"The Hospital"

Here's one I wrote late one night recently because one of the last images was stuck so firmly in my head that I couldn't sleep.

"The Hospital”

She had owned a small dog and pet rabbit. She'd been in her mid-80s when it happened. She walked across the room one day, lost her footing, and fell to her death. She'd had a bad heart.

Sarah, the woman's daughter, hadn't phoned for a day or two when it happened, which was normal. Sarah had grown up almost forty years ago when she'd had a daughter of her own, and now Sarah's daughter was having a daughter in the hospital.

Sarah was in the hospital when she got the phone call. She would have gotten the phone call. All hospitals have conspicuous signs to, “Please no cell phones in the hospital”. The kinds of phones to which the signs referred had not used an infrastructure like that after which their ancestors were named for a decade, but the hospital didn't know that. And the hospital signs didn't know that. And Sarah didn't know that, so she dutifully turned her cell off and carefully stashed it away in her purse.

Sarah's daughter had been having serious contractions for a day and a half, but the baby would not be born. Since the contractions were generally too weak and far apart to be productive (a fact which, had Sarah's daughter known, she still wouldn't have cared about), so the doctors gave her some mild pain killers, water, and lookings-at every hour or so.

Not that Sarah's daughter cared – neither Sarah's daughter's daughter – but the ones giving the lookings-at were actually nurses, not doctors.

It was after one of these lookings-at, where the nurse – a man, hence the misunderstanding – had told them all that Sarah's daughter needed rest, when Sarah went to get some food from the cafeteria. Cafeterias all close down sometime each day, and eleven-thirty wasn't a time when hospital cafeterias were open and serving food. But at least in hospitals they'll put sandwiches in vending machines, let you use the microwave, and not speak up when you sit at the table, contemplating your hot sandwich and cell phone together, as though either one might suddenly answer the questions of life's deeper meanings. Sarah had turned her cell on was looking intently at the screen. Something was strange about it, but she had no way of knowing what at this time of night. And it had been a tiring day.

Wait, never mind, she figured it out. A voice mail message had been left earlier while her phone had been off, around three-thirty that afternoon. Sarah's mother's friends had tried to call it.

Sarah reflexively pressed the buttons, listened to the inhuman voice – that voice had always put her on edge because cell phone companies paid geeks to write programs to synthesize real human voice rather than pay for real humans, though Sarah didn't know that either – and clicked in that she knew the password, and listened as a concerned, real, old woman explained that Sarah's mother hadn't shown up for their weekly Bridge game – Sarah didn't know how to play Bridge, either – that afternoon at one, and nobody could get a hold of her, and they were worried, and they would just keep trying Sarah's mother at her house, and they were sorry to bother her, Sarah. Have a nice day. Bye.

The inhuman voice asked Sarah what she wanted to do about the message, but she ignored it and closed her cell phone. Eyes closed. And opened. Hot sandwich. She touched it. Warm sandwich. Cell phone. Hospital. Clock. Eleven-thirty-six. Baby. Mother. Mothers. Bridge. No answer. Have a nice day. Long day. No answer. One. Three-thirty.

Sarah sat up more in her chair, which movement helped her to realize that something might be wrong. She hadn't heard anything about her mother doing anything that would preclude – Sarah didn't know the word 'preclude' – answering her home phone, but it was possible, she supposed. She bit into her sandwich and immediately begrudged the act.

Standing up, making sure to take her leftover cold sandwich to the waste receptacle, Sarah decided she would drive past her mother's house, even though it was so late. Sarah's daughter was sleeping and nothing was likely to happen. She quietly returned to the room, instructed Sarah's daughter's husband to call her the moment things started getting serious, just in case, and left.

When Sarah reached her mother's house, naturally – the owner being unable to manipulate the controls since earlier that day – Sarah's mother's lights had not been left on. Sarah, likely because she didn't understand the situation, thought this to be unnatural. She knew something was wrong. She didn't know that nothing was actually wrong. Be that as it was, she parked her car, turned off the headlights, and set the e-brake – named for being the emergency brake lever, though Sarah didn't care at this point – before reflexively getting out, locking the door, and closing it quietly. It was late, after all, and you close doors quietly in the middle of the night.

Sarah rushed to the door and rang the doorbell.

She pounded on the door impatiently as hear heartbeat rushed and strained to match the frenzied cadence.

Finally, concern and anxiety overtook years of practicing propriety as Sarah, now laughing-stock of manners, stumbled over the hedges intent on pounding the window adjacent to her mother's living room.

Bang! Bang!

Mother!

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Mom!!

