Tree of Life, 4.6

The statute of limitations had run out, as far as he knew, so he returned to the town he'd fled seven years ago. He was nineteen years old when he had left; his victim would be twenty-three. He wondered whether she still lived in the town. He stopped at a phone booth as he drove by one and looked her up; she was still living in the town. But he knew he couldn't just show up at her door. So he got his nerve up and he called her. He was surprised that she didn't seem very angry with him, and when he asked her whether she would meet him for a cup of coffee, she said yes. They agreed on a diner they'd once been to on a date. He arrived before her, and when she came in, they shook hands, which seemed awkward after what had happened. After making some small talk, she asked him where he'd been the last seven years. He said that he had gone to live with his aunt in another state. And why had he come back? she asked. If you had wanted to press charges, he said, you couldn't now. The statute of limitations has run out. I wouldn't charge you with anything, she said. Does that mean you've forgiven me? he asked. No, she said. I'll never forgive you. She dropped a couple of dollars on the table and stormed out. The next day, he found flyers on all of the windshields of the cars in the parking lot outside his mother's apartment. They had his name and picture on them and identified him as a rapist — a violent sexual offender. He thought about taking revenge but realized it was futile. He remembered a made-for-TV movie he had once seen on late-night television about a writer who wrote a book about his hometown. The writer's book had done very well, but when he returned to the town, everyone hated him for what he'd said. He wished he could remember the name of the movie, and he wished he could remember why he was thinking of it now.

Canon: Noble

Mercy is nobility's true badge, the lieutenant had said. When a man surrenders to you, even when he's been shooting at you, you must be merciful. You must spare his life and take him as a prisoner, rather than kill him. But now the men in the platoon were beginning to wonder whether the lieutenant's wisdom could be trusted. First, the lieutenant had ordered them across a mine field, leaving half the men in the platoon dead and another quarter of the platoon each missing at least one leg. The quarter of the platoon that was left was deeply shaken, and they began to discuss a mutiny. One night, as the lieutenant was sleeping, two privates tied him to his bed, and they dragged his cot out into the middle of their encampment. By the time the lieutenant had been dragged into the middle of the camp, he was awake and angry. A sergeant had been designated to tell the lieutenant that he was being removed from power. I'll have your heads for this! the lieutenant yelled. Yes, you very well might, the sergeant answered, but you won't get our legs. Is that what this is about? the lieutenant asked. What about what I taught you men about mercy? Can't you even show mercy to your commander? Of course, the sergeant answered. If we hadn't learned your lesson about mercy, you'd be dead already.

For the idea behind this volume, please click here.

Mystery

I remember reading an interview with Francis Ford Coppola after The Godfather came out and people were wondering about the horse head in the movie producer's bed and whether it was real. Coppola reported that it was real; he'd bought it from a butcher. The real question that I wondered and that wasn't asked in the interview was why it was necessary to show the horse's head. Nobody ever bothered to ask. Ultimately I realized that it had to do with communicating the horror that the movie producer felt, and his confusion at waking up covered in blood. Then the only question I had left was who had cut the horse's head off to begin with. Vito sends Tom Hagen out to California the night of the wedding and the next scene after the producer wakes up with the horse's head in the bed is back at Vito's house with Tom there, along with Sonny. Sonny didn't go to California with Tom, and Tom didn't fly in with anyone else. Did Tom do it himself?

