’s just our imagination that a certain shadow seems darker than it ought to be.

On this wet night, in the alley across from 198B Pindale Drive, one such shadow among the many suddenly deepened. There had been no other sound in the alley except for the rain, but the stillness was now broken by a breath, and now by the striking of a match. The flare died quickly, suffocated in the darkness, but it was replaced by a small glow and a satisfied sigh.

“Finally,” said a gruff voice as a man emerged from the darkness, leaving the shadows behind him a bit lighter than they were before. He drew heavily from his cigarette and peered up at the windows of the impressive townhouse in front of him. There were two of them in there; he could hear their heartbeats. Especially hers.

From his pocket he pulled an unusual timepiece. It was not for telling time, but for subtracting it, and it was nearing zero. Still, he was early enough that he could wait until she was alone. He stamped the remains of his cigarette into the wet gravel under his feet and headed into the street for the all-night convenience store halfway down the block.

He entered behind an expensively dressed man in his late fifties accompanied by a young lady in her twenties equally well dressed and decorated with expensive jewelry. The Shadow Man knew the type; the only thing cosmetic surgery could never erase was the pout of childish petulance that preceded the frequent tantrums feeding a never-sated desire for more. More of what, he’d learned, didn’t seem to matter. He listened with amused interest to the beginning of one of these now.

“Bobby! Stop turning your back on me!” She followed him from the liquor shelf to the counter with his large bottle of whiskey. “Why can’t I go? I don’t see why you have to treat me like a child!” Her bottom lip protruded with practiced ease.

The man she’d called “Bobby” turned to look at her. This was the first time the Shadow Man had fully seen his face. It was ashen and weary, lined thickly with years of heavy drinking and depression.

“Why should I let you go? So you can be one of two women on a boat with ten other men? Stop this nonsense, Shana. Make a fool of yourself if you want to, but quit making one of me!”

In line behind them, the Shadow Man snorted almost sympathetically. This further enraged Bobby.

“Do I know you, buddy?”

Casting a glance down at the faint red glow over Bobby’s heart that only the Shadow Man could see, he replied simply, “Not yet,” and smiled bitterly.

Flustered, Bobby paid quickly and dragged a still whining Shana behind him. The Shadow Man stepped up to the counter.

“Menthols, please. Two packs.”

The clerk grabbed the packs, making small talk. “Man, it’s really comin’ down out there. How come you ain’t drenched? You ain’t got no umbrella wid ya.”

“I guess the rain must’ve missed me,” he said honestly.

He opened his mouth to speak again, words no human ear could understand. The clerk looked dazed for a moment, then responded, “I’m sorry, what’d you say?”

“I just said ‘Thanks.’” He took the packs and walked out. He could have walked out with the cash register if he’d wanted to, but what was the point when you could just as easily make people forget to charge you? Besides, he wouldn’t have any use for cash when he returned Down There.

He stepped back into the rain and lit his first cigarette. The match flickered in the downpour, but no drop would ever touch him. He would never feel the cool rain, a cool drink, nor even the slightest cool breeze during his penance, and he had lifetimes yet to serve. Menthol was as close as he could get to something truly refreshing, and he was still afraid someday He would catch on to it and take even that away.

He heard one heartbeat from the townhouse rising and moving away from the other. It was time.

He quickly finished his cigarette and lit yet another as he walked up to and opened the door to his night’s quarry. The locks fell open under his touch and he shut the door behind him without giving worry to the noise. If he didn’t want to be heard or seen, it was as simple as a thought.

As he walked up the luxuriant stairs, the Shadow Man noticed photographs lining the walls. A curious touch revealed the stories. Here was a daughter who’d left home at 17 swearing she’d never speak to either parent again. She’d returned at 24 a drug addict dying with AIDS and a child so damaged by her mother’s heroin use that she wouldn’t survive her first 2 years.

Another photo showed two boys; one was a son who now sat in prison for the reckless manslaughter of a family while he was driving drunk. The other had moved away years ago and supposedly had a family of his own. No one knew how to reach him and this was how he preferred it.

Finally, there hung at the top of the stairs a photo of a loving husband and devoted wife. It was amazing what miracles of deceit photographers could accomplish with the right lighting. What there might have been of love, he knew with a touch, had dried into something bitter and resentful many years before this picture was even taken. 

He continued up the stairs to the bedroom and opened the door, purposefully treading loudly into the room.

Virginia Dawes, 72, sat up in her bed and looked at the intruder appraisingly. "I know why you're here. It's been 50 years exactly; I realized it this morning. Are you Him?" She asked with only a slight tremor of fear in her voice.

"No, but I work for Him."

He pulled out the timepiece and passed it to her. There was a glowing line of letters on the back in a feminine hand.

“That’s my signature. Is this my contract?”

“Yes. I’m here to collect it.”

She nodded slowly and looked toward the bathroom door. "What if he comes out?"

"He'll stay in there until I'm ready for him to come out. No one will know I was here."

"Will it hurt?"

"No," he began, "not the part I do. Afterwards, yes."

Virginia looked away and sighed. "Thank you for being honest."

"Did you get everything you wanted?"  

"No," she replied sadly. "But I did get everything I asked for."

"That's usually how it goes. It’s time," he added as the glow of the timepiece faded away at last. The red glow over her heart that marked her as His grew brighter as the Shadow Man placed his hand over it and drew the life from her as easily as the smoke from his cigarette. 

It was over very simply. She dropped gently back against her pillow with her eyes closed looking peacefully asleep, though he knew all too well that she would find no peace where she was now. He headed back down the stairs as Mr. Dawes came out of the bathroom to return to bed. He may not even realize that his wife was dead until sometime in the morning.

As he left the townhouse he felt the familiar weight of another timepiece tugging in his pocket that meant there was another soul to collect soon. Then there would be another, then yet another. Sometimes they cried, sometimes they pleaded for an extension to the lives they hated out of fear of what came next. All too often they went easily, thinking that they had already been living in Hell.

They would quickly find they had been so very wrong.