Short Story #2: Suburban Homiez - Jeremiah Palecek

All I know is those guys are gunna get it. They’ve got no idea. I’ve got two guns at my house. My Dad has them in his sock drawer because he’s a cop. He doesn’t come home until dinner and I get home at two-thirty everyday so there will be plenty of time. He keeps them loaded just in case and to show my mom who’s boss.

Those guys need to be shown who’s boss. I can’t wait to see their scared faces when I come back. Their eyes will be big and scared. Then they won’t be laughing so hard and they won’t feel so tough thinking they got away with what they did to me and Remy when I point a gun at their face.

Remy came home with me, crying some of the way. He didn’t talk but just mumbled something that I didn’t hear. Now he’s all jumpy and anxious like he has to pee or something. He needs to grow up and stop being such a wuss. This was his idea anyway, he brought it up and he wanted to do it so I don’t see why he looks so scared especially since his dad signed him up for football. I mean, football players are not wusses.

So we get to my house and we go through the back door. We kick off our shoes and I see my mom in her pajamas drinking coffee. My big Brother says nobody drinks coffee in the afternoon. He use to say “Mom, you’re not fooling anyone,” meaning she is drinking wine or something. I guess that’s why she’s so loopy all the time when I get home. She doesn’t even notice the scratches on my face. Maybe she does but doesn’t want to mention it, like how I never mention her bruises.

“Hiya honey,” she says smiling, looking past me, her eyes are tired like she was up all night.

“How was school?”

“Fine, Remy and I are going to play video games upstairs,” I say to her. I don’t even realize it until I’m walking up the stairs, but I lie to my mom a lot.

We get to my room and I shut the door and pull off my stupid tie. I take off my sweater and throw it on the floor. Remy just stands there like he’s frozen. I look in the mirror and touch the dried blood on my face and peel it off like a blister. I’m gunna get back at those guys. They’re gunna get it.

It feels like there’s boiling water in my stomach and it’s making me feel sick and my teeth are tightening so much it hurts my cheeks.

“Let’s just play video games,” says Remy as I’m looking in the mirror. “I don’t think this is a good idea.” He looks like he’s gunna cry. His bottom lip is shaking and his eyes look big and watery.

“It was your idea, you wimp,” I yell at him to scare him. If he cries, I’ll start laughing real hard. He’s such a baby, really, he is.

“I know but I was mad when I said it so I wasn’t thinking right and stuff.”

“You’re just gunna let them get away with it?”

I point at his swollen face, his cut lip.

“They’ve had it coming,” I say and I know I’m right.

I go to my closest and grab two sweatshirts. They’re close in color and one of them was my big Brother’s. I give mine to Remy and he holds it against him like a blanket.

“What’s this for?” he asks. Slipping my arms through, I put on my Brother’s sweatshirt. It’s too big for me but I like it because it smells like him.

“We have to look scary and disguise ourselves. Just like the gangs in the video games. If we show up in our uniforms, they’ll just laugh at us.”

He continues to stand there, holding the sweatshirt and looking away like he’s in a different world like my stupid mom.

“Stop being such a baby and put on the sweatshirt ” He puts it on and it’s a little big on him. I throw my hood up and look in the mirror, turning side to side. I look “bad ass”, my big Brother would say. My Dad would call me “hoodlum shit.” He would ruffle my hair and be proud of me because he told me if someone hits you, you hit them back because “you don’t start the fight, you have to end it.” Don’t be a wuss and put people where they belong. He once yelled at me because I didn’t push a kid who pushed me at a soccer game and then he hit me and told me not to be such a girl. I’m not a girl.

I go to my underwear drawer and pull out two bandanas I won at the school carnival last year for shooting some moving animals. It was really easy so I played twice and picked two bandanas because I thought my Brother would want one.

I give Remy mine and then put my Brother’s over my nose and mouth like in the movies. I look into the mirror and smile even though I can’t see my mouth. Those guys are gunna pee their pants. Remy shakes his head like a bobble-head and I want to punch him for being such a little girl.

“Put the bandana on. We gotta teach those guys a lesson for messing with us.”

He finally ties the bandana around his face and his scared little blue eyes are the only things I can see.

The guys we’re going to scare are going to be at the basketball courts. They’re there everyday. All we’re gunna do is walk up to them and show them who’s boss, I think. I don’t really want to shoot them. Even if we did though, my Dad’s a cop and he can help us out of trouble because he knows people.