Tree of Life, 4.5

The bald man hated his boss. One day, he decided he'd had enough. He spoke with some other workers who disliked the boss, and they decided that the bald man would confront the boss. The bald man knocked on the boss's office and gave the boss the list of grievances he and the other workers had agreed on. The boss seemed to consider the list and listened quietly. When the bald man had finished the list, the boss said that they should report the next day and they could all convene with the president of the company. The bald man agreed. The next morning, the bald man and the other workers who were on his side reported to work, only to find that the only people in the office were the boss and the company president. Where is everyone? the bald man asked. We gave them the day off, the boss said. Why? the bald man asked. Never mind that, the president said. Your boss told me what's going on here, and I'm giving you people two choices: You can leave your jobs today or you can stay and take a pay cut. The bald man was incensed. You can't do that! he yelled. Yes we can, the president said. Didn't you bother to check the laws of this state? There's no law that gives a person a right to their job. We can fire you for any reason we like; we don't even need to give a reason. The bald man said quietly, I didn't know that. Nice going, one of the other workers said to the bald man. Remind me never to listen to you again. The boss told the other men to go to work, informing them that they would not get a vacation day that day. Before he sent the bald man away, however, he said to him, You'd do better to quit, because I'm going to make your life a living hell.

Canon: Music

We will draw the curtain and show you the picture, they said, preparing us. I had heard so much about the painting that I could barely contain myself. They drew back curtain and — voilà! — the Mona Lisa was before us, paired with a self-portrait by Leonardo da Vinci. One of the presenters began to talk about how the Mona Lisa was obviously a rendering by Leonardo of what he would look like as a woman. He pointed out certain facial features and spoke for a bit about Leonardo's homosexuality. When it came time to take questions, I asked whether they were aware that the painting was a portrait of Lisa Gherardini del Giocondo. Of course, the man said, it's well known that da Vinci claimed it was a portrait of Madame Gherardini. But the question remains as to whether she was a real person. Oh, I said. Don't you know about the note concerning her in the diary of Agostino Vespucci? Who? the man asked. Vespucci was the secretary to Machiavelli, I said. There's no evidence that he and Leonardo knew each other, but he writes about Madame Gheradini in his diary. I didn't know that, the man said. Well, I said, now you do.

For the idea behind this volume, please click here.

Twenty-six

November Second was a big day because it was the first time I voted. While I was getting ready to leave the house early to go to the polling place, my father spoke to me. When I was eighteen, my father said, I couldn't vote. Times have changed, my mother said. President Nixon signed that amendment back in July. I'm aware of that, my father said, sipping his coffee. You seem unhappy about this, I said. No, my father said thoughtfully. It's just interesting to see how times change, like your mother says. It was then that my grandmother spoke. They certainly do change! she shouted out. Women couldn't vote in this country until 1920. We know, Mom, my mother said. I asked my grandmother, Who was the first President you voted for? She shouted back, Voted for? I've never voted. Why not? I asked. I never wanted to, she said. Never anyone good enough running. You must be kidding, I said. Do you think, my grandmother said, rising out of her chair, that your vote really counts? Nixon is going to come up for re-election in a year. Do you think he's going to win or lose? I didn't know so I didn't answer.

Tree of Life, 4.4

Send me what you have, his editor told him, and we'll see about pushing back the deadline. He began to panic. He had been given a year to finish his novel — his third — and he had barely written a hundred pages. And the pages didn't exactly hang together. It wasn't that he had writer's block: He wrote every day, often for several hours. Rather, it was that he found that much of what he wrote worked out better as short stories rather than chapters of the novel, given the outline from which he was working. He had also grown to dislike his protagonist, who was supposed to be a sympathetic character. That was a big problem. What if he sent a volume of short stories instead? All the great writers published their stories in volumes: Hemingway, Faulkner, Steinbeck. And they'd all won Nobel Prizes. Why not himself? He stayed up all night editing what he thought were his ten best stories and then spent all of the next day typing them up. He went to Federal Express in the evening and had it sent overnight to his editor. The following afternoon, his editor called him. What the fuck is this? his editor said. You're supposed to send me a novel, and you send this? He tried to explain his thinking to his editor, who told him not to presume such things. Look, the editor said, I've been trying to keep my bosses here happy despite your failure to produce. This cuts it: I'm going to have to cancel your contract. He pled with the editor not to do that, but the editor was resolute, hanging up the phone when he got tired of hearing pleading from him. He'd never see Stockholm now.

