A Hiatus ... and a Few Other Things

I've been spending my free time the past week or so, proofreading and editing my novel ... once again. I'm getting to the point now where I hope to start sending out query letters to agents sometime very soon. Maybe even tomorrow. As a result, I haven't been able to write too much and may not do too much for another week or two.

However, as some of you will notice, we have a new contributor to the blog. Luilu, my friend from another board, not my 2nd grade girlfriend, has signed on to contribute as well. Her first post is CosyIngle, the beginning of the science fiction epic she has dreamed of writing for years. So, welcome Luilu.

I agree with Judy's comments about your first effort. While it's difficult to comment on something that is not complete, that I know is just the beginning of something much bigger, I agree that your prose is beyond anything that I could muster. It's an beginning and I'm looking forward to where it goes...

And, finally, since Luilu has joined on, and I think I'll be getting one more joining on soon, I can no longer call this my blog. So, I'll be changing the description at the top of the blog.

For anybody else out there who wants to contribute, please feel free to let me know. I'll provide you with information on how you can post your own stories on here. As I said at the beginning of this, I'm interested in this becoming a community for writers experimenting with their own writing and commenting on the work of others.

Mark

Sudden fiction

Well, here's an experiment. I'm going to write a short story and post it without any editing or rewriting. It will just be what it is. The technical term for it is "sudden fiction," I believe. And, let me provide a little history for this story...

Almost two years ago, I started participating in discussions on an internet bulletin board for IBS sufferers. At some point, I found a part of the board called the Meeting Place. It was where participants came to discuss non-IBS related issues, current events, politics, family news, and the like. I participated primarily in the political discussions and came to know a woman on the Meeting Place, known as the MP, whose screen name was Luilu. Over the months Luilu and I tried to fight the good fight against the rabid, right-wing, neo-conservative, bible thumping ...

At some point, Luilu created her own discussion board, The Watercooler, and invited me to participate -- which I've done. Then, Luilu left the MP. When I started this blog, I decided it was time for me also to leave the MP -- it takes an enormous amount of time and energy to fight the good fight against those rabid right-wingers. I decided it was time to forsake that fight and focus my energies on my creative writing ... which explains this blog.

As I made the change, I let Luilu know about this blog and asked her to provide comments on my efforts here. She asked in return that I acknowledge "Luilu" in one of my stories. I offered to write a story with "Luilu" in it. So, here's my effort at fulfilling that promise...

Two more comments before I get to the story. First, it's sudden fiction, to the extent I'm able to write sudden fiction. I've never been able to write something without first having a good idea in my mind what I want to write. I don't think I could ever just sit down and start writing a story. So, is it really "sudden"? Not really, I've spent the last three days thinking about where I want this incredibly short story to go.

Second, before any of you want to psychoanalyze the point of this story and what it really means about me, don't. This is simply the idea I came up with for a story with a character named "Luilu."



...

MY FIRST TRUE LOVE

I fell in love for the first time in the second grade. Well, actually, it wasn't really the first time. As all little boys do, I fell in love for the first time when I was four. But that doesn't count because the girl I fell in love with then was my mom.

No, the first time I fell in love with somebody I wasn't related to, was in the second grade. Her name was Luilu. Luilu LaBeau. Looking back now, I wonder if her parents hated her. Luilu LaBeau? What were they thinking? But, in the second grade, you don't think about that. Names don't become objects for scorn until the third grade.

Besides, when I got to know Luilu, it really didn't matter what her name was. Never mind that my name is Larry Lawrence. How could I criticize somebody else's parents for their choice in names?

Unlike today where kids sit in groups of five or six and rotate groups throughout the year, back in those days, kids sat in rows in alphabetical order for the entire year. The first day of the year, I sat down in a desk behind Luilu ... LaBeau, Lawrence, Miller. I spent the year there, falling in love with Luilu.

Luilu had blonde curls that cascaded down her back. Those curls mesmerized me. I'd try to follow one of her tresses from the top of her head to the bottom, following the twists and turns. Inevitably, I'd get lost somewhere along the way.

She had rosy cheeks, long eyelashes, and a smile that could have melted all the ice in our freezer. Daily, at some point when the teacher was distracted, Luilu would turn, bat her eyes, and smile at me, mischievously. Just as quickly, she would turn back and look at the teacher.

