Showing posts with label Chris Sharp. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Chris Sharp. Show all posts
The Bereaved
By Chris Sharp
Brady was a widower for nearly thirty years. For each of those years, he dreamt he attended a lavish anniversary party with an empty chair at his side. He didn’t have to tell anyone the person the chair represented.
He had been married to Maureen for over five years, each month of those years finally representing precious old art. It still didn’t make sense to him that all of this art in a couple’s lives could be destroyed in less than an hour at a stupid traffic accident.
He would stare at Maureen’s dinner chair for prolonged lengths of his widower’s time. He attempted to weigh the larger contents of his warm and orderly times with Maureen and the terrible cold hour of the chaotic accident ending everything. Minutes before the accident, he was having dinner with her over one of their candle-lit Friday night events in their then wonderful dining room.
They talked about what would qualify as the wittiest Hollywood movie of all time. After a lot of debating and laughing, they agreed the winner would have to be a Cary Grant movie. But Maureen insisted the funniest had to be “Bringing up Baby.” With what he believed summoned as great a defense, he championed “Arsenic and Old Lace.”
It was a stalemate, her words against his. He wanted to drive to the one rental store likely to have both films in stock. He would play them that night on their TV, one after the other. Then they would see what movie drew the most laughs, counting even the quietest giggle on a tally sheet.
“You’ve been drinking,” she said.
“I can drive when I’m only a bit tipsy,” he assured her. “I’ve had five little gin-and-tonics with solid food.”
“You are clearly drunk and I don’t feel like going out tonight just for a couple of movies.”
“No, no. Tonight we do the wittiest-movie contest. Tonight.”
“Brady, I’m not going to let you do it.”
“Madame. We have to do this,” he told her, laughing and finishing his last gin-and-tonic. “We have to finish this so we can sleep tonight.”
Years later, those words rang out to him. At the huge traffic accident a little after Brady drove Maureen in his death car, she would never be back to answer any of those jokes and questions again unless --he told himself -- he could somehow join with her in the life after death.
His crazy dreams started almost immediately after the deadly car accident.
Always in these dreams, there would be eight other guests in a family anniversary party. Two couples would sit on each long side of an expandable table. At this hierarchal table, the Brady’s parents would sit at the head. Brady and his precious chair that he would carry in and out of each dream would stay at the foot.
There were many chances for Brady to get to know far-flung relatives at these dinners, as the extended family list was lengthy. The maximum invited each year was twelve guests, as that number was the most the dining room table could seat. Maureen – represented by her inevitable empty hair –was counted as one of the guests.
The lavish four-course food was served by employees of a catering restaurant. Brady – the only non-partnered person there – chose in each repeating dream to bury himself in the food and the alcohol.
The presence of the empty chair would always come up in the talk, because it was never to go unnoticed. At every party the other guests acted as if it would be rude to ignore Maureen’s representation in her wide Chippendale chair.
Brady’s new life – if he could call it “life” – had settled into this frenzied schedule of dreams. He tried to reconcile himself to accountability that this kind of aftermath was deserving of any idiot drunk driver. But accountability was something he learned when everything still made sense. With Maureen no longer with him, he could not count on even the most solid-looking thing staying intact.
In his dreams, the most repeating guest at these parties was an old Yankee who from his claims needed to be nearly two hundred years old. This old soldier always irritated Brady, especially when he talked about Ulysses S. Grant as the best up and coming general in America’s present army command.
“You will be fine,” offered Brady’s mother, who was always there to look after her son just as she had when he was a child. “You need to be strong, Brady. What if Maureen was to appear in that chair this very minute?”
“What my wife did, after I was shot,” said the old Yankee. This man would always try to dominate these dinners with his account of being shot in his head while he was at breakfast being ambushed at the Battle of Shiloh. “Only when you’re thinking your wife will never join you, she’ll appear right in the chair next to you.”
“You think Maureen would prefer to be with me today,” asked Brady, “sharing this dream with me at this very moment?”
“No,” and “not so” and “not now,” said the party in a cacophony of responses. They were laughing as usual at bad jokes; even at the subject of certain departed couples they knew who would be bound to avoid each other on their way to individual lives after death.
The old Yankee gave Brady a solemn look before he asked his question: “Meanwhile, what have you been doing with yourself, young man?”
Brady allowed two tears on his cheeks to answer the question. The tear on his left cheek had stopped dead, reminding Brady of the instant he saw his own face on an expired drunk driver.