Canon: Meet

What's done is done, he said. There's no sense in crying over spilled milk. My partner was a master of cliché. But he was correct. There was truly nothing we could do. The Old Man had screwed up — badly — and now damage control had to be our chief task. He and I decided to call the Old Man down to the office and give him his walking papers. We paged him and about ten minutes later he showed up. We asked him to sit down and my partner said, Well, you know that you dropped the ball on the Duncan account. Yes, the Old Man said. I'm really very sorry about it. The problem, my partner continued, is that this is the fifth account you've messed up on. I'm afraid that we're going to have to let you go. Otherwise we'll lose the account, and we can't afford that. The Old Man almost seemed to have tears in his eyes, but he kept his dignity and we told him that he could leave at the end of the day so as not to draw extra attention to himself. As he was leaving, my partner said to him, Hey, buddy, no hard feelings. Business is business. The Old Man left without a word. You really are a master of cliché, I said to my partner.

For the idea behind this volume, please click here.

Let It Be

The girl was crying, holding a newspaper. As I came closer to her, I discovered I knew her. We'd gone to high school together. I had heard her boyfriend had gone to Vietnam, and I wondered whether something in the newspaper had indicated he'd been killed. I called out her name, and she turned and saw me. It's terrible! she cried. How did it happen? I asked. I don't know, she said, still crying. It doesn't say. It only says there was a "series of differences." This last she said making quotation marks in the air with her hands. I was confused. How does someone die from a series of differences? I asked. Die? she asked in return, looking confused. It was then that I saw the headline: McCartney Breaks Off With Beatles.

Tree of Life, 4.3

You light the candles, he said, and I'll pour the wine. She placed two candles on the table and took out a matchbook, striking a match to light the candles. Meanwhile, he went into the kitchen and took a bottle of Pinot Grigio out of the refrigerator and began to uncork it. Did you hear the President's speech last night? she asked. I don't care what that nigger has to say, he answered. That what? she asked. You use that word? Sorry, he said, although he was not sorry, I didn't know you took offense to it. How could I not? she said. It's an offensive word. It's not like you're black, he said, handing her a glass of wine. Why should you care? Her face had gotten red. I care, she said, trying to keep calm, because it's an ugly word that reflects an ugly attitude. Fine, he side, trying to dismiss the issue. I'm sorry. What should we drink to? She threw her glass of wine in his face and said, Why don't we drink to what a racist asshole you are?

Canon: Measure

My salad days were happy ones. We would go camping every summer for a few weeks as a family, and my father, a former Eagle Scout, made it fun for us by teaching us new things. When I was ten, we went camping in the foothills of the Poconos. There was a large pond at the park where we camped, and my sister and I went canoeing with my father. We fished for several hours and then we rowed to the station where we'd rented the canoe to return it. As my sister stepped out, a water moccasin bit her on the ankle. Suck it out! my father yelled. Suck the poison out! I bent down and sucked on my sister's ankle, and I could taste the venom getting stronger in my mouth. But don't swallow it! my father added.

For the idea behind this volume, please click here.

Hurricane

When Camille made landfall in Harrison County, it was still a Category 5. But it was moving so fast that it hardly rained at all; it was the wind that did the damage. We waited in the bathroom while the stormed passed us over — it was the only room in the house without any windows that was large enough to hold all of us. We ended up sleeping in the bathroom overnight. The next morning, when my family and I emerged from the bathroom, the house was destroyed. At least we're still alive, my father said. A lot of people can't say that, I'd imagine. Yes, my mother said. Like those boys in Neshoba County. I said nothing, but I knew she was thinking about what had happened in Philadelphia. It was the fourth anniversary of the finding of the bodies just a few weeks earlier. What are you trying to say? my father asked my mother. They sow the wind, and they reap the whirlwind, my mother said, quoting the Bible. Shut up! my father said, striking her across the cheek.