Luilu and I spent the year becoming friends as only second grade kids can. I would chase her on the playground. She would ignore me when she was playing hopscotch with her friends. At lunch, we would sit at separate tables. Me with the boys. Luilu with the girls. Every once in awhile, we'd look at each other and then look away. Sometimes, I'd stick my tongue out at her.

One day, just before Thanksgiving, the ice broke in our relationship. I was sad about something. I don't know why. All I remember is that I ended up sitting in the middle of the grass field with my jacket draped over my head, hoping that nobody would notice and that I would disappear. As I sat there, Luilu approached me.

"Hey, Larry, what's wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing," I replied.
"What's wrong, Larry?" she asked again, sitting down a few feet from me.
"Nothing," I said. "I just want to be left alone."
"Hey," she said, "did you know you can eat grass?"
"Huh?" I said, taking my jacket off my head.
"Yeah, my brother showed me. You just pull these long pieces of grass out and you can chew on the ends."
"Won't it make you sick?" I asked.
"Nah. My brother's been doing it for years and he's never got sick from it," replied Luilu.

Luilu pulled a stalk of grass from the ground and handed it to me, while she pulled another stalk for herself. She put the end in her mouth and started chewing on it. I looked at the stalk of grass in my hand, looked back at Luilu, and decided to follow her lead. I put the grass in my mouth and sucked and chewed on the end. It wasn't bad. Suddenly, sitting there, talking to Luilu with a stalk of grass hanging out of my mouth, I felt for the first time, that I was cool. And, Luilu had showed me the way.

Luilu and I continued playing cat and mouse with each other. One day, we'd be fast friends. The next, we'd barely talk.

Towards the end of second grade, Luilu sealed her place in my seven-year-old heart forever. On one of those days when we were friends, we were sitting out in the field, chewing on grass.

"Hey," said Luilu, "I want to show you something."
"OK."

Luilu lifted the edge of her shirt and reached her hand up under her shirt. I couldn't tell what she was doing. And, then all of a sudden, she started flapping her arm and making the most delicious farting sounds with her arm. I was amazed. I was stunned. How did she do that?

"How'd you learn to do that?" I asked.
"My brother taught me."
"How do you do it?"
"You just put your hand in your armpit and start flapping."

So, I tried it. At first, it didn't work. But, eventually the little squishing noises I started with started sounding like wonderful, incredible armpit farts. And, I owed it all to Luilu LaBeau.

The last day of the school year rolled around. At the end of the day, Luilu and I were walking out of the class, when she leaned over and gave me a peck on the cheek. "See you next year, Larry," she said as she ran off.

The next year rolled around and Luilu wasn't there. She had moved. I never knew where and I never heard from her again.


***********************

As I finish writing this story, I realize what it's about. One of the things that is most distressing to me as I watch my kids go through life is the realization that so many of the kids who play such an integral part in their lives right now, won't be around a year from now, or two years from now, or ten years from now. I think of the people that I've known throughout my life that were vital to my success as a human being at various points, who have now disappeared from my life, and it makes me sad. I look at my kids and realize that they will experience the same thing. My oldest son's best friend from kindergarten through the second grade was a girl named Jamie. But between second and third grade, she moved. Not far, but far enough that they aren't in the same school anymore. While we still keep in touch the family, Reese and Jamie see each other only once or twice a year, instead of daily. I know that at some point the "once or twice a year" will eventually be reduced to not at all. It's disheartening that these people who play such a vital part at various stages of our lives disappear. There are so many people that I knew as a child and as a young adult that I wish now that I still knew. Where are they? What are they doing? I wish that I knew what's happening now with the girl who was the real "Luilu" for me in the second grade.

When Enough is Enough

OK. Here's another entry. And, if you think it's a little weird, it's what I came up with based on the following: There's a website called The Glut (there's a link on the right hand side). It looks for "all forms of prose, with a slight bias toward things related to food or gluttony — eating, overeating, cooking, overcooking, digesting, indigesting, and so on and so forth. Irreverence is key. Also, please do not be fooled by our apparent meat-centrism; we like vegetables, too. Except peas. We hate peas." Reading that, I focused on the "indigesting" and came up with the following story. And, yes, it s semi-autobiographical. I'll let you decide what's really true. :)

By the way, I was going to submit this story to the website just to see what happened, but they don't take submissions from AOL because of their spam filter.