Bang! Bang!

Sarah ran her eyes across the colors she made out through the thin lace curtains. There was the couch, and above it the painting she'd made back in college, before she'd dropped out to raise her children. Below, she saw something dark orange shift around. At last she saw a figure dressed in light clothes, camouflaged among the lace barrier and cream-colored carpet, lying still on the floor.

9. 1. 1.

A woman called the dispatch center. Her name is Sarah. Her mother's house. Lying on the floor. Inside. Outside. Think she fell down. Okay, we'll send an ambulance. Stay there.
Help was coming. What time? Twelve-oh-seven.

Sarah's daughter's husband would call if things got serious. Things probably wouldn't change until morning.

Naturally, Sarah's mother didn't move as Sarah watched through the window and lace.

Sarah wanted to cry.

What time? Twelve-eleven. Lights turned the corner, and Sarah felt relief because she wouldn't have to face this alone. She thought the relief was felt because help had arrived. Lights went on in a neighboring house, but Sarah didn't notice the onlookers.

Two men and a woman emerged from the ambulance, the , and one man approached her. Was she Sarah? Okay, stay calm, they were going to break in the door. Wait, she had a key? Of course? Well, that's good, just stay outside for a moment.

Dark shapes moved around carefully inside for what felt like eternity, and Sarah was alone. Finally, after only about three minutes, the man came back outside and approached her. The other two went to get some things from the ambulance. They were getting a stretcher and a body bag, but Sarah didn't notice because the man was talking to her. She was panicked, and truth be told, he was kind of cute. She'd noticed, she just didn't know she'd noticed.

...Tripped or stumbled. Too much shock. Weak heart? Missed game with friends? It's okay. Sort of things happens. Completely accidental. Sorry for her loss. Knows it's hard so suddenly. Friends or family? Could she call someone? No? Okay, wait there, he'll be right back.

It had been such a long day that Sarah barely registered the truth of her existence in the world, and this situation's significance in her truth. She stood still. She wanted to cry, but nothing happened. The man spoke to a radio.

Her cell phone.

What time? Quarter-to-one.

What time did she get up? Had she slept at all the last day? Why was she asking that at a time like this? The important questions can only come out when you know what they are. Sarah didn't know the important questions. She only knew that questions had to be asked for her to move on, and these were the only questions she knew at the moment.

The cute emergency man came back. A police officer would come soon to take her to the hospital where she would meet the coroner. The emergency woman came up. She's sorry, but did Sarah's mother have any pets? A dog and a rabbit? something seemed. Dog crushed. Weight. Fall. Underneath. Didn't survive. They could take care of it. Okay, she's sorry.

Sarah wanted to go inside. It was okay, just don't touch anything. Door. Room. Hallway. Corner. Broken table. Orange movement. Rabbit. Sarah went over and picked up her mother's rabbit, the softest thing on the planet, and sole survivor – like Sarah herself – of her mother's death incident. Sarah felt like the rabbit. Or she thought she did.

She held the rabbit carefully and sat down on the couch, behind the broken table that she wouldn't touch, because it was something. Her dead mother had lain on it, and it was something. The couch was nothing. Sarah felt like nothing as she sat with the rabbit. But then, at last, she began to know the answer to the question which must be asked after any death, even if she'd never known the question: Will anything survive?

Sarah knew only the answer: Yes. And that was enough. Sarah and the rabbit, each sole survivors.

And Sarah cried.

Sarah cried for her mother, and the pity that nobody could ever understand Sarah's mother's love for her except she-who-had-survived. And she cried for her own fears that eventually that love would disappear.

Sarah cried, and curled up on the familiar couch, and slept. Sarah and Sarah's mother's rabbit. Slept in peace.

The police officer, a woman, came soon, but nobody awoke Sarah for a few hours. Pictures were taken, notes were taken, and paperwork was begun. Events recorded, and brief investigation performed.

What time? Four-forty-two. Sarah's phone was ringing. The police officer gently woke the sleeping survivor. Let her take Sarah to the hospital. Cell phone. Sarah's daughter's husband. Hospital. Yes. Take. Please. The hospital.

Sarah was becoming a grandmother today, as her mother had twenty years ago. And finally Sarah had an answer to her fears. There would always be survivors. Daughter of daughter of daughter.. That love would live on through Sarah and her progeny. Sarah didn't know the word 'progeny', but the love would not be lost. Naturally.