Tree of Life, 4.2

Take yourself to a shelter, the cop said to Sam, kicking him awake. Sam was confused at first, but then he found his bearings and looked up at the cop. Come on, the cop said. You know you can't sleep on the Promenade. Sam looked at Eli next to him. What about him? Sam asked the cop. Dead, the cop said. We've got a wagon on the way to take him to the morgue. There's a shelter at the temple on Cadman Plaza. Get a move on. Sam picked up his things and began walking toward the synagogue. Eli is dead, he thought to himself. He couldn't believe it. He ran his hands through his hair, long as it hadn't been cut since he'd gotten home from Iraq four years earlier. He got to the shelter, where they were kicked back out onto the street at dawn. He spent most of the next week crying over Eli and begging commuters for spare change until he got enough money to buy a package of disposable razors and some shaving cream at a bodega. When seven days had passed since Eli's death, Sam took the knife he carried for protection and began sawing at his hair and beard. The hair came off in long, greasy strands, which he began to make a pile of. When there was enough hair off, he lathered his head and face and shaved them clean -- something he'd done while he was a Marine. He went by the courthouse and found two pigeons, befriended them, and then broke their necks. That night, he burned his hair and the bodies of the pigeons in front of the synagogue door. Then he wandered back toward Court Street, looking for someone who might have a bottle to share.

Canon: Learn

The gentleman is not in your books, my valet said to the hotel receptionist. Do you have any vacant rooms? Just the penthouse suite, the receptionist said. Will that be acceptable? I smiled and nodded. We were brought up to the penthouse, where my valet tipped the bellmen and we settled in. My valet unpacked my tuxedo, and I dressed in it after I had showered and shaved. Then my chauffeur took me the wedding. The service was pleasant enough: The bride looked lovely and my brother seemed very happy. As best man, I had the best view of everything. When we arrived at the reception, the standard announcements were made as everyone filed in, and once everyone was seated and the minister had made the convocation. Then it was my moment to make the traditional best man's toast. I stood and, among other revelations, told the hundred or so guests that I'd slept with the bride several years earlier. The guests' shock turned to indignation and my father suggested that I leave. On my way out the door to my limousine, which I'd asked to wait directly outside, the bride confronted me. You bastard! she shouted, slapping my face. You know we never slept together! She was right, of course.

For the idea behind this volume, please click here.

Luddite

I heard the tone on my cell phone indicating that I'd received a text message. Are ya gone, the message read. I messaged back, Yup just left. The signal was lost and I hadn't even told her. I felt ashamed. What would I tell her when I got home? That I had lost my nerve? Would I have to lie? I longed for the time before I owned a cell phone. At least I would have had time enough to think up a good excuse. But before I could do that, the phone rang again.

Idle Gossip

I told her not to go in there, he said, pointing to the unisex restroom door. I didn't know why he would have told her that, particularly since he was blind, but there we were, sitting at the counter at the diner, with him pointing to the bathroom. Why did you tell her not to go in there? I asked. Because, he said, I knew that Bob had gone in there with that Junie, he said. You know how that Junie is. And then he winked at me. I was baffled. Why was this blind man telling me this? And who were Bob and Junie? Wait a minute, I said to the blind man. What's your name? You know my name, he said. No, I answered, I don't. Oh, the blind man said, after being quiet for a few moments. Forget I said anything.

Canon: Idle

It was Greek to me, Hans said as we left the lecture. What didn't you understand? I asked him. Well, for starters, Hans said, it seemed as if he was contradicting statements he had made in earlier lectures. A year ago, he was talking about what a poor leader Khrushchev had been, and today he's talking about him as if he was Lenin reincarnated. How could things have changed so greatly for him in such a short period of time. Didn't you hear the speech from the Party Congress? I asked Hans. What Khrushchev revealed about Stalin? Khrushchev has been very brave to reveal these things. He's trying to give the Soviets a clean slate. But Stalin was a great man! Hans protested. No, he wasn't, I replied. But don't be too disappointed. He fooled us all.

For the idea behind this volume, please click here.

Kreativ Blogger Award

No story today. Rather, I'd like to acknowledge the bestowing upon me of the Kreativ Blogger award by Marilyn at The Lotus Sutra Chronicles.