Second, by the way ... yes, "Jack" seems to come up frequently in my stories. (You'll know this is true if you're one of the few who has seen parts of my novel.) For some reason, whenever I sit down to start righting something, it just seems to be the right name.

I promise though that the next story will have a new name -- maybe even something like "Luilu."


WHEN ENOUGH IS ENOUGH

You ever have irritable bowel syndrome? It’s a wonderful thing to have. Diarrhea, constipation, pain. Noxious explosions. Uncertainty fills your life. Some days nothing bad happens. Other days it’s run, run, run.

You spend your days making sure you know where the closest bathroom is, no matter what. Depending on how bad it is, you take extra changes of clothing whenever you go somewhere—just in case. Your social life deteriorates. How do you explain to a significant-other-to-be that you have this little bowel problem?

What if you have kids? Kids who want to go on a two-hour boat ride? No bathroom. What do you do? Immodium is your friend.

And, there’s the neverending, “you have to go to the bathroom again?” Yeah, so what?! So what if you’ve gone to the bathroom thirteen times in the past three hours, you have to go again.

Imagine that you not only have irritable bowel syndrome—IBS, among the sufferers—but you are lactose intolerant. Excuse me, sir, but it’s an intolerance, not an allergy. You lack the ability to digest dairy. As a result, if you eat dairy, you cramp, you run, you suffer.

The worst part of all of this is that these syndromes, these sufferings, these disorders come and go. You can eat whatever you want for weeks, for months, and experience no symptoms, then suddenly have a cheeseburger and--bam--a few hours later, experience the most severe cramping imaginable. Bathroom? Where’s the bathroom? You have to go now. And, then go again.

Understand you weren’t born with IBS. Neither were you born with lactose intolerance. But, one day, your bowels decided to put a road block in your way. And, one day, your stomach said, “Enough lactose.”

Combine those two problems and then consider that cheese is your hobby. Cheese is your joy. Cheese is it. You have spent your life scarfing down plates of macaroni and cheese--not the boxed kind, but the homemade kind, just the way you like it. Macaroni and mounds of freshly grated cheddar cheese, stirred together until the cheese has melted and becomes one with the macaroni.

But, it doesn’t stop with macaroni and cheese. There’s the nightly bowl of ice cream. Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food becomes the best. How can you go wrong with chocolate ice cream, marshmallow, caramel and little chocolate fish? You think macaroni and cheese and ice cream are it? Not a chance. There are nachos with heaping piles of cheese and beans. There is lasagna with mozzarella, provolone and parmesan oozing out of every mouthful.

On top of all this, is the pinnacle of all things dairy. You know what it is, don’t you? Say it with me. P-I-Z-Z-A. Can there be anything better than pizza if you’re a cheesehead?

This all comes crashing down one day when you wake up and your stomach has had enough. Cheese has become your nemesis. Dairy products, which have taken you through so many tough times, have become your own personal enemy #1. Have some macaroni and cheese, go to the bathroom. Have a bowl of ice cream, go to the bathroom. Have a slice of the perfect pizza pie, go to the bathroom.

Every day, you’re faced with the choice--is that slice of cheesecake worth the pain and the discomfort? If you only have one slice of pizza, maybe it’ll be OK.

Eventually you become used to the idea that you have to figure out how to eat without cheese. Dessert becomes a search for something to replace that daily bowl of ice cream. You adjust and move on. Life goes on. After all, it’s only food. And, you still have beer. Beer, by the way, is a subject for another story.

Every once in a while, though, you experience a moment in time when you just can’t take it anymore. You’re making macaroni and cheese for your kids and you just want a bite. You don’t take a bite because you know you won’t be able to stop at just one and then you will pay. Or, you’ve found that non-dairy ice cream that you can eat without consequence. Of course, every time you have a bowl of that “ice cream,” while your kids are eating their own bowls of the real thing, you wish for just one little taste. Just one little spoonful of chocolate ice cream to coat your mouth with and feel as it slides down your throat.

