Tag: dialogue

Posted on

The Thing Is Also

I toyed with returning to “The Thing Is“. Tonight I’m giving it a shot.

Olsen got started quick tonight. I planned on a conversation that started with “I can’t believe the fucking Cowboys lost again.” or “What the fuck is up with T. Boone Pickins anyways?” or “I still can’t believe they tore down the Dairy Bar.” Instead I got this.

“We’re not driving all the way to Tulsa tonight, just Stillwater. Do you want to start with ‘the fucking thing’ and never get to ‘the thing’ or dive right in?” I asked.

Olsen scanned the roadway for cops. Seeing it all clear he lifted the beer from between his legs straight up to his lips like it was on a wire, took a swig, then ran it back down the wire to it’s hiding place. Somewhere outside a loud cricket Dopplered by the open pickup window like a siren. Olsen oh-shitted.

“You have got to be frickin’ kidding me.” I dropped off the gas pedal and drifted to the shoulder a little to really set the hook. Olsen whipped around full sideways to face me with one elbow on the dash and one on the back of the seat. His head flipping up and down the road he’d just cleared like a windshield wiper.

“Ah fuck. I’m sorry, dude. I don’t even see any lights. Where the hell is he?” I smile, hit the gas, and pull back into the slow lane. “You fucker! For that I just might talk about farts the whole way.”

I turn KXY the rest of the way down–it’s not like you could hear who they were playing anyway with this 2-70 air conditioning going. “Tell me why Karen left you.”

“Not why, dude. Where.”

Word count: 281
Day 222

Posted on

The Thing Is

“The dumbest fuckin’ thing is I should’ve known this was coming months ago.” The open window and the natural cadence of the truck’s engine didn’t drown the futility of Olsen’s hindsight. Mark Olsen’s parents gifted him with a common first name and a compelling to the point of use last name. When we were in the larger group, the one including Other Mark, I often forgot that Olsen could answer as well. Olsen adjusted the passenger’s mirror. Maybe he was looking for the older months before these newer ones.

Outside the truck, Oklahoma rolled by unabated. Red water creeks gouged deeply into the sandstone leaving green farmland so much growing room that farmers could afford to leave the Blackjack Oaks and thirsty Cottonwoods lining the creekways. South of us, hovering over north Oklahoma City bright purple clouds drowning in their own water-weight splashed onto Britton road. Maybe coming as far north as Hefner, but drying up abruptly well before getting to 122nd. Bone dry Stillwater lay a windy hour ahead.

I realized the 70 mile an hour barbwire fence had hypnotized Olsen into reticence. Or he purposefully required me to drag this inevitable conversation out of him.

“The dumbest fucking thing?” I asked.

“The thing is that it never occurred to me she’d leave me. I always thought I was the one putting up with her shit—staying with her. Not the other way ’round.” He punched open the glove box and slammed it shut. “But the dumbest fuckin’ thing—please don’t tell anyone else this—the dumbest fuckin’ thing is that I knew the minute I farted in bed and she didn’t react that it was over.”

Word count: 276
Day 212

Posted on

Channeling Rowling

“Thus far this semester we’ve focused on magic as it applies to an individual.  Starting with various incandescents and aurals.  Then blessings, charms, and something else.  And finally, last week, with shields.  For the remainder of the course we’ll be looking at group magic.”  The room thrummed with excited talk.  The course catalog abstract promised an introduction to group magic.  The instructor’s syllabus scheduled it for the second Monday of November–today.  And the assigned reading from this past Friday explored the historical aspects if not the practical application.  It wasn’t a surprise, yet friends raised eyebrows and excited faces to friends, acquaintances turned to each other to nod, and the loner in the back said…

“Sweet.  This class rocks.”

“Thank-you Mr. Samuels.  It is sweet.  And this class does, indeed, rock.”  While the easy laughter died down.  Prof. Nonchal arranged a number of objects in a row on his demonstration table.

“Miss Callendill.  Would you please?”  He beckoned the smallish blonde girl to come forward.  While she stowed her notebook and pen he clipped the [magicometer sensor] to his lapel and flipped it on.  It boomed an almost physical tremor through the class and then self-adjusted to inaudibility.  All eyes went to the overhead display to make sure it calibrated to neutral.

“Good?”  Prof. Nonchal waited for a reply, “Good?”  Nods and other positive responses came.  “Thank-you.  I’ll run a quick baseline.”

The [magicometer] spiked and faded to a flatline when the professor light a candle.  It wavered sinusoidally when he made a golf ball spin.

Word count: 253
Day 196