I try and tell Remy that but he doesn’t listen because he’s too busy being a cry baby.

“This is a bad idea. I don’t want to do this.”

My mom calls from downstairs. “Honey!”

“What?” I call back.

“You want something to eat? Maybe something sweet?”

Before I can answer “No”, Remy pulls off his bandana and says “Yes please ” like an idiot. He tosses the bandana on the floor and runs out of the room like a dog is chasing him. I rip off my bandana and go downstairs to the kitchen to make sure he doesn’t squeal.

He’s already sitting at the table when I go into the kitchen, like a stupid puppy, ready for dinner. I sit next to him and pinch him to show him that I’m angry but my mom doesn’t see.

“Why are you two wearing those sweatshirts?” my mom asks, carrying cookies to the table.
My head hurts and it only makes it worse when she talks.

“Because we like them,” I say.

“Well isn’t that cute! ”

Remy takes a cookie and begins eating and I sit there not wanting to her my dumb mom talk.
“When I was a teen I use to wear these big flared jeans called bell-bottom jeans and I was hot stuff, let me tell you. I’d wear them every Friday and go out with all my girlfriends.” She laughs like a weasel that I want to strangle with my bare hands. Sometimes – not all the time.
“Your father use to think I was hot stuff too and then he knocked me up and my daddy,” she begins laughing like she’s telling a joke and she can’t spit out her words, “threatened him to marry me or else he was going to shoot him dead. Your own grandfather!” She laughs really loud and I make my hands into fists under the table so she won’t see.

Suddenly, Remy is laughing with her and my head can’t take it. Wet, soggy chunks of cookie fall on the table. If Remy starts choking on his cookie I won’t try and save him.

“So how’s your mom, Remy?” asks my mom. “She still playing golf in those tournaments?”

“She just had surgery so she’s taking a break,” he says.

“That’s too bad She’s such a good player. How’s your father?”

“Good.”

I wish she’d stop talking to him like she likes his parents.

“Come on Remy, let’s go upstairs and finish our game,” I say, standing up, pulling at his arm.

“Let him eat, honey. There’s no rush Besides he needs to gain some weight if he’s going to play football.” She winks at him like she does with the men she likes.

“He’s not hungry anymore, mom,” I say and I pull Remy up to his feet.

“Yes he is, let him eat.”

“Shut up,” I finally say. I drag Remy away from the table. We leave the kitchen as my mom starts yelling, her words start joining together to make big words that make no sense.

“You... youdon’t speakthatway toyour motheryou... goodfornothing...” but I can’t hear the rest because I slam my door. I wish I could make her not have a voice sometimes. My Brother once said she should have been born mute.

I put my bandana back on and give Remy his. My mother is still yelling something downstairs. I think she’s crying or laughing so I smile underneath my bandana. I give Remy a gang symbol with my hands and he copies me but he does it wrong so I roll my eyes at him.

“Let’s just go to my Dad’s room,” I say to him. When I open the door I think I hear my mom crying but she’s being too quiet. We walk down the hall to my father’s room where my mom has thrown all her underwear and junk on the floor. I remember when she use to be clean before she was hired and fired from her job. She use to stay home and keep the house clean and she was good at it and I liked her like that because she’d always have a sandwich for me when I came home and she’d help me with my homework. Now she doesn’t understand it and doesn’t make good sandwiches anymore.

She use to wear lipstick and tickle me and tuck me in and then she got a job and was never home to do that stuff but she would still play with me sometimes. There use to be flowers outside and all the neighbors would say how pretty they were. After her job she had to have less flowers and she could only water them on weekends so I watered them sometimes with my Brother. And then she lost her job and started being useless, says my Dad. Now she doesn’t clean the house or water the plants and she doesn’t shower or wear lipstick and I don’t like her anymore.

“Please, let's just stay home,” Remy is saying behind me, nearly crying again. “This isn’t fun anymore.”

“We’re aren’t gunna shoot them you idiot! We’re just gunna scare them. We can’t get in trouble for trying to scare them. Don’t you know anything?”

“We can get in trouble for having a gun. Dan Boots brought in a knife once and got expelled and a knife doesn’t even shoot bullets!”

“Yeah but we aren’t going into school with the guns so it doesn’t matter. And we’re disguising ourselves. Just shut up already.”