Jack had many of those moments. But, there’s no moment that topped the pizza experience Jack had just a week ago.

There’s a pizza place in town called Sal’s. There was a time when it was Jack’s home away from home. When he was in his early 20’s, Jack lived on Sal’s pizza for days at a time. Even now, twenty years later, when Jack goes in, the owner greets him by name. “Hey, Jack,” Maria says from behind the counter, as she ladles sauce on some rolled out dough and spreads cheese over it. They know Jack, because he knows them.

He knows that Sal’s, with Maria behind the counter, makes the best damn pizza in town. Sal’s pizza is, simply put, the single greatest food creation. Unlike the cardboard productions of the chain pizza places, every Sal’s pizza looks different with real crust and real sauce, topped by mounds of cheese and quality toppings that actually cover the pizza pie, instead of just making occasional appearances on every other slice. It’s a pizza. What else do you need to know?

So, a week ago, Jack met his family there. For some reason, a decision was made to get the meal as take out and eat at Jack’s parents’ home. Jack and his wife and kids stayed behind to get the pizza and pasta and bring it back. “Pasta?” you ask. Well, of course, that was for Jack. There would be no pizza for Jack that night. Things hadn’t been going so well lately in the ol’ tummy department.

While waiting, Jack stood near the counter and watched Maria and her crew do their magic. Boiling pots of pasta on a tiny little stove. Garlic bread being shoveled into the ovens with regularity. And pizzas, one after another, prepared, and then slid off of a baker’s peel into the three pizza ovens.

But, as Jack stood there watching the magic of Sal’s taking place, he experienced a moment, a culinary moment unlike any other. One of Maria’s nephews, one of the young guns brought in to help out on busy nights, grabbed the baker’s peel and popped open an oven, looking for anything that was baked to perfection. There it was, in the back corner, a pizza pie ready to go. He pushed the peel back into the corner and deftly slid it under the pie, scooping it out of the oven. He twirled around with the pie on the peel and slid it off onto a counter for slicing.

As it passed in front of Jack, he saw food perfection. Crisp, perfectly browned crust, sauce coming out of the edges of melted, bubbling cheese. Sausage, pepperoni and linguica spread around the pizza—no frilly vegetables or trendy toppings on this pizza. Jack watched as Maria’s nephew reached for the pizza slicer. With four quick slices, it would become eight pieces of pizza, ready for serving.

Jack had decided that he had enough. Jack was tired of watching what went into his mouth. Jack was tired of only having cheese when he had two little Lactaid pills to go with it. Jack was tired of thinking about food and what it would do to him if he ate it. It was time to lose control.

“Stop,” Jack screamed, as he leapt over the counter, reaching for the nephew’s hand.

“Huh?” the nephew said. His eyes widened in alarm as Jack approached him.

Seeing that he had diverted the nephew’s attention, Jack changed direction and went for the pizza. Straight for the pizza.

Did it matter that the pizza was hot? Not a chance. Jack didn’t care if he’d be peeling off dead skin from the roof of his mouth in the morning. All Jack cared about was that pizza.

When Jack got to the pizza, he stopped. He paused. He was missing something.

“Give me the slicer.”

Maria’s nephew handed it over, realizing that he was witnessing something that he could not stop.

Jack took the slicer. He made one slice down the center of the pizza, and then another. Just enough to create one perfect slice of pizza. He picked that perfect slice up, the cheese stringing back to the pizza still on the pan. Some of the sauce dripped off, a slice of pepperoni slid off and dropped to the pan.

Jack placed the tip of the slice to his mouth. Yes, it was hot. He took a bite.

“Get me a beer,” he said to Maria.

Maria got a Peroni out of the cooler and brought it over to Jack. He took three large gulps to put out the fire in his mouth. And then returned to the pizza.

Within thirty seconds, the slice was gone. Another twenty seconds and the Peroni was gone.

Jack turned and walked back around the counter and gave his wife a kiss.

He turned to Maria and said, “Is our take out ready yet?”

“Uh … yeah. Here you go Jack,” replied Maria.

“How much?”

“You know what, Jack, tonight it’s on us.”

At 2:00 that morning, Jack woke up. The cramps were beginning. It was going to be a rough night.