So I thank Marilyn for the award and am displaying it proudly.

Now it falls upon me to list seven things I love and to award seven blogs with this same award. My choices are:

(1) Anything by William T. Vollmann
(2) The sound of a baby laughing
(3) The way she looks at me sometimes
(4) Orange juice
(5) Italian food
(6) Loud music
(7) Warm days

The seven blogs:

(1) Velvet Verbosity — My choices will likely to appear to be "of a theme," but I like the 100 word stories here
(2) Le Kutz — I find something about it charming
(3) Shoreline Driftwood — He's the only poet I read
(4) Six Sentences — Again, I like the format
(5) 55 Flash Fiction Friday — Ditto
(6) Every Day Fiction — Few blogs are publishing flash fiction daily. This one does
(7) Willows Wept Review — Because I want Molly Gaudry to publish one of my books

Tree of Life, 4.1

In the wilderness, she watched, motionless, her eyes devouring the lush scenery of the forest. She had been tracking the animal for four days, and she could tell by the smell around her that she was close. The first three days had been hard: She had nearly collapsed from dehydration before she was lucky enough to happen on a freshwater stream. On the second night, the beast had tried to attack her in her sleep, but she had a rifle next to her, and she managed to get off a few shots before the animal ran off. She was pretty sure she had inflicted a wound. The trail of blood she was now following had convinced her that she had. She followed the trail to the foot of a tree, where it stopped. She looked up, only to see her quarry looking down at her. Please, he said. Don't kill me. You should have thought of that before you beat me half to death, she said, taking aim with her rifle.

Canon: Hung

Halcyon Days by Steve Dietz was one of the plays that I read in the course in Modern Drama I took in graduate school, and it was also one of my favorites. I found the work from the earlier part of the twentieth century less entertaining, perhaps because my professor worked much of the time on the assumption that his students had read as much drama as he had. We read Shaw in his class, for instance, and even though Saint Joan wasn't among the assigned plays (we read Heartbreak House and Man and Superman), he referred to Saint Joan numerous times, assuming we'd read it. As he was making his third reference to Saint Joan in as many weeks, one of my fellow students raised her hand and said, Excuse me, Professor, but Saint Joan is not on the syllabus. I'm aware of that, the professor said. Haven't you read it? She shook her head. But don't you know the story of Joan of Arc? he asked the class at large. No one said anything. The Hundred Years War? he asked. Again, no one responded. Didn't any of you take European history in college? he asked. Or high school? He seemed about ready to lose it. I'm putting the play on the reserve list, he said, referring to Saint Joan. Make sure you've read it before next week.

For the idea behind this volume, please click here.

Tree of Life, 3.10

In my law books, the judge said to the court, I can find no case similar to this one. The defendant admits that his was in competition with is neighbor, also a farmer, to provide crops to a local distributor. He further admits that, in order to ruin his neighbor's crop, he rented a crop duster and hired a pilot, flying above his neighbor's farm to seed the clouds with silver iodide, causing it to rain excessively. However, at the same time, because of his poor planning, the defendant destroyed his own crops by not limiting the dispersal of the silver iodide. Thus in some sense he has punished himself. However, this does not reimburse the plaintiff for his losses. Your honor? the plaintiff said. May I speak? Of course, the judge said. The plaintiff rose. The defendant has suffered enough, the plaintiff said. I'm dropping my suit. Are you sure you want to do that? the judge asked. The plaintiff nodded. He lost his crop and I lost mine. We can both grow new crops, but he'll always be stupid.

Tree of Life, 3.9

On the mountain above the town, they could see the development where the house they planned on buying sat. Unlike many planned communities, it didn't seem to come out of a cookie cutter. The houses were very different one from the other, and rather than setting out a tight grid of streets, the roads that led in and out of the development seemed to follow more natural lines. At the same time, however, there was no strict emphasis on giving the development a "classical" look. A proposal to put a fountain with a statue in the small park area enclosed by the development had been voted down. They looked at each other and smiled, and then they hugged each other. They knew they would be happy here. They felt jubilant.

