the shadow hero

Ale, mead, and honeywine flow freely in the hero hall. It is always a celebration here: a town has been saved, a demon has been slain, a witch outwitted. There are always stories to tell and they are almost always the same.

We heroes come to the hero hall to show off bloody heads, severed from beasts of infamy, from hell, from the deeps. We take time to mention the manner of severing: axe blade, sword, our own teeth. We eat. We drink. We make merry with maids.

From time to time something odd happens in the hero hall. A shadow will darken the hall’s threshold, turn a maid’s fair locks grey, her face white, her hands to shaking birds. Steins will clatter to the ground and grown men will groan or tremble as they face the shadow dead on.

The shadow becomes a man, or a woman. The shadow heaves and sighs. The shadow collapses at the bar, and only picks at the pretzels and popcorn offered there. The shadow man or woman may order a drink, but if they do or don’t they always just stare at the space where the drink is or would be. They sigh ever so. And breathe ever so. And think hard.

After a time of generally killing the rest of the heroes’ buzz, the shadow hero will cry. And wonder why it didn’t work. And blame themselves but try not to. And wish they could just let it go, this very unheroic way they have about them, of worrying and wondering and ruminating. And they will ponder for a moment another life, one where simple mead and empty kisses could heal their wounds. Or true love could strengthen their weak spots. Or belief could rush steady and strong at the base of their spine and out through their limbs and provide that flexibility so needed on the battlefield, in the woods, alone.

The rest of the heroes will watch this awkward hot mess transpire. Most will edge away or look at their shoes; wonder out loud about the time. But one or two or maybe three will sit nearer the shadow hero, and listen to the quiet tears. They will put hands on the shadow’s back, push the popcorn closer and say:

Eat something.

Breathe.

You’re still here.

Half-Ass

Half-Ass

There were supportive girlfriends and there were bitchy girlfriends and Joy Michelle was something in between. She thought of this as she stood in the back of the bar by the doubledoors with her arms crossed and pressed against her chest, watching Michael make a damn fool of himself.

He had gotten the notion to be a stand-up comedian when they had gotten cable. He said comedy “awakened” him, and he was awake alright. Staying up all night to watch comedy specials; angry men talking about dull things and swearing. Joy Michelle hated them. She liked sitcoms. Michael did too, before they got cable. It was a string she pulled with her dad, a little thing to make Michael happy and add a little flair to the home life. Cable is nice to come home to when you work long days. In theory, you get more choices. In reality, you get more crap. This is what Joy Michelle ended up thinking of cable.

When Michael had announced one night while stumbling into bed that he was funnier than half the people on TV, even David Letterman, Joy Michelle had said: Prove it. She’d said it into the pillow, and was mostly thinking out loud. She loved Michael, and she thought he was funny. She laughed when he acted goofy with her. She laughed when he laughed. She liked to hear him talk. But she couldn’t remember a time he had ever cracked an honest joke. She could remember a million times he had told her he could. She could remember a million more where he had blanked out everything around him, soundly focused on whatever angry man had caught his fancy this week, shouting comedy to him from the flickering flat screen.

He had blown up at the Prove It. It exploded his heart. It terrified him, but of course this he did not let on. Instead he laughed meanly and said, I will. Fuck yes I will. They went to sleep with him thinking he would Prove It, and her thinking he used to swear less. He used to be more pleasant. He used to seem happier. He used to make her laugh.

For two days he seemed to prepare to prove it. He sought out an open mic night. He invited their friends. He bought a pack of index cards and a bottle of whiskey. He wrote notes and smoked cigarettes and did not ask Joy Michelle about her day at the hospital. He used to like to hear about the babies on her floor, the names people gave them, if any of them had young brothers and sisters who pretended they were theirs.

But here they were at O’Hallorans and there he was on the stage not looking at his notecards. Not saying what he may or may not have written. Not saying anything, really, except what a drag girlfriends are. Not much more than that. And something hardened in Joy Michelle that she never had expected to. Something stuck in her side. Here she was, wasting her time, watching Michael make a fool of himself and not even having the decency to try.

tea + whiskey

I'm sorely unpracticed at writing short stories, but I want to get into it. My challenge to myself is to write one little story a day, and eventually get to a point where I write a bit meatier of a tale a month. Because I'm the precious type that likes to name everything I do or make, I'm gonna call these little guys tea & whiskey tales...because they were probably written while consuming a cupful of one or both. I present tea + whiskey tale 1...

Places You No Longer Fear

1. The drum closet in the Band Room.
2. The car, pretty much anywhere.
3. The back of the away-game bus when parked.
4. Your own house at night.

There is still something terrifying to you about the school parking lot. First off, it’s lit up like a 24-hour grocery store. And there is almost always another car there. A janitor, someone from the team, another band kid. There’s a girl in all AP classes who is rumored to never leave the school. They say she sleeps on the rolled-up wrestling mats, stored away on the stage…or with Coach Lanza in the Pool Office.

The parking lot is small but open. The forest preserve stretches out behind it, endless wooded black. Neighborhood homes stand watch just across the street, dark and quiet but full of people you know. Maybe sleeping. Maybe seeing. The place stirs you up and you try to avoid it.

But if you’re there long enough after a game and you’ve managed to wait out the crowd and see the band room exit open, you start to feel good. And those times when you kiss her you pretend you are a soldier defying a general’s command. Advancing instead of falling back. Or just quitting the war. Because you found something better. Even if it’s something you’re still a little afraid of.