Wishing on a Blue Star

by Kris Jacen

  3:45 pm:

  Papa peers around the curtain. Still ten minutes to go on the IV pushing antibiotics.

  “I asked them to tell me what your prognosis was, and they said you were just getting started. I’ve been waiting and waiting!” (Duh. Now you know how I feel waiting six hours on your sorry butt the last time you were admitted to emergency.)

  4:05 pm:

  Stand up to get dressed and water runs down my leg like a mini cataract. Mop that up, put on my pants, and in seconds I have a big fat wet spot.

  4:25 pm:

  Filling a prescription at Shopko. No shoppers, I did not pee my pants.

  All the lovely drugs are wearing off. Damn.

  5:15 pm:

  Arrive home, just as angry and unsettled as when I left.

  I hate my life.

  Patric

  Monday, November 23, 2009

  Double Standards

  Warning: What will follow is likely to be maudlin tripe, so feel free to stop reading here and move on to something even more interesting. I understand the annual paint drying contest is currently underway. That would be a good alternative. :)

  Today, beyond all expectation, was a happy day; for about twenty minutes. After all, I’d not been stoned (on pain meds) since 4pm the previous day, and I woke up feeling rather normal for a change. I’ll say here and now it was awesome. :)

  Apparently, the rest of me woke up some twenty minutes late. I can relate to that, since I’ve always been a night owl. Stands to reason whatever’s currently chewing on my carcass (and half the time I cant tell if its cancer or cure) would be equally prone to sleeping in.

  Eeh, what the hell. Slog another pain pill and everything will be fine. So I did. :)

  I can accept a chemically induced happy day.

  Sometimes the distinctions between artificial and natural can only be measured by perception.

  I got a gift today. A phone call that just ticked me seven shades of pink. Cant divulge details of course, but the sheer novelty ws enough to keep me bouncing all day, which was good because I got to participate in Z.A. Maxwell’s count down chat.

  I even managed to hang in until Family Unit was released for sale, at which point everybody suddenly disappeared. One presumes they flooded the Loose Id website to buy it. :)

  As I crashed, I listened to what I can only assume are drug induced aural hallucinations.

  People’s voices, random bits of conversation all jumbled together like I was far away from the source, and the occasional errant breeze would carry the sound just enough to hear. The sounds carried me into dreams both bizarre and surreal. How often does one get to dream of being awake, dreaming on one eye while the other eye looks upon the waking world, and the images are superimposed?

  Rather creepy, that. :)

  Sadly, all vestiges of happy were eaten away by the time I woke, hours ago, and I was back you plain ol’ cranky me. Prickly, contentious, and sullen, at least it’s familiar territory. That happy guy makes me want to claw my own face off. :)

  Thus, it was the prickly guy who answered yet another “How are you doing?” message.

  Man, how I have come to hate that question, as much for it’s innocence as for it’s insistence. It’s one of those rare questions that means nothing but good, is a benchmark of good will, and solicits only caring.

  And yet, hearing it makes me cringe, every time. I hate not being able to say “I’m fine! The sun is shining and birdies are chirping outside my window. It’s a glorious day!” which is of course what the questioner wants to hear. The window of opportunity to actually say that is so bloody rare and short, I almost always disappoint them, and by extension, myself.

  So when I got the question again, the prickly guy answered, “I’m still alive.”

  Not terribly poetic, and certainly not upbeat, at least it was not the usual litany of problems.

  What I got back was the usual, “I’m glad.” and that got me thinking.

  So many people say that and I usually grin and wave it off. Conditioned to accept it, you might say.

  But there are thankfully rare times *I* am not glad, and without fail, every time I say that I get hit with the always popular “Dont say that!” spoken as though disobedience of the command were unimaginable.

  Wait, whoa. You arent allowed to tell me how to think. What’s the deal? Why cant I be allowed to feel crappy enough that a dirt nap would be preferable?

  Why ask the question if you are unwilling to accept all possible answers?