Thanks for reading! ^_^

"Fires"

Here's something I wrote last fall for a creative writing class I waitlisted but didn't make:

“Fires”
Benjamin Drake

The fires have burnt all day long. The heat from our fire radiates through the particles of air, causing them to dance with excitement in strange prelude to the events about to take place. We have all been here, crouched, poised since morning, waiting for the signal. The light of the flame reaches out to caress the painted faces around the circle, dedicated men and women. The air feels electric with anticipation of the ceremony. The time must nearly be upon us.

People in some parts will have been dancing around their fires already for several hours, but it feels like ours is the only dance that matters. Tonight we are ringing in a new era, and fires like ours are alight all around the world. Loyal followers, great leaders, and curious onlookers have gathered around their fires, ready to celebrate the new world, or curious to watch the strange ritual. But I know better. I know that tonight, when the fires and dance reach the eyes and ears of the heavens that the prophesy will come true.

Tonight, we welcome the sky god back to her nest; back here to reunite humanity forever under her wing.

A drop of sweat glides down my forehead, around my brow, and into my eye. The stinging sensation distracts me from my entrancing gaze into the fire. I tilt my head and blink several times. The sky has long-since darkened, and everyone can see the energy described in the prophecy. It’s already been a week since the stars began to swim in the heavens. Scientists say that it is not the stars actually moving, but rather solar flares reaching out so far as to affect the earth, and make distortions in the atmosphere. New stars seem to be born and die every moment. Somehow the moon stays where she’s laid in rest since the beginning of time, since the gods first thought to create our home.

It is almost time. It is almost our turn – my turn – to join the celebration ceremony; to commit my sweat and tears to the earth in welcoming our prophesied savior.

Boom!

The drums begin to beat. First the one closest to the Gazer’s tower, then one closer, and closer. The beating grows louder until it reaches our circle.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The fire crackles loudly as we stand up, as though it knows what is about to begin.

Boom!

We step into the ring once.

Boom!

Everyone crouches down. There is silence for a brief eternity. I can smell the excitement in the air. Hairs on my arm stand erect as we remain crouched awaiting the final cadence to begin.

Boom! Ba-boom! Boom! Ka-ka-ka!

I erupt from my place, the heat of the fire only a moment ago is now but a distant memory. That was before this dance. Jump, step, turn, clap, fall, stand, jump, jump… It is the dance that we practiced every week since we were young. This dance is now the only thing that exists in the world. For thousands of people in every time zone, this dance is the only thing that exists. Right now. This is our reality.

So there you have it. It's more normal, for any who were afraid after my first post! ^_^

“This is the Title”

The author of this story is Benjamin Drake, which may or may not be a pseudonym.

This is the first sentence of a self-referential short story entitled “This is the Title.” This sentence (a parenthetical being inserted to clarify that it is the second sentence of the self-referential short story entitled “This is the Title”) is here to explain what a self-referential story is, for those who may not know, but will fail to do so. This third sentence exists to offer hope that the fourth sentence will finally explain the purpose proposed by the previous sentence. This sentence finally gets around to explaining that a self-referential story is one which refers to itself to explain things to the reader, who will not be addressed directly, in a manner similar to, though often to a lesser degree, those sentences seen previously. The remainder of this story will not be so gung-ho about having sentences refer to themselves, as this short story is not entitled “This is the Title of a Short Story in which each Sentence refers to Itself,” now is it?

Despite what the reader, who will not be addressed directly, may think, this story is not about itself, but rather about a boy (though, for the sake of argument, it may be better to think about this boy as a young man, this story will refer to him as a boy) who was bored in class. Some stories may begin by offering a description of the classroom, to provide a setting; or perhaps a short story might describe some inner thoughts of the boy; yet others may discuss something twisted in the boy's past that he was running from. This story will defy all others by stating that the boy was not running from something, nor did he have any thoughts of anything, for the boy in this story was not thinking about anything.

The reader may now be uninterested in this story by now, for its tedium, but were one to speak to the reader, that person might tell them that this story (the one in which the reader is currently engaged, though the strong possibility exists that, for the sake of this story, “engaged” is not an appropriate term) is a true American story of a boy in class.

All of the details about how this story was written are negligible at best, and a mere inconvenience at slightly worse. At worst, this story may shortly be used as kindling in a fire, which is the right of any owner of the pages which hold this text to do so, assuming that the holder lives in a country which prohibits such things and has the means to do so without violating neighborhood ordinance or some other such hindrance to backyard pyrotechnics.

No, in this story, though nothing serious will happen, the reader will learn about this boy's forty-five minutes in a class for which he has little interest.

