Brian C. Russell

Stretching my arms above my head, I crack my knuckles.  I close my eyes. I envision a dinosaur shooting flames around the room.  Crap.  That’s Godzilla.

I’ve had this writing assignment for weeks.  I stare at the screen.  Suddenly, I’m struck with x-ray vision and I can see through the monitor, into the inner workings.  Millions of little data bytes march like ants through catacombs of circuitry.  They’re all there to serve their queen, The Motherboard.  She barks orders at them.  ”Do this!  Do that!”  Unforgiving in her mood and temperment.

Temperment?  Is that how you spell it? The word doesn’t look right spelled out on the page.  That’s because it’s wrong. I hit the most commonly used button on my keyboard.  It’s attribution is worn and illegible, but I know what it says.

Backspace.  Backspace.  Backspace.  Repeat until error is eradicated.  Alliteration.  Yeah, people like that.

The assignment was simply to write anything.  The topic was “Grrr!”  What kind of a topic is that anyway? I scratch my beard.  Think.  Think.  Think. Ideas elude me tonight.

Rain spatters on the window, and a wind rushes by.  I imagine a formation in the sky, swirling and swirling.  A funnel spurts out toward the ground to begin it’s reign of terror and destruction.  It’s cloud-based appendages reaching out.  Picking up cars and trees and houses to toss them across the highway.  Then there’s that fire-breathing dinosaur again.  He’s fighting the tornado as if it had substance.

This is weird… but I kind of like it.

The dinosaur slings it’s flames into the tornado.  The trees and houses spinning catch fire and the whole tornado turns to an incendiary disaster of epic proportions.  The tornado reels back away from the dinosaur, burning a wake in the ground.

Yeah, yeah.  This is good.  Wait.  What was the prompt again.  Oh.  Right.

Then the dinosaur snarls at the fiery tornado.  ”Grrr!”

Nope.  That’s not the one.

Backspace.  Backspace.  Backspace.  Repeat.  The cursor devours my terrible ideas.

Now he’s blinking at me.  The cursor.  Mocking me amidst the blank page.  Laughing at me in a monotonous voice.  I close my eyes again.  This time there’s nothing except the retina-burned image of my blank screen.  Cursor still blinking.  A cacophony of laughter at the expense of my pride.

I shut my laptop.  Maybe tonight’s a night I go to sleep early.

This is part two of the story.  For those of you not familiar with oral biography format, it’s a very interesting storying format that uses quotes from sources to assemble the plot.  It’s sort of a written documentary.  So, enjoy.  Okay?

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Jeffrey Winston, Son

“I still remember my mom’s face when she heard that guy talk. He said that Paul, the dad I never knew, the man mom never talked about, the guy who walked out us, had said he was sorry for it. The apology didn’t mean anything to me. I never knew the guy, but my mom—I could tell something was up.”

William Forner, Friend

“That was the first time I met Michele Winston. I still can’t believe Paul asked me to do that for him, but what’s a friend to do with a dying wish?”

Michele Winston, Ex-wife

“Jeffrey was angry that Paul would only apologize when he was dying, but it set me back. For so long I had been so angry at him for leaving. I—I had to forgive him.”

William Forner, Friend

“I knocked, and this kid opens the door. I asked to speak to his mom, and he asked who I was. I didn’t know what else to say, so I said I was his dad’s friend. He looked like I just punched him in the gut.”

Jeffrey Winston, Son

“Mom invited the guy in for dinner. I didn’t understand at all what she was doing.”

Michele Winston, Ex-wife

“The poor guy. He’d been given this mission by a friend, and what a good friend he was being. I kept telling Jeffrey that you can’t kill the messenger, but it sure seemed like he wanted to. I just wanted this man, William, I think, to know that just because Paul left us, he wasn’t a bad man. I guess I should have tried that with Jeffrey. I never did tell him about the letters.”

Jeffrey Winston, Son

“After dinner, she starts digging around in her closet for something. I didn’t think she hid anything in her closet, not even Christmas presents, but here she comes to the table with a shoe box. I thought she had just finally lost it. I didn’t know what to think.”

William Forner, Friend

“Can you believe that? She invited me in for dinner. Then, she pulls out this box with all these letters in it. She said she didn’t want me to think badly about Paul because of her and her son. She hands me one of the letters, it was dated two days before he died.”

Jeffrey Winston, Son

“So, here I am, sitting at the table with a friend from my dad’s other life, and my mom hands him a letter from my dad, that I had never seen before. She never showed me any letters. I’m pretty sure some food fell out of my mouth. I was mad at her for never showing me those letters, and she said she was sorry, but I was so mad that I didn’t understand. I ran to my room and slammed the door.”