  Sorry folks, I’m a package deal, and yes, sometimes my thoughts are morbid like that. Fine and dandy that you dont agree with them, but you simply dont get to tell me I’m not allowed to think them. It comes a little too close to “It’s okay to be gay, as long as you keep it hidden.”

  Is that stretching things too much? I dont know. I’m an observer that’s too close to what he’s observing to see the whole scope. Someone else will have to adjudicate that one.

  In the meantime, dont ask if you dont *really* want to know. You may not like the answer. :)

  Patric

  When Angels Fall

  ZA Maxfield

  Once, you asked me what manner of being I am. I told you then, because you could never understand, I simply am.

  I am lighter than air. I am denser than gold. I am taller than your largest building, and I can fit inside the crystalline structure of the finest flake of snow. I am immense, yet I could dance with my peers on the head of a pin.

  But I won’t. Dancing on the heads of pins seems like an extraordinary waste of time, unless you ask it of me.

  I suppose it never occurred to you that I do everything you ask of me and more because in all the worlds you are the only one to whom I will ever say, “I am yours.”

  Why?

  When you were very young you found a yellow pup and coaxed it to you, luring it with soft sounds and gentle hands. You knew everything it would ever be, just as I know the whole truth of you. You didn’t wait for it to grow or prove itself; you simply knew that you would be there for him in all his moments, from the first time he pushed his damp black nose into your palm to the very last time he lifted his gray muzzle from his paws and you saw farewell in his sad brown eyes.

  This is what you are to me. You are mine. I have foreseen it.

  My peers are everywhere around me, just as yours surround you. Waking, sleeping, working, playing. Yet in the entire universe there is only we.

  And today… Since you’ve chosen today —this very moment— to step through a rotting board and slip into an abandoned mine, this is the day we begin…

  When Kip hit the damp ground beneath what appeared to be a hole of rotting wood planks and thin earth, he got the breath knocked out of him so hard that he guessed he’d blacked out. The next thing he knew he was leaning against something warm and soft, and emitting what sounded like frightened huffs of breath.

  Kip wanted to find out what he was up against, but he could barely see a clumpy ceiling of mud held together by roots that dangled from it like strings in the dim light that filtered through the place where he had fallen. It didn’t make sense. He sat upright and looked behind him. There, he found a boy about his age, who sat at his back, supporting him while he’d been lying there unconscious. They stared at one another while their eyes grew accustomed to the darkness.

  The boy gazed down at Kip without much expression at all.

  “You fell,” he said evenly. A frown creased his forehead and his eyes narrowed. “Does anything hurt?”

  “I…” Kip got slowly to his feet. He took a brief inventory of sensation. The air smelled funny and the mud baffled any sound from above ground, but nothing seemed to hurt. “I don’t know.” He tested his legs and looked around in the gloom. On the ground his backpack and insulated vinyl cooler lay where he’d obviously landed. “I must have fallen on those.”

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s exactly what happened,” the boy said dryly, giving him a look that he couldn’t read a
s he climbed stiffly to his feet. He moved carefully, testing his legs and stretching out his arms. At one point he uttered a sharp exclamation in some language that Kip had never heard before.

  “I’m Chemuel.”

  Kip faced him and held out his hand. “My name’s Kipling Rush. You can call me Kip.”

  “Hello Kip.” Chemuel took the hand he’d been offered with a warm, firm grip.

  Kip pumped his new friend’s hand a few times then dropped it. “What do they call you?”

  The boy frowned again. “They call me Chemuel.”

  Kip shook his head. “You must spend a lot of time with your head shoved in a toilet. Can I call you something else? How about… Crash. Can I call you Crash since we both sort of crashed here?”

  “You may call me whatever you choose.” Crash gave him a smile so warm Kip felt like he’d put on a sweatshirt. “I’d like to be called Crash.”

