---HOLD
ONTO SIXTEEN AS LONG AS YOU CAN
…I’m just
back from Spokane. Following Portland, that’s
four 200+ mile trips in five days.
I’ve never
been a fan of the long drive and I’m even less so now.…When I got back I had 250 some emails. A lot it was irrelevant, but still when you’re gone and come back to it in a clump like that it makes me think I might be wasting too much time on the inconsequential.
...One email
was a really nice rejection on a story.
Here’s what it said:
“Len,Thanks so much for submitting. We're going to pass this time, but this is a really good story with not a wasted word, and I enjoyed reading it.”
I
get that sometimes a story might be well-written but not a good fit for the
magazine, so I’m fine with this.
…I
wrote this story three years ago. It’s
creepy. It was published by three
different people. I’m not sure why I
picked this one to share with you, but what the hell:
Lake Waves
Drunk, he staggered through the
trailer as if it was familiar, as if he had done this sort of thing
before. He punched the hollow doors and
watched them swing open. He had grabbed
a knife out of the butcher block, the longest one with the stained, serrated
edge. He growled guttural like a
starving animal, then screamed, then made ridiculous gargling noises meant to
resemble someone spitting up a fountain of blood. That seemed to ramp up the tension.
He heard a girl respond in the rear
of the trailer. The terrified jungle
monkey shrieked. Wasn’t that how it
happened, stupid sorority ditz blowing rationality to smithereens?
Only this was his daughter, his
little dolly. She had his same unctuous
eyes and rollback lids. “Hey there,” he
said when he got to where she huddled, rocking back and forth in the
corner. “What’re you hollering
about? Aren’t you supposed to be
sleeping?”
He arched his back and his eyebrow
and she knew what those signs meant.
She closed her eyes. Her chin
quivered as if yanked upon.
He raised the knife. He felt stronger than he was--bold and
forbidden and masculine. “Have a good
dream,” he said. He could be pensive and
moody, theoretical as well. “Hell, it
doesn’t matter,” he said, “your dreams are lake waves, you can’t control them.”
He bent down.
He wanted to kiss her. Actually,
he desperately needed to kiss her at that precise moment. He puckered and leaned forward.
“Cut!” the manic director yelled.
A
collective, exasperated sigh went up on the set, the air smelling mildewed and
hot after having so much halitosis poured out all at once.
The
director wore a pastel argyle sweater and he seemed to be spending an
inordinate amount of time touching his left nipple, as if it was bee stung.
“What the hell are you doing?” the
director asked.
“I’m going to get to it, but you
know, I thought it would work better this way, a kiss before dying? Right after, I’ll kill her. I’ll chop her to bits.”
“But this is a comedy!”
“It is?”
“It is.”
“It is.”
“Then what’s that?” he said, pointing
at the knife.
“Beats me,” the director said.
Strains of overwhelming sadness buckled
the actor’s knees and he tottered where he stood. This was his first part and he’d already
blown it. He’d come to Hollywood against
his father’s practical advice. He was no
good at comedy. Drama--that was his
thing.
The girl stumbled his way, curious
about the commotion, so he grabbed her wrist.
She was a skinny teenager, but skilled at making frightened
expressions. She gave him the perfect
death stare as he plunged the knife through her chest.
The sound was wet and meaty.
“How about that?” he said.
A moment later he had regret. He shouldn’t have left the knife stuck in
her. He might have used it to fend off
his attackers, and later, the police. He
might have really made a strong showing of it.