The Eyes of Claire Barker

The theme of this story is the supernatural and is supposed to be about "the house at the end of the road." It is based on a short story contest. The story cannot be more than 3,500 words in length (Mine is about 2,800 words). What do you think? If you want to comment, click on the comments link and comment away.


THE EYES OF CLAIRE BARKER


The summer of Jack’s twelfth year, his family moved. Jack wasn’t thrilled to be leaving. He had friends and he was about to go into the seventh grade. It’s hard enough to start seventh grade with kids you know, but to move during that summer between sixth and seventh grade and start seventh grade in a new town with unknown kids made it all the more rougher.

The saving grace of the move was that Jack’s family was moving from congested, smog-infested city to a small town in the rural Midwest. The name of the town isn’t important. The house, though, the Barker House was, and still is, important. As Jack would learn over the years, that house, although it was just down the road from Jack’s new home, wasn’t really at the end of the road. It was at the center of all things.

But this story isn’t about what Jack would learn later on. This story is about that first summer, when Jack lived on the other side of a small hill from the Barker House, and learned firsthand the real power that resided at the Barker House.

The move took place the week after sixth grade was over. Jack and his parents drove cross country with a moving van following as they went. When they pulled up in front of their new house, Jack jumped out of the car and ran up the front steps, yelling to his mom, “Where’s my room?”

“It’s on the second floor, honey. You’ll be all by yourself.”

Jack pushed open the front door, found the stairs, and raced up, taking the stairs three or four at time. The house was a small two-story, with a loft upstairs. Downstairs was a large family room, a kitchen, and a master bedroom. The house had a porch that wrapped around it on three sides. In the back, there was a door, and another set of steps that led to a backyard that gradually sloped down to a small creek that represented the property line. The yard wasn’t fenced in.

The loft was Jack’s room. The best part of it was that it had a door to the outside and there was a small balcony there. When Jack discovered it, he immediately opened the door and went out to stand on the balcony. Jack looked out over the surrounding area. From the balcony he could see180 degrees from east to north to west. On the east side of the house, the road led over a little rise in the land. Jack could see the top of a house just poking over the rise. His eyes were drawn to it.

All Jack could see was the peak of the house and a battered weather vane perched on that peak, spinning wildly. Jack thought it was odd since there was no wind. As Jack looked at the weather vane, it slowly came to a stop. When it stopped, it was pointing directly at Jack. The hairs on the back of Jack’s neck stood on end and a slight tingle shimmied down Jack’s spine.

The next morning, when Jack woke up, he went out to the balcony to survey his new kingdom. His eyes were drawn once again to the house on the other side of the rise and the weather vane. It was still pointing straight at him.

“Can I go for a ride on my bike?” Jack asked his mom, after breakfast was finished.

“Sure. Just don’t go too far. You don’t know your way around here, yet,” replied his mom.

Jack got his mountain bike out of the garage, which was full of boxes waiting to be unpacked, strapped on his helmet and rode down the drive to the street, Barker Lane. He turned left and pedaled up the rise. As Barker Lane crested the rise and began its descent down the other side it went from asphalt to gravel. A short ways off, at the end of the gravel road, stood the house with the weather vane. It was still pointing at Jack.

The house was a ramshackle three story Victorian. One of the windows on the first floor had broken and been boarded up. The outside hadn’t seen a new coat of paint in decades and the yard wasn’t really a yard anymore, it was just a large patch of weeds.

Jack rode towards the house and pulled up in front of it, stopping his bike next to the mailbox, which was perched at an angle and looked as though one touch would send it toppling to the ground. Jack looked down at the mailbox and barely made out the word “Barker” on it. The letters had once been black, but now they had faded so much that it was just the slightest of outline that formed the word.

When Jack looked up again, he realized he wasn’t alone. Sitting in a rocking chair on the porch by the front door was an old woman. She wasn’t moving, but she was looking right at Jack. Jack glanced up at the weather vane and saw that it was still pointing at him, too. He wondered if there was some mystical connection between the woman and the weather vane.

“Whatcha doing, lil chil’?” the woman suddenly yelled to him.

“No-no-nothing,” stuttered Jack in reply.

“Whatcher name?”

“Jack.”

“Well, come on up here, boy. I won’t bite.”