Canon: Households

The strength of twenty men was being transmitted through Bobby's fists as he beat the other man. With the first punch, he had dropped the man to the ground, but he pulled his body back up again and throw him against a wall, striking him again and again. Suddenly, he heard his name being called. It was Verna, his girlfriend, yelling to him to stop. Bobby! she yelled. Please stop! He stopped hitting the man and turned around; the man dropped to the ground. Why are you beating him up? Verna asked. She was crying. What difference does it make? Bobby asked.What do you care? I care, Verna said, because he's my cousin.

For the idea behind this volume, please click here.

Brian Has a Problem

Brian has a problem. He is a character in Dave's new novel, but he's only a character in a minor subplot. Brian feels he is more important than to be relegated to a mere subplot. He wants to get Dave's attention, but Dave is more concerned with Alice and Roger, the romantic leads in the novel. You see, Alice is married to Dan, and Roger is married to Lois, but they work together and they've fallen in love. Brian is just a co-worker of Alice and Roger's. He works in the copy room, where he has seen them have sex while peeking from a supply closet. Brian would like a larger role in the story. Plus, he'd like to be more than just the copy room guy. But Dave is so engrossed with the main story line — particularly the sex parts, which, unfortunately, have taken place in the copy room, at least so far — that the best Brian can get is an opportunity to masturbate in the supply closet while Alice and Roger make love. If only there were some way to get Dave's attention. Brian considers making a play for Alice himself. He likes her, after all, and having seen her in flagrante delicto, he desires her, but Dave doesn't see it in the cards, so it isn't likely to happen. Maybe Brian could kill Roger. That would thrust him into the main plot line. If only he could get out of that closet in the copy room. Brian got himself stuck in there the last time he peeped on Alice and Roger, pulling the door shut and locking himself in. Being a character in the subplot is bad enough, but to be comic relief? Well, this is just too much.

Dedicated to Dave Eggers and Lee Charleston

Tree of Life, 3.8

Say anything, just say something, she shouted at him. I don't know what to say. I can't believe that you waited until two days before our wedding to tell me this. I don't see what the big deal is, she said to him. You lied to me, he said. You told me you were a virgin. Aaron, she said, I was with that boy when I was in high school, and that was nearly ten years ago. I haven't been with anyone since then. For all intents and purposes, I am a virgin. It still counts, he said. Whether you think it does or not, it counts. I don't understand, she said. Explain it to me again. OK, he said. I always wanted to marry a virgin. I had made it a goal of mine. I had told you that from the moment I even considered marrying you. And I hadn't slept with you before then because of that. So when that moment came, he continued, I don't understand why you didn't just fess up and tell me the truth. She cried. Because I was afraid this would happen, she said, trying to fight back her tears. And now, two days before the wedding, you're canceling on me, she said. What am I supposed to tell people? Do you know how humiliated I'll be? How do you think I feel? he asked her. You had me believing a lie this whole time. She was exasperated -- nearly out of breath. You're not a virgin, Aaron, she said. I know you aren't. How can you hold me to such a standard when you aren't one yourself. Doesn't that make you a hypocrite? No, he said, it doesn't. Why not? she asked. Because I never claimed to be what I was not. I'll tell you what, she said: Why don't you go fuck yourself? I'll tell you what, he said in return: If you had kept that directive about your own self, we wouldn't be in this situation.

Canon: High

He dies and makes no sign. We had been listening to him for weeks, prophesying that we would win our freedom only through violence. We believed that the Holy Spirit was speaking through him. And we had happily accepted his leadership in the rebellion. But two days later, the rebellion was over and we had lost. The white folks came back at us with guns, shooting into crowds, killing men who hadn't even been the reverend's followers. But some, like us, were spared, hidden by our owners that saved us despite our actions. Nat got away, but they found him the day before Halloween. And today, less than two weeks later, Nat Turner hangs dead before us. Nat told us that Jesus had said to beware of false prophets. Was God testing us through him?