I walk over to my Dad’s bureau. There’s a family portrait on it and some letters. I know exactly where his sock drawer is and where the guns are. My Brother showed them to me once when I was little. I asked him why Dad kept guns in his sock drawer and he said “To show mom who’s boss”. And then one time I checked to see if they were still there and my Dad caught me looking and yelled at me. When I asked him why they were there and he told me “Just in case somebody tried to break into our house.”

I touch the handle of the drawer and my hand shakes and I tell myself in my mind to stop because a real man wouldn’t be scared to hold a gun. I open up the sock drawer and at first I don’t see them but I dig underneath and I feel them. They’re really cold.

I reach in with both my hands. They’re still shaking and I tell myself I am a man like my Dad who holds a gun everyday and shoots bad guys everyday. They come out from underneath the socks like a person coming up for air from being under water. They’re really heavy and black like coal. I hold them both in my hands and look at them.

Those guys are gunna pee themselves! They’ll say sorry and feel bad for what they did and I’m going to laugh at them as they run away, begging me not to shoot. It’ll be even better if they start crying and get down on their knees.

Remy hasn’t said anything and is just looking at them and looking up at me. I feel so much taller now, like I have muscles like my Dad and a moustache. Remy’s blue eyes look so big like the moon.

I hold out the gun in my left hand to him and he doesn’t move for a long time. But eventually he walks over and takes it with one hand but then two because its so heavy. I hold it like you’re suppose to but he’s holding it like a kitten.

“So we’re gunna go back to the basketball courts,” I start saying to Remy, “and we’ll walk up to them with the guns in our pocket so at first they don’t see them.” I put the gun in my sweatshirt to show him. His bright blue eyes follow me. I walk to the other end of the room and then turn around and slowly start walking to him. “And we’re just gunna walk up to them slowly so they’ll see us.” I make gang symbols with my hands. My heart is beating so fast and my hands are getting sweaty. I can see it now, the green court and the hoops so tall like trees and I hear the sound of their basketball echoing and the wind is hitting my face. I feel so tall. “And we’ll get over to them and... and we’ll tell them to beg for their lives and scare them.” My eyes are moving around the room so much that I almost don’t see that Remy is crying and looking at the gun in his hands. “And then, when they start thinking they’re tough and when they start laughing we’ll pull out our guns,” I pull the gun out of my pocket. “And we’ll aim at them.” I point the gun at Remy’s crying blue eyes. “And we’ll...”

Remy’s eyes disappear and it gets really quiet. My ears hurt and my head is like I’m on one of those rides at the carnival that spins and spins and spins. The gun has gotten warm in my hands now and I drop it on the ground because its too heavy and my wrist hurts. I wasn’t going to shoot them, I said, I’m just going to scare them, that’s all, to teach them a lesson and show them who’s boss because they hurt me and Remy.

I hear my mom’s footsteps going up the stairs but she is tripping all over the place. She comes into my Dad’s room and starts screaming really loud like she’s in some sort of horror movie and I cover my ears so my head won’t hurt more than it already does. I see her face and it looks stretched out and wrinkly and she grabs hold of the wall like she is trying to keep herself standing up.

I still can hear her screaming and crying through my hands so I drop to my knees, holding my head down at my knees. I see the dust and hair in the carpet that my mom hasn’t vacuumed in a long time. There’s a fingernail too.

If I just scare them then I won’t be in trouble. They’ll say sorry and run away and I’ll be happy again. And then I can tell my Dad about it and he’ll laugh and put his hand on my head and tell me I did a good job. And my Brother will tell me that I’m bad ass and that he wouldn’t want to mess with me.

Maybe I’ll be a cop like my Dad. That’ll be awesome. I’ll get to hold a gun all the time and feel strong and tall and grow a mustache and arm hair. I’ll wear those uniforms instead of my school one and have a really bright badge that I’d polish to keep clean. I’ll arrest criminals and kill bad guys and make them wish they never messed with me. And I’ll work with my Dad a lot and we’ll drive a cop car together.

My mom is screaming something so I uncover my ears and I hear the word “God!” I look up to the doorway but I can’t see her because two feet with black socks on them are in my way. I sit up and look down and see Remy in my sweatshirt and his blue eyes are looking at the ceiling and his arms are stretched out on either side. I notice there’s a lot of red on his face coming from a hole above his blue eyes and the red has spread out on the carpet. It’s staining the carpet. Isn’t this when the body disappears and the life bar goes away?