William Forner, Friend

“The letter said that even though he hadn’t heard from her, he still loved her. It said that he was very sorry for what had happened, and wanted them to come visit him. To let it all out in the open. So he could help with Jeffrey. I was blown away. Then Jeffrey stormed off, and Michele was crying. I was way out of my league.”

Sandra Winston, Ex-wife

“I don’t know why I never showed them to Jeffrey. I guess I figured it would be easier without Paul altogether. I know now that I was wrong. You can’t hold on to grudges, and I realized I had passed mine to my son. I pulled out a Bible and went to Jeffrey’s door. I knocked, and he told me to go away. I tried to tell him that I loved him. I was sorry that I never told him about Paul, but that I had always hoped that God would help me. I read Matthew 6:14-15 through the door. You know, the one about forgiving people when they sin against you so that God will forgive you, and if you don’t then He won’t forgive you either.”

Jeffrey Winston, Son

“I clearly remember something that my mom said through the door that night that changed my whole life. She said, ‘Jeffrey, you have to help me forgive your father. I raised you to hate him and I’m sorry. He wasn’t a bad man.’ I couldn’t believe it. God spoke to me right then-and-there. I opened the door and hugged my mom. Without her, I might never know God’s forgiveness.

For those of you not familiar with oral biography format, it’s a very interesting storying format that uses quotes from sources to assemble the plot.  It’s sort of a written documentary.  So, this is part one of a story that I crafted.  Thursday will be part two.  Enjoy.

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Jeffrey Winston, Son

“He was a great man. Strong, tall, affluent. An all-around good man. So I hear. I never really knew him much, but that’s what Mom said. My mom got checks, and I got stories. She said he had left on business when I was old enough to ask. When I was old enough to figure out the truth, I didn’t bother with the issue. It never came up. I was fine. We didn’t need him. That’s how these things go. Right?”

Rev. Thomas Goodum, Senior Pastor of Northrup Methodist Church

“Mr. Stenten was always in church. Every Sunday. He never missed a service, and was always volunteering. I’m not supposed to give away these details, but, Mr. Stenten was one of our biggest financial supporters. We were blessed to have him as a member.”

Michele Winston, Ex-wife

“I never had the heart to tell Jeffrey about his dad. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted him to believe his daddy was a good man. I’m sure he figured it out by now. He is seventeen. Paul always brought me flowers in the beginning. He told me he loved me, and I loved him. Then, we got pregnant and my daddy nearly killed me. Paul married me. He said he’d love me forever. I guess forever’s shorter than I remember.”

William Forner, Friend

“He told me once that he made a lot of mistakes in his past. I just thought he meant that he drank too much during college and hurled all over the place. I never did ask what they were. I guess I assumed he was fine. He had a good job. He went to church. A wife and kid. Sandra would always cook food for us at his Super Bowl Parties, and little Andy was a really cute kid. Everything seemed fine.”

Jeffrey Winston, Son

“I never told my mom, but one time, I googled my dad’s name. That’s how I found out about his family. Sandy or something and a baby. They looked happy.”

Sandra Stenten, Wife

“He wasn’t a secretive man, but there were some things that he kept to himself. Who am I to pry into his business? He insisted on separate bank accounts when we got married. He told me he had some credit card debt and didn’t want to pass it onto me. He was always thinking of me and little Andy first.”

Rev. Thomas Goodum, Senior Pastor of Arkwood Baptist Church

“You know, I never did see him at the altar, but he was well liked and in a high position in the Outreach Committee. There’re some people that you just, well, you just know they’ll be all right.

Jeffrey Winston, Son

“I remember crying when I found out about the other family. I never said a word to my mom. Why would I? She never said anything about him. She probably already knows.

Rev. Thomas Goodum, Senior Pastor of Arkwood Baptist Church

“The day we got the news that he was in the hospital, there were just so many people that came. We were all praying, but the Lord has bigger plans. Sometimes we just don’t understand them, but I know that Paul is up in Heaven, right now, praising and worshipping with Jesus.

Michele Winston, Ex-wife

“I didn’t know what to do when he died. He left us. He left us… What was I supposed to tell Jeffrey? That the father that he never knew was dead? I didn’t want to bother Jeffrey with that. He doesn’t need to feel that sadness. Not for him.”

Jeffrey Winston, Son

“You know, I didn’t cry when I found out. Why would I have? It was just like reading anyone else’s obituary. Not like I knew the guy.”

Sandra Stenten, Wife

“We’re going to miss him so much… He was such a great man. I loved him and he loved me.”

William Forner, Friend

“The night before he died, he told me about his other marriage. He said no one knew. He said he was sorry, but didn’t know what to do. He asked me to tell them. Can you believe that?”