Jack hesitated for a moment. Years of being told not to talk to strangers had had their effect and he was reluctant to just do as this woman said. But, he did so anyway. She was an old woman. What could she do to him?

Jack walked up to the front porch, making his way through the weeds that had overgrown the path, and sat down in a chair next to the old woman. She was wearing an old calico print dress. She had thinning white hair--it sure wasn’t gray anymore--it was pure white. But, it was thin enough that her scalp showed through in places. The wrinkles on her face had wrinkles of their own.

“I’m Claire Barker,” the woman said, hacking after introducing herself, as though she was going to cough up a lung. Once the fit was past, she asked, “What’s your name?”

“Jack.”

“How old are you?”

“Twelve.”

“Ya new around here?”

“Yes. We just moved in yesterday.”

“Thirsty?”

“A little.”

“Why don’t you go on inside. I made some lemonade first thing this morning. I had a feeling I was going to have a young visitor today.”

“That’s OK, Ms. Barker. I don’t need anything.”

“What do you mean, you don’t need anything? You just said you were thirsty. Get on in there and get yourself a glass of lemonade and bring me out a glass, too. It’s going to be hot one today.”

Jack mumbled “OK” and got up from his chair. He crossed to the screen door and opened it, entering the house. The old screen door slammed shut--"whack”-- behind him, causing him to jump and look back behind him. The interior of the house looked a lot better than the outside. It was well-kept. Most of the furnishings looked like prized antiques. Everything was in its place.
Jack made his way through the front room to the kitchen. In the refrigerator was a freshly made pitcher of lemonade, just as the woman had said. And on the counter were two glasses.
Jack got some ice out of the freezer, filled the two glasses, and walked out to the porch. He handed a glass to the woman.

The woman took a sip of her lemonade, smacked her lips and said, “Aaah. Nothing better than an ice cold lemonade. Is there boy?”

“It’s very good. Thank you, Ms. Barker,”

“My, you’re a polite one. Your parents would be proud. No need to thank me. And you call me Claire. Nobody’s ever called me Ms. Barker. There’s no need to start that now.”

Jack and Claire sat there silently, drinking their lemonade. When Jack was finished he got up and said, “It’s time for me to go. Thanks again for the lemonade.”

“No problem, boy. Just remember. Anytime you want some more, there will always be a pitcher of fresh lemonade in the refrigerator,” said Claire. “Before you go, come on over here.”

Jack got up and walked over to Claire’s chair.

“Lean down, chil’, and look at me.”

Jack leaned down and looked at Claire’s face. He was drawn to her eyes. Claire’s eyes were brown and seemed bottomless. There was a depth to them that seemed unreal. As Jack leaned over and looked into Claire’s eyes, he felt like he had been swallowed up by them.

“Listen to me, lil chil’. If you ever need anything, you come see me. Claire Barker will take care of you. You hear me?”

Without really realizing it, Jack mumbled “uh-huh” in reply.

“You go on home now. I’m an old lady and I’m getting tired,” said Claire.

Jack stood back up and walked down the steps, listening to the boards creak as he did so. When he got to his bike, he turned and waved to Claire Barker. She waved back. As Jack got on his bike, Claire got up slowly from her rocking chair and made her way towards the screen door. Jack was startled once again by the sound of the screen door slamming shut as she went inside.

Jack rode towards home. Instead of turning in at the drive, he rode on for awhile, turning on
different roads, exploring the area. After about forty-five minutes of riding, he made his way back home. When he walked in, he was hot and sweaty.

“Mom, is there anything to drink?”

“Of course, Jack. While you were out, I made a fresh pitcher of lemonade,” replied his mom.

A few days later, in an effort to make Jack’s transition easier, Jack’s dad brought home a puppy. It was an eight-week-old golden retriever.

“Wow! Thanks, Dad,” said Jack, as the puppy bounded around him and over him, licking his face and nibbling at him with his sharp, little puppy teeth.

“What are you going to name him?” asked Jack’s mom.

“I think I’ll name him Sparky.”

The next few weeks Jack and Sparky were inseparable. They spent every waking moment with each other, and Sparky slept alongside Jack in Jack’s bed. So, they really spent every moment of every day together. Sparky became the friend Jack so desperately needed in his new home.