For the idea behind this volume, please click here.

Tree of Life, 3.7

Holy things are not inherently holy, she said. They only become holy because people hold them to be sacred. How do you mean? he asked her. Well, she said, like the Muslims and their Qur'an. Neither you nor me is a Muslim, so neither you nor me would necessarily consider it to be sacred. And yet it is clearly considered sacred by a billion people. I'm not sure I follow, he said. Well, she said, do you think it's appropriate to treat the Qur'an with a certain measure of respect. Sure, he said. Don't you think it follows that your feelings flow from the idea that there's something holy about it? He considered the question. Maybe, he said. But what about other religions? Like Christianity? she asked. No, he said. Like Hinduism. Am I supposed to treat the Bhagavad-Gita as holy because hundreds of thousands of Hindus think that it is? I don't see why not, she said. I don't see why you shouldn't treat that which is revered by others with respect. OK, he said, but where do you draw the line? Am I supposed to defer to Anton LaVey and treat The Satanic Bible with kid gloves? She laughed. I think that would be taking things a bit far, she said. So where do you draw the line? he asked her again. She thought about it for a moment. Then she admitted that she didn't know.

Tree of Life, 3.6

After the death of his mother, Alex felt comfortable enough to move in with Michael, even though they'd been a couple for ten years. Michael had been out since he was eighteen years old, and he'd met Alex when he was twenty-two. Alex had said he could never come out to his mother and that they would have to keep their relationship a secret. Michael loved Alex, and so he agreed. They moved into the city and got an apartment in the West Village. Not long after that, late on a summer night, Michael and Alex were walking hand-in-hand down Christopher Street, when a pickup truck pulled up beside them, and five teenaged boys jumped out and began to beat the couple up, calling them queers and faggots in the process. Someone must have called the police, because a black and white eventually rolled up and the boys drove off. Michael and Alex were both taken to the hospital, but neither of them was badly hurt. When they got home early the next morning after being released from the emergency room, Alex told Michael he wanted to move out. Michael didn't understand. Hadn't this been what they had been waiting for these four years? Were we waiting to get beaten up for being gay? Alex asked.

Canon: Greeting

Grief fills up the room of my absent child. We have just buried Kyle in the cemetery, and now we are having people back at the house. This is an odd tradition that I have never really understood; nevertheless, we feel compelled to host people in our home, despite our grief. The worst part of it is that this is the second time we've had to do this. Our older son died just seventeen months ago. And now we're back at the same place. But the worst part of all is that, of the people in our house, we're not the only ones who have lost children. Ever since the chemical plant was built up the river, the mortality rate has gone up enormously. But they have good lawyers and no one has been able to provide a definitive link yet between the plant and our children. Maybe if it were one of their children, but, of course, none of their families lives in this town.

For the idea behind this volume, please click here.

Tree of Life, 3.5

A leper would get better treatment, the woman said to her daughter. I've been in this hospital for a week, and the only time a nurse comes to see me is when I ring for one. And then it takes half an hour before they show up. And the doctors, she went on. I've been poked and prodded all week long, two dozen strangers have looked up my gown, and there's still no answer as to why I'm bleeding, never mind why it won't stop. Are they are all incompetents? she asked her daughter. I don't know, Mom, the daughter said. Just try to relax. Relax? the mother said. Would you be able to relax if your period went on for a week with no sign of stopping? I guess not, the daughter said. But getting upset about it is not going to help either. The mother sighed. You're right, she said. Of course I'm right, the daughter answered. I'm going to go down the hall and get a soda. Can I get you anything? No thanks, dear, the mother answered. The daughter left the room and began to cry. At her request, the doctor was going to let her break the news to her mother. But how would she work up the courage?

The Tree of Life Challenge

Some of you may have noticed that I published two installments of the Tree of Life series on Friday. I had written two stories to take up this place in the project, and I'd like you who read the blog to tell me which you think is the better of the two stories. Please either comment here or e-mail me and let me know what you think. My e-mail information is to the right. Thanks.