Jeffrey Winston, Son

“So, then this guy shows up at our house saying he was my dad’s friend. Will or something. He said that my dad had told him to tell us that he was sorry for leaving. You know how that feels? Like a bunch of nothing. Like I said, I never knew the guy.”

It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen the show before.  No.  I had.  I watched it every Tuesday night at seven.  I even watched the reruns that came on for an hour block at noon.  I watched people interrupted in the midst of some of the weirdest things.  I even saw one that involved masks and a donkey.  I don’t even want to know.

I didn’t have an excuse, is what I’m trying to say.  I watched a show about getting caught.  I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.

Not that I had a donkey and masks involved.  Goodness.  To be honest, there wasn’t anything remotely sexual involved.  At least not on my end.  I guess I can assume from television and movies that men are always out for one thing.  But, I’d like to think that it wasn’t.  A girl can have her dreams.

I’d love to explain away my transgressions with all the excuses I made up, but they’re the same reasons I got their in the first place.  Maybe I was bored.  Maybe I just liked that the guy paid me some attention.  My husband works all the time, and, well, I honestly figured he was cheating on me too.  There I go again.  Excuses, excuses, Jenn.

Apparently, my husband hired an investigator to follow me around.  Take pictures of me and my… what do you call a male version of a mistress?  Funny that they haven’t come up with a word for that, or maybe they have, it’s just not on TV.  Anyway, the guy was in his car taking pictures of me and my, I’ll call him boyfriend, as we were out on a date, something my husband and I hadn’t done in ages.  We went to Chili’s.  I know, I know, Chili’s? Like I said, I hadn’t been on a date in a long time.

Thing is, my husband catches up to the guy, the private investigator, and tells him to hold up.  That it was all his fault.  That it was his fault. I know, right?

Imagine my surprise when my husband is sitting on the couch when I’m sneaking in that night.  He says to me, “Jenn, I’m sorry that I haven’t been there for you.”

Me?  I start balling my eyes out.  I was a wreck for weeks.  Well, okay, I still haven’t gotten over it, but I was really bad, like soap opera bad for at least two weeks.

My husband throws his arms around me and starts crying too.  He says he knows all about the affair and that he doesn’t care.  He just wants me back.  He wants to go to counseling, cut his hours at work, go out on dates.  This isn’t how that TV show goes.  It’s always a fight and it always ends poorly.  That’s why people watch it.  There’s conflict.

But here’s my husband, crying like I do at the end of The Notebook, and saying that he wants to change.  That he forgives me.

The guy loves me so much that he’s willing to forgive an affair?

Now that’s something you don’t see on TV.

The plane jolts.  Gasps all around.  I’m sure the oxygen masks will drop any second.

The captain’s on the speakers saying, everyone stay calm, which is exactly what everyone isn’t doing.  Nothing like a scratchy voice on an intercom to communicate peace and tranquility.

Out the window, there’s nothing but dark clouds and the more-than-occasional lightning burst, lighting up the cabin.

People bustle.  Mom’s containing children, pretending that everything’s okay and calm.  They’re the pilots, and their children are about as receptive and believing as the rest of the flight.

The flight attendants strap in.  This is always a sign for me.  My father traveled a lot and always said that if the attendants buckle up, something’s going down.  I always thought it was melodramatic.  Yet another time where my father was right.

The plane drops down, we all crash hard against our seats.  I’m wondering if it’s too late to let the attendants know I hate flying.  Probably.

There’s a flash of light, most likely lightning, and the plane goes black.  Smoke ekes its way into the cabin.  A door crashes open, and a flashlight waves around, screaming for everyone to remain seated.

“We have just been struck by lightning, and we are going to have to do an emergency landing.  Please remain calm.”

People ignore his request and an explosion of commotion begins.  Yelling, screaming, crying, praying, all in the dark.  I look out the window, but there’s no city below us.  We’re going to crash into the ocean.

The funny thing about knowledge of the end is that you question what to do with it.  Do I shout and let everyone in the cabin know that we will most likely die in this crash?  That even if the pilot can keep the plane from doing a nosedive, the momentum of the plane will tear the plane apart?  Or, do I keep it to myself?

A man behind me made the decision for me.  I hear the click of his seat belt, and feel his hands pull on my headrest.  He shouts above me, “If you all don’t want this black darkness to continue for eternity, you should accept Jesus in the next few minutes.”

I don’t know how many people this man brought to Christ with his quick, cheesy sermonette, but the plane hit the water.  A fireless explosion tears the plane to shreds, and all I see is light.

Beautiful light.

Questions stifled any form of joy the books said Eric should have.  The books… 350 pages of nothing but lollipops and rainbows and diaper jokes.  Haha, real funny, he thinks, now I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.