Then the sliding tear on his right cheek made him think of Maureen still exercising daily and eating the healthiest foods so her mortal existence could go on as long as humanly possible.
- - -
Chris Sharp has several stories in the archives of Weird Year, Yesteryear Fiction, and Linguistic Erosion. His most-hit stories on the Internet can be found in Google and Bing under “Short Stories by Chris Sharp.”
By Chris Sharp
Brady was a widower for nearly thirty years. For each of those years, he dreamt he attended a lavish anniversary party with an empty chair at his side. He didn’t have to tell anyone the person the chair represented.
He had been married to Maureen for over five years, each month of those years finally representing precious old art. It still didn’t make sense to him that all of this art in a couple’s lives could be destroyed in less than an hour at a stupid traffic accident.
He would stare at Maureen’s dinner chair for prolonged lengths of his widower’s time. He attempted to weigh the larger contents of his warm and orderly times with Maureen and the terrible cold hour of the chaotic accident ending everything. Minutes before the accident, he was having dinner with her over one of their candle-lit Friday night events in their then wonderful dining room.
They talked about what would qualify as the wittiest Hollywood movie of all time. After a lot of debating and laughing, they agreed the winner would have to be a Cary Grant movie. But Maureen insisted the funniest had to be “Bringing up Baby.” With what he believed summoned as great a defense, he championed “Arsenic and Old Lace.”
It was a stalemate, her words against his. He wanted to drive to the one rental store likely to have both films in stock. He would play them that night on their TV, one after the other. Then they would see what movie drew the most laughs, counting even the quietest giggle on a tally sheet.
“You’ve been drinking,” she said.
“I can drive when I’m only a bit tipsy,” he assured her. “I’ve had five little gin-and-tonics with solid food.”
“You are clearly drunk and I don’t feel like going out tonight just for a couple of movies.”
“No, no. Tonight we do the wittiest-movie contest. Tonight.”
“Brady, I’m not going to let you do it.”
“Madame. We have to do this,” he told her, laughing and finishing his last gin-and-tonic. “We have to finish this so we can sleep tonight.”
Years later, those words rang out to him. At the huge traffic accident a little after Brady drove Maureen in his death car, she would never be back to answer any of those jokes and questions again unless --he told himself -- he could somehow join with her in the life after death.
His crazy dreams started almost immediately after the deadly car accident.
Always in these dreams, there would be eight other guests in a family anniversary party. Two couples would sit on each long side of an expandable table. At this hierarchal table, the Brady’s parents would sit at the head. Brady and his precious chair that he would carry in and out of each dream would stay at the foot.
There were many chances for Brady to get to know far-flung relatives at these dinners, as the extended family list was lengthy. The maximum invited each year was twelve guests, as that number was the most the dining room table could seat. Maureen – represented by her inevitable empty hair –was counted as one of the guests.
The lavish four-course food was served by employees of a catering restaurant. Brady – the only non-partnered person there – chose in each repeating dream to bury himself in the food and the alcohol.
The presence of the empty chair would always come up in the talk, because it was never to go unnoticed. At every party the other guests acted as if it would be rude to ignore Maureen’s representation in her wide Chippendale chair.
Brady’s new life – if he could call it “life” – had settled into this frenzied schedule of dreams. He tried to reconcile himself to accountability that this kind of aftermath was deserving of any idiot drunk driver. But accountability was something he learned when everything still made sense. With Maureen no longer with him, he could not count on even the most solid-looking thing staying intact.
In his dreams, the most repeating guest at these parties was an old Yankee who from his claims needed to be nearly two hundred years old. This old soldier always irritated Brady, especially when he talked about Ulysses S. Grant as the best up and coming general in America’s present army command.
“You will be fine,” offered Brady’s mother, who was always there to look after her son just as she had when he was a child. “You need to be strong, Brady. What if Maureen was to appear in that chair this very minute?”
“What my wife did, after I was shot,” said the old Yankee. This man would always try to dominate these dinners with his account of being shot in his head while he was at breakfast being ambushed at the Battle of Shiloh. “Only when you’re thinking your wife will never join you, she’ll appear right in the chair next to you.”
“You think Maureen would prefer to be with me today,” asked Brady, “sharing this dream with me at this very moment?”
“No,” and “not so” and “not now,” said the party in a cacophony of responses. They were laughing as usual at bad jokes; even at the subject of certain departed couples they knew who would