I’m crying now like a little girl, with my shoulders shaking up and down and the ride is spinning faster and I just want to get off because this isn’t fun anymore. I don’t care if I look stupid, or wimpy, or like a cry-baby. I feel like I’m going to throw up. What happened to him? I curl up now like a little kitten. I see both lumps of coal lying on the floor and slowly the blood is making its way toward me like a snake, cleaning out the dust, hair, and fingernails in the carpet. But my sobs are dying down because I just remembered that my Dad is a cop and he’ll get me out of trouble so there’s nothing to worry about and it’ll be okay because it was just an accident and I didn’t mean it.

Critique #2: Neighborhood and Industry - Michael Allen

If one could see the history of the development of a city, one would learn that all cities were once suburbs, and all suburbs were once small towns. But how do these changes come about. What moves a town to become a suburb? What effects a suburb to turn into a city? Towns obviously grow in population to become suburbs. Industry and construction create growth in suburbs so that eventually they become cities. In Michael Allen’s “Neighborhood and Industry” the metamorphosis of a suburb into a city is depicted, however, the negative effects of this change take emphasis in the image.

Allen uses a handful of lackluster colors in his painting to create a melancholy mood. They correspond to the pollution coming out from the industry, which is nearly invisible due to the smoke expectorating from itself. Even the sun is barely visible in the sky. Allen uses a long, gray road to lead the viewer deep into the painting’s background of an industrial site. The road seems to represent the unfortunate and devastating pathway of suburbs turning into cities, and the increase of pollution.

The focal point seems to be the industry in the background. The one point perspective takes the viewer’s eye to the horizon line where the industry rests. The foreground of the painting is mostly the dark road (which is noticeably lighter in the neighborhood section of the painting). The homes of the suburb peak through at the sides of the piece of work but are not fully seen, almost as if they are slowly being pushed out of the image due to the growing industry, looming in the back.

The only bright color that contrasts with the dull painting comes from the stop sign, centered in the painting. If it were not for its size, it would appear as the focal point. It appears as though Allen is telling viewers to stop, like a warning. Stop industrializing, stop polluting suburbs. Do not stretched this industry past this point. Michael Allen’s message looms in the dull paint and the melancholy tone of his painting, “Neighborhood and Industry”.

Concept Short Story: #1

Well, I suppose it’s a good thing he’s wearing a suit. Thank goodness I ironed it for him - it makes him look fitted, put together. But the way he hunches over, disappearing into the headlines as if I’m not sitting right here. If it was any regular day, I wouldn’t care but today I do. I just go about flattening my dress, flattening the hills and mountain ranges, adjusting the sleeves. How I wish I could still hike up that mountain where we use to camp. But my legs can’t take it. My papery hands just rest in my lap. Has he spoken a word to me this morning?

“Corporate bastards,” he mutters, flipping to the next page of his own Bible, his face unseen, the ink smudging on his wrinkled fingers. The black and white photographs flutter like doves - or crows.

“Language,” I say. Goodness, I hate it when he swears. Why hasn’t he said anything to me? Is this some sort of trick? I will wait patiently, like a cat. There’s no rush, the whole day is lying ahead. “Are you sure you don’t want any breakfast?”

“No, there’s no time. I’ve got a viewing at ten,” he says.

“Will you be home for lunch?”

“No I’ve got to pick up a body at the morgue.”

“When will you eat?”

“I’ll pick up something.”

“Well don’t get that McDonalds rubbish. You know the heartburn it gives you.”

He huffs, turns the page. I personify a statue as if I’m waiting for birds to rest on me. Doves and crows rest on opposite sides. I don’t look at him now and his mangled sitting posture. The way he turned the chair toward the sun, the very chair I fixed yesterday. I’ll have to fix it again when he leaves and move it back to the original position.

“Will you be home for dinner at least?”

“I’ll try.”

“Well, I hope you will try very hard.”

“Why? Are you cooking something special?” Something special? WHY? Sometimes he gets me so angry. How can he...Why wouldn’t I make something special? What kind of question is that?

“Of course I am,” I respond, displaying my far from menacing anger. “Why wouldn’t I?”
He shrugs, flips the page...as if that’s a response. He has no right to be so rude.

“Well, I want you home for dinner and you better be here because I said so,” I blurt with courage, with authority. I am a queen on a throne, covered in jewels and fur.