Debbie squeezes his hand, crying out sort of to him, but more out of pain.  Tears stream down her reddened face.  He mouths, I love you, and squeezes her hand back three times.

He feels like he’s underwater, and muted, he hears the doctor talking to a nurse, and yelling, “Push!”

Where’s that joy the books talked about?  All the jokes about how funny and exciting having a child was?  My feet aren’t cold, but I’m not sure this is what I want. What about me?  What about vacations?  Trips?  My job?  Our bills?

Will I be a good father?

Moisture wells up in his eyes, but he blinks it away before it can become anything more.  They’d talked about this for a long time, and it’s been nine months.  Everything will be great, he tells himself, but he’s not sure he believes it.

Will the baby be okay?  Will she be okay?

A cry, not his wife, peeks into his ears, and he blinks away some more would-be tears.  Deep breath, here we go.

She’s covered in disgusting nastiness, dripping all over.  Poor little girl, he thinks.  The doctors haphazardly wipe her with a white towel (something his wife would yell at him for at home), and hand her, screaming, to him.

Her eyes are blue, just like his, and she’s screaming her face red, but she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, held, or touched.  He cradles her in his arms for what seems like eternity, never really wanting the moment to pass.  Even though she’s crying, everything feels silent and peaceful, and it was as if God was there, patting him on the shoulder saying, “This one’s special to me, I’ll help you out with her.”

And in that moment, as he realizes that he needed to let my wife see her, he knows that all of his fears were for nothing.  God’s with him, every step of the way, and if he lets God, He’ll make Eric a good father.

Eric hovers their baby girl over his wife, and she reaches up wearily, smiling, happiness exuding from her being, and he knows they named her the right name.

Abigail, who gives joy.

Sometimes, when sitting down to write.  A character piece comes out instead of a regular story.  So, that’s how this came about.  Maybe in the future, I’ll be able to add this guy to a story, maybe I won’t, but it’s interesting to watch where my brain goes sometimes.  So, enjoy!

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In my dream, someone put their hand over my mouth, so I wouldn’t shout.  He leaned in close and said, “I’m here to help, but you have to be quiet.”  I nodded as he whispered the secret.  It was simple.  He was going to kill me.

He pressed harder, and knocked me down.  My head cracked against the ground, curling the rest of my body into a ball.  His grip on my mouth muffled my scream of pain.  I writhed on the floor.  Wet streaks running across my face.  He pinched my nose and I couldn’t breathe.  It was then I knew that he wasn’t joking.  He was going to kill me.

Dread flooded my mind, drowning my sensibilities.  My limbs grew heavy as I flailed, like treading water, but it wasn’t working, and soon, I would drown.  On coming death is not like they say in the movies.  It doesn’t last forever.  At least not murder.  It does, however, feel like every second of every minute that you are being suffocated is going by way too quickly.  There should be more time to figure out a way out.  Or God should have designed us with gills, because it’d be a lot hard to suffocate someone with sets of gills.  The man would have to two hand it, and make sure to cover all 3 in each set.  This guy, I don’t think he could do it.

My alarm clock goes off as I’m about to die.  Typical.  And now I have to wake up and surrender another day at work, without gills.  For me, life isn’t full of surprises or wonder.  It’s full of all the things that I wish I did have.  My parents always said that I live my life with my head in the clouds.  They’re crazy.  I’m way too short for that.

I’ve been called dreamer, slacker, idiot, retard, ungrateful.  All of which I have problems with.  I’m not a dreamer, I just want something better than what I’ve got.  I think God could afford me that.  Why not wings or gills or a huge maw with which to eat boats?  I’m not a slacker, my virtue of work just isn’t the same as most peoples.  Why should I feel the necessity to work the same as everyone else?  I want to be different.  I’m not an idiot or a retard, and I don’t need to explain.

Ungrateful?  No, I’m not ungrateful.  Like I said, I just want something more than what I’ve been given.  Each night, I dream that I’m being murdered.  I have for 5 years now, and each time could have been avoided if I’d been different than everyone else.  The psychiatrist said that I have issues and that I should… but time ran out and I’m broke.

So, off I go to my job.  Working for a company that I don’t care about to make money that won’t buy me wings or gills or a giant maw with which to eat boats but instead keep me a place where I can sleep comfortably and dream about being murdered.  I wonder what it’ll be tonight?

The worst part is that you’d think after almost 2,000 nights-worth of being murdered, I’d stop being afraid of my death.  Of being murdered.  But, I guess, if I had something more, I wouldn’t have to stop worrying.  I could fly away, swim away, or eat a boat, and that would be awesome.