As this story has already stated, the boy was not thinking anything at the time of the introduction of his character. This story has, however forgotten (a possible literary choice) to bring to the reader's attention the fact that only a short moment before the setting of the story was revealed the boy had been thinking something. The following quotation is, roughly, the transcription of the boy's thoughts at that time.

I like matches.

At this point, it seems worth while to place a statement of reminder for the reader, who will not be addressed directly, that this boy is a normal boy. As any true story about boys would do, this story has included true elements of boys in general, in this case an affinity for burning things. The previous sentence perhaps did little to alleviate the reader's conception that there is something terribly wrong with the boy, but there really is nothing wrong with him.

The boy in this story is normal.

To be quite honest (which is the point of this story, though not through true events as much as through true ideas and emotions) with the reader, who will not be addressed directly, this story would be wise to point out that the boy who is the main character of this story has been a smoker for the year or so before the event of this story takes place. The singular form of “event” was chosen in the previous sentence intentionally, as any who continue to read the rest of this story will come to find out. The honesty referred to in the beginning of the first sentence of this paragraph, however, is one which will be addressed in the own due time of this story, and not before.

To provide more background on the boy, this next paragraph will briefly describe a few things the reader, who will not be addressed directly, should know about the boy. The reader should know that the boy does not like smoking. He had never even wanted to smoke before he started. The previous sentence was not a self-referential-style sentence, though it fits as an additive to the sentence before it, which to the reader will hopefully justify its usage out of context. The next two sentences after the immediate next one will also use the same excuse for breaking self-reference, and it doesn't matter whether the reader cares. This story doesn't have any feelings to be hurt by any reader, after all. The boy had started smoking for a girl he had hoped to impress. He had recently succeeded in impressing her and taking her to bed.

Based on the previous paragraph (and hopefully the information therein presented) one could make several (correct) guesses about the boy described in the story. (This parenthetical statement is placed here to assure the reader that the act of coitus referred to in the final sentence of the preceding paragraph was not the event alluded to in the second sentence of the paragraph before that. That even will be known, and far more grand than any simple fornications, at least in terms of this story.) First, anyone receiving the information contained herein might assume that the boy had considered stopping smoking. If the reader, who will not be addressed directly, did not make this assumption, they would be able to correctly do so having read the previous sentence. The allusion made by the sentence to which referral has just been made (before this referral, of course) is an accurate allusion, and would not lead to false ideas about the main character of this story. In fact, the main character of this story had thought that he would rather prefer to not smoke any more. What may not be inferred by the previous sentences, but possibly by careful guessing based on information contained in the above paragraph, is the reason for the boy's continued smoking. The careful reader might even have no problem accepting that the boy, being the main character of this story, which is far from a simple story at all, will not have a reason as simple as that he needs to continue smoking to stay with the girl who's appeal brought him to the habit in the first place.

That first place is, of course, the first time this story's main character started smoking, and not the first place of this story. The first place being discussed will not be described in this story.

No, this story's main character would easily have stopped smoking after the event which was referred to by the thirteenth word of the only parenthetical statement to contain at least one complete sentence in the paragraph preceding the one immediately above this one, were it not for the reason which will be stated next, with self-reference: he needed the power.

This is not, however, a story about power. As has already been stated, this story is about a boy, pure and simple. While others may gleam more information from this story, perhaps finding some human truth or political statement in the words found herein, this story is not about it's words.

To clarify, the power referred to recently is a power of self-control. Anyone seeing the term thrown out at the end of that last sentence might think the intent was to describe the ability one has to control their thoughts and/or actions, but they would be mistaken. The self-control referred to herein is a more raw form of the two words meaning controlling oneself. Solving the puzzle is the important part here in this sentence, because the other important word is power, which is attached to self-control. Thus, the meaning of this story's main character's need for tobacco is the power to control himself. In simpler stories, the term may have simply been written out as “power to make his own decisions,” but this is not a simple story. Any story which tries to represent any person with truth, even fictional characters (and this story's main character, the boy, is a fictional character), cannot be a simple story. This story was written recognizing that real people are not simple; neither are moments in a real person's life simple. It is this story's hope that it can convey the truth behind a fictitious event, surrounded by fictitious characters, and write something important. If this story accomplishes that, then it will be an important truth that could be discovered, and it will not be simple. As a critical reader may point out, this story could also fail to accomplish the task it set out to do and most readers may not know, but that is not for this story to comment. To be able to comment, the comment-giving entity must be an independent, dynamic existence, which this story is not.

This story is a single event in a made up time line.