“Okay,” he says. Just okay, nothing else. There isn’t any expression behind his words. There isn’t an argument. I’d rather him bicker and moan. He’s so undemonstrative. So boring and uncaring.

“Just because you work with dead people doesn’t mean you have to be so unemotional ” I storm out, leaving the living room. I go into the kitchen and put my hands on the counter as if that took a lot out of me. I pretend I am cleaning but I’m just moving things out of place and then putting them back.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything and I feel foolish for yelling.

He calls to me, “If you’re really that angry because I’m not eating breakfast, you can fix me a cup of coffee.” He pauses. “If you want. Okay?”

Okay. I despise that word. Where does that derive from anyway? O-K. What country started that? Whoever created it was clearly a man without an impressive variety of vocabulary to express his emotions. ‘Okay, that’s fine.’ ‘Okay, I’ll go to dinner.’ OKAY. It’s so indecisive, so on-the-fence, and I hate it.

“It’ll be done in a couple of minutes. Are you sure you have time?” I say this sounding genuine but I mean to be smart. He knows it, I’m just playing his game. But I put in the coffee filter, a couple cups of ground coffee, water. And then I hit power. I get out a thermos cup with its lid and I wait. I breathe in and out, count to ten, do all those relaxing steps, relaxing my weathered muscles.

There is an ant crawling across the cupboard. I take a napkin, bunch it up and break him. I feel the quiet crunch. I ball up the napkin, toss it in the trash, and call to the dead, impassive man in my living room.

“Cream and sugar?”

“Yes please. Extra sugar.”

“Not good for you,” I mutter but loud enough for him to hear. I can picture him, silently mimicking me. Breathe. One, two, three...why today? Of all days for him to be difficult – he picked today. What should I do about this? It’ll be on my mind for the rest of the day. I can’t just sit around. I know my role has been that, but it shouldn’t be today. I won’t tolerate this everyday for the rest of my life. When did we become so routinely? When did his emotions leave and flutter out the window and into the obliterating sun? Sometimes I think he did it with the intent to erase what he had. He cupped the dove in his hands like a magician and then went to the window. He released it. There it went.

And this crow, perched on our porch, is settling in. Its moans fill my ears, and its dirty feet step on my flowers. He’s so selfish, so centered around himself. He’s claimed his territory and will be here for too long. Much too long for me to handle his whiny calls.

He is sitting still, reading, reading. He doesn’t understand, he won’t ever. He won’t apologize. What am I to him now? Is my former self just a photograph on a bureau? Is my smile not the smile he looked for? When was the last time he kissed me and felt it? When was the last time he touched me? He touches more dead bodies than he does me. He disgusts me. Damn him.

Stop. Stop it.

This isn’t fair. I won’t live like this. I refuse. I am a queen and he is a peasant. If I was still young, I would make love to another person. I would sneak around, call them, dream about running away with them. But I am old and there is no point. But he will pay. Today will be a different day. It needs to be.

I could poison him. I could put something in his coffee. I have this power over him. I deserve justice. He deserves it. And its not like he enjoys living anymore. He’s so miserable. He sees death everyday, people crying. It wears him down. It’s a solution, that’s all. I’m technically doing him a favor. What do I have in the cupboard?

I open up the cupboard and look around. Wait, what am I doing? Am I going mentally insane? I just contemplated killing him. I justified it. Is this how murderers think? Close the cupboard you crazy.

I close the cupboard and the coffee is almost done. I put my hands on the counter again. I give my legs a rest.

What would happen if I poisoned him? Could it be traced back to me? What would my motives be? Surely, they just can’t assume I did it without a motive. But nowadays they have all this technology. They can find finger prints and they can read minds with machines. I couldn’t lie my way out of a lie detector. But they need a warrant I believe. Would they try? I’m innocent looking. I could plea insanity. Am I insane?

Is this what all minds eventually become? What about lives? We slowly deteriorate, decompose, fall through the cracks and lay there, and just wait there. Did we reach the end point? Did we find the meaning of life and learn all our lessons? The unhappiness is inevitable. There is nothing more for us to do, for us to see. My eyes are so heavy. That’s it, that’s all, the cup is empty and has slowly been emptying.

I reopen the cupboard and my papery hands are shaking. The coffee finishes. It smells like sunlight.

It’s poured into the thermos. I stir it all in, all together. I close my eyes, rest my eyes. Lord, what is wrong with me? Please give me strength.

There is a dove outside my window.