  “I haven’t seen you around school before.” Kip studied Crash, who wore a pair of new, dark blue jeans and a polo shirt. He looked like a lot of the kids from school, but his polo shirt wasn’t the uniform burgundy with the crest on the pocket required of all Oak Crest Academy students. Kip knelt down to take stock of the things in his backpack and lunch bag. “What grade are you in? I’m in Mrs. Clepper’s fifth grade class at Oak Crest. She’s young and pretty so everyone likes her.”

  “I don’t go to your school,” Crash told him, kneeling awkwardly beside him. “What are you looking for, tools?”

  “Tools?” Kip blinked up at Crash and his hands stilled.

  “Yes. In your rucksack. Do you carry rope? Matches?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Kip grinned. “No. But I have Oreos.”

  “Oreos?” Crash frowned at him again.

  Kip wondered if Crash was simply a frowny kind of guy; some kids were like that. All gloom and doom and what’s-the-point. “Yeah. Here.” He gave Crash a handful of cookies. He found a juice box and some water, so he decided he would ask. “Do you want juice or water?”

  Crash looked at the cookies in his hand. “Water, please.”

  “Here.” Crash gave him the bottle. “That one hasn’t been opened – no germs.” He tried to stab the straw into his juice box but it crumpled the first few times. When he looked back up, Crash still stared at his Oreos as if he’d never seen one before, and Kip thought maybe Crash hit his head when he fell.

  “It’s okay to eat those, I have plenty.”

  “That’s not…” Crash looked at him. “What are they?”

  Kip gazed at him sadly. “Dude. You are totally homeschooled aren’t you?”

  “I’m what?”

  “This is an Oreo cookie. A chocolate sandwich cookie with something called stuff inside. You can get them in different flavors but my dad always says you can’t beat the classics.”

  “Oh, I see. It’s a food.”

  “It’s the food, Crash. I’ll bet wars have been fought over these. Or Fig Newtons.”

  Crash brightened. “I know what figs are. And Newton. Nature and nature’s laws lay hid in night; God said, ‘Let Newton be’ and all was light.” Crash chuckled. “That Pope.”

  Kip didn’t get it. “Which Pope?”

  “Samuel Pope.” Crash explained. “He said that. About Newton.”

  “Ah.”

  Crash seemed fascinated by his cookies so Kip took pity on him. “Like this, see? You break them apart by twisting, then lick.”

  “Sweet,” Crash observed when he did the same.

  “My mom says they’re nothing but sugar and pig fat.”

  Crash’s eyes widened as he nearly gagged. “Pig fat?”

  “Not really, though. You’re probably a vegan huh, or eat macrobiotic food? Kenji Sarukowa in my class eats macrobiotic.”

  “Sometimes it seems to me that you aren’t speaking English.”

  “That’s probably because you don’t get out much.”

  Crash laughed at that. “Do you have anything in there that might be useful?

  “I carry my books in my backpack. Papers, pencils. Crayons.”

  “Pretty soon it’s going to be dark.”

  “I know that, I have my cell phone, and it has a little light that we can see by.”

  Crash snorted. “And how will that help you when it gets cold? Surely you can’t expect it to keep you warm? Its glow gives off no heat at all.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Kip looked at Crash again, peering at him through the shadows. “Probably not, huh?”

  “No.”

  Kip reached for his phone and opened it, sliding the keyboard out so the screen lit up and he got his first really good look at the boy he’d named Crash. His first conclusion —that the strange boy had to be Amish or something— seemed to be corroborated by his weird perfection. It almost hurt to look at him. Kip stared at Crash in awe. “Dude.”

  “Dude, again. What do you mean when you say that?”

  “I can see why it might be hard for you in public school. You’re learning English as a second language plus you’re as pretty as a girl. If you went to my school Sean Velasquez would run you up the flagpole in your underwear.”

  Crash stared at him with wide gray eyes.

  Kip’s voice rose. “Crash. When you fell, did you hit your head?”

  Crash growled, “I’m right here. I can hear you fine. I just wish I could understand you.”

  Kip stopped what he was doing when understanding dawned. “You’re scared, aren’t you, Crash?”

  “No.”

  “‘Cause it’s okay if you’re frightened. I mean— it’s a dark and kind of scary place. How long have you been down here?”

  “A while,” Crash seemed reluctant to talk about it. “But I’m really not frightened.”

  “All right.” Kip dismissed his denial. If Crash didn’t want to admit he was scared, it was no big deal. If he didn’t have to keep up a brave front for Crash he’d probably be scared too. “I didn’t even know this place was here. I come home this way every day.”

  “I know.” Crash told him. “I watch you. I could see that one day you’d simply step on the wrong board and fall through.”

  “Jeez! If you could see that, then why didn’t you say something?”

  Crash shrugged his shoulders.

  “Is that one of those immigrant things? Were you afraid to talk? First thing we’re going to do is work on your language skills.”

  “My—”

  “Hold on, Crash, I got this.” Kip turned his back, holding his phone out to squint at it. “Cool. We’ve got three bars.” He could feel Crash’s fathomless gray eyes boring into his back.

  “Three bars? Does that mean we won something?”

  Kip ignored him. “Hello? Mom, you won’t believe this…”

  How shall I describe it? Once I stared into the void. Once I gazed upon the very spark of creation. Even then the idea of you was in my imagination.

  Yet as easily as if you found a shiny pebble — as effortlessly as plucking a stone off the ground and placing it your pocket — you pulled me into the immensity that is your human heart and made me whole. That day, when I gave up everything to break your fall, you caught me.

  Even years later, even after I’d made my home securely in your heart, I had no idea what that would mean to me…

  Crash pushed his body harder than he ever had. He ran as fast as he could, cursing the limitation of lungs, the pitiful skin sacks that pulled air into his chest and refined it, and heart, the pump that sent oxygen through his blood to his muscles. He railed against the meaningless restrictions of natural law. He’d given his all, as always, but as he tore through the empty campus he feared the consequences of being even seconds late. He reached the science building barely in time to throw open the door before the buzzer.

  During school, when students broke free of their classes and ran pell-mell through the hallways, the place thrummed with energy and laughter. Now, during winter break it was as deserted as an ancient tomb, open only to those who really
had no business being there, and Kip, of course, whose job it was to lock it up after he fed the laboratory animals. Crash took the stairs two at a time and pelted for the lab, knowing exactly what he’d find there.

  “HEY!” he shouted, shoving aside three beefy boys. He used the precious adrenaline that seemed to flow from his fear to his fingertips as he fought for possession of the man they held down between them. For the love of heaven, they’d already begun to tear Kip’s clothes off. He’d almost got there too late after all. “I’ve already informed campus security and they’re on their way. Leave him alone or I’ll—”

  “Or you’ll what,” snarled a boy with short spikes for hair.

  Crash stood his ground, vibrating with such rage it made the very air around him crackle. Kip’s attackers looked at one another. They took several steps backward. Crash smiled his most beautiful —and therefore his most alarming— smile.

  I’ve still got it.

  Crash held his hand out to help Kip from the floor.

  Kip drawled, “Or he’ll tell you long, drawn-out stories in Latin until you drop dead of boredom, that’s what.” He got shakily to his feet. “Crash? Meet Bullies. Bullies, Crash.”

  The three boys who’d attacked Kip seemed to lose their nerve, possibly because they were believed the lie he’d told about campus security. It was a tremendous relief when they fled. Crash let out a shaky breath. Kip was safe and the threat was gone.

  A useful thing, adrenaline, but it had its drawbacks.

  “Those were not bullies. They intended to ravish you.”

  “Ravish? No need to take on like someone’s Victorian auntie.” Kip refused to meet his eyes. “I doubt it would have come to that.”

  Kip’s legs trembled, but as always he didn’t show his fear. He walked past Crash to wash his hands in a show of bravado that nearly made Crash cry. When Kip kept washing and steam rose from the sink to fog the mirror, Crash was reminded of Lady Macbeth.

  “How did this happen?”

  Kip was silent, even when Crash pulled him away from the sink and gave him a towel.