In the moments before the boy discussed in this story had the thought previously transcribed, he had come to the conclusion which has recently been elucidated to readers who hadn't already figured it out. That conclusion is that he was still smoking because it meant that he was controlling his own actions. This story's main character called it his “self-control” in his mind only moments before the statement transcribed above, and that is why the quoted term was used two paragraphs prior to this one. The previous sentence is including the single-line, single-sentence paragraph just above to be an entire paragraph of its own right, though the reader, who will not be addressed directly may disagree. That sentence was placed there in case anyone cannot follow and must reread the sections to which reference was just made (before the reference just now was made), though if a reader truly needs to reread any of the content referred to in this story, this story would extend its sympathies to that reader, if this story had any sympathies to express.

Shortly, if the reader has struggled through this far, they will be rewarded by a description of the event referred to so long ago. (The hyperbolic phrase just now was used because it is almost certain that anyone who reads this story will ultimately become so tired of its slow pace as to feel that time has slowed to a crawl, and thus what may have been only a few minutes may then feel like years.) To describe the event, this story will again have to break its mold of self-reference and speak simply for a sentence.

The boy coughed.

The cough referred to now was not, however, a normal cough. The cough mentioned just now was the deep cough of someone who has been smoking for about a year. That was not a very descriptive description of the cough made, but it was the best way to describe it, because that is how the boy, the main character of this story, would think of it after is was finished. This story has thus far been a lot of build up just to end with a cough, so it will continue talking about the cough, because this story is about the boy, and the event that just happened. At the moment the boy coughed, the boy, who is the main character of this story, was still not at all interested in the class he was attending, so it would serve little purpose for this story to into detail about that facet of the event herein described.

Thanks in large part to the wonders of literary privilege, this story can elaborate on details in the future of the boy's life, as this story has a true understanding of events in its own made-up time line. This story can, for instance, inform the reader that the boy who has been discussed at some length (though the reader, who will not be addressed directly, may choose to disagree) would continue to smoke for another decade or so after the events described in this story. The reader will also be informed very soon that the cough, which was described only two paragraphs ago, was the sole deciding factor in the question of whether or not the boy of this story would get lung cancer later in his life, long after the event of this story has been forgotten in its entirety.

This story could now divulge that the boy did in fact get cancer and die because of it, and any other story might very well do just that. This is not, however, any other story. Instead, this story will only inform the reader that the main character of this story, the boy, will have struggled with cancer by the time he is dead. As this story is so very complex and the average reader is likely not attuned to subtlety, is now falls on this story to describe the difference between what was written and what was read in the previous sentence, because in most cases there will likely be a difference, unless it is this story's great fortune to be read by mostly great minds who happen to think like the author of this story, in which case this story won't care. It is, after all, only a story.

The difference alluded to in the previous paragraph is related to the fact that while some readers will assume the cancer referred to in the third sentence of the previous paragraph was the cause of this story's main character's death, that was not actually stated. The difference previously alluded to is also related to the fact that still more readers will assume that the cancer referred to (which allusion's topic's location has only recently been described) will have been a cancer of the boy's lungs, which might have been a logical conclusion, except that this is not a simple story. This story is about life, the life of a boy, which is not simple. Further, the difference being discussed is related to the fact that many other readers (none of whom will be addressed directly) will even go so far as to assume that the cancer now referred to thrice (four times, if the reader counts the once before when it was described initially, though there is no common word for “four times” which sounds so keen as the word “thrice”) in this story attacked the boy's body and not the body of another person who may or may not have been mentioned in this story.

The purpose of this story has not, after all, been to tell the reader anything about this boy's future, as has already been stated. This story exists to try to tell something true about a single event in this boy's life, and to describe truth about the boy, the main character of this story, at the time of the event. As this story has already stated, reality is not simple.

Lastly, at this story's end, it will describe for the reader why the boy thought the italicized text near the beginning of this story. When the boy thought that, which if it would be placed chronologically in order with the rest of the events, it would be a small fraction of a second before the event described in this story, he had been thinking about smoking. It may have already been alluded to previously in this story that the boy was thinking about smoking. To elaborate on the thought just expressed, this story needs to say that the thought almost occurred to the main character of this story that he was getting nothing good out of smoking. Half thoughts do exist, at least in this story, and another half-thought may have occurred in the interim. That last sentence serves only the purpose of bridging the first half-thought to the complete thought. The complete though mentioned just now, however, has already been transcribed earlier in this story.

This is definitely an experimental style of writing... Keep in mind I've not even edited this yet, though I hope you've read it before reading this sentence, so... keep it in mind for your comments. Do you like it? Hate it? Too preachy? To obvious (<-- my biggest concern)?

Anyway, have a good day and such!

-- Benjamin Drake