A couple of days after the 4th of July, Jack’s parents left Jack home by himself so they could run some errands. Jack and Sparky went out to the front of the house where they began to play a game of fetch. Jack throwing a ball and Sparky chasing it down, and then running around until Jack could coax the ball from him.

“Come on, Sparky, bring the ball here,” Jack called to Sparky.

Sparky, tiring of the game, finally brought the ball to Jack and dropped it at his feet and plopped down, panting heavily, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, with slobber dripping off of it.

“OK. Sparky one last time. Let’s go. You ready?” Jack said as he picked the ball up and threw it as far as he could towards the street.

Sparky got up and looked at Jack. If dogs could talk, there’s no doubt that Sparky would have pleaded with Jack, “No, not again. I’m wiped out.” But Sparky couldn’t talk and believing he had to get the ball, he took off.

Jack looked up to see where the ball had ended up—right in the middle of the road. That wasn’t so good. Sparky was speeding towards the ball, when Jack looked to the right and saw the mail truck coming down the road. Jack looked back to Sparky, and then back at the mail truck. And started running himself, “Sparky, Sparky! Stop Sparky! Come back Sparky!”

But puppies listen as well as four-year-old boys and Sparky kept on running. Jack turned his gaze towards the mail truck as it bore down on the ball and began to yell at the driver, “Stop! Stop! Stop! Don’t you see the dog?!”

Just as Sparky darted out onto the road to grab the ball, the driver of the mail truck slammed on the brakes. But, it was too late. The truck careened to the right and slid sideways down the road. Jack could see the left rear wheels pass between him and where Sparky was and heard a squeal.

Jack stopped running and stared at the spot where the ball had been until the truck had come to a halt, ending up about fifteen feet past that spot. Sparky was lying in the middle of the road, in a crumpled heap, the ball resting up against his head.

Jack walked slowly up to the dog. The mail carrier got out of his truck, taking the headphones off of his head. “Aw shit, kid, I didn’t see it,” the mailman said.

“Didn’t you hear me?” pleaded Jack.

“No. I couldn’t hear you. Man, I’m never driving with these things on again,” the mailman said, throwing the head phones to the side of the road.

Jack reached Sparky and got down on his knees next to the dog. It was obvious that Sparky was dead, there was no life left in his body. Jack scooped Sparky up, the tears beginning to stream down his face now. Jack walked slowly back to the porch of his house and set Sparky down at the top of the steps. He looked out and saw the mailman place some mail in their mailbox, get back in the mail truck and drive off. As the mailman drove off, Jack noticed him cast a glance his way and then turn back to the road.

Jack sat there, with his dog’s body next to him, wishing his parents were home. He so desperately needed somebody to be there with him. After a few minutes, Jack found himself walking towards his bicycle. He got on and rode out to the street, turning left, and heading towards the old woman’s house.

When Jack got to the house, the old woman was sitting in her chair, rocking slowly back and forth. Jack walked up to the porch and stood in front of Claire Barker.

“Look into my eyes, lil chil’,” she said to Jack.

Jack did and he realized that those bottomless brown orbs held the secret of life. That within those eyes existed the power to cause life and to end life. It was a power that Jack recognized could be used for both good and evil. What Jack saw in those eyes was the beginning and end of all things.

In the eyes of Claire Barker, Jack saw Sparky laying on the porch. As he watched, Sparky got shakily to his feet took a couple of steps and then sat down again. After a couple of seconds, he began to whine, and eventually lay down with his head on his front paws.

“Go to him, boy.”

Jack pulled himself away from the old woman’s gaze and ran down the weedy path to his bike. He got on and pedaled furiously towards home. There on the porch was Sparky, with his head on his paws. When Sparky saw Jack riding up the drive, the dog ran down the steps and greeted Jack, jumping and licking and nibbling, just like the day Jack got him.

Later that evening, after Jacks’ parents had returned home, and they were cleaning up after dinner, Jack asked his mom, “Who lives at that old house down the road?”

“Which house, Jack? The house at the end of the road?” asked Jack’s mom.

“Yeah.”

“Nobody does, Jack. Our realtor told us that nobody has lived there for years.”

It would be years before Jack returned to the Barker House, the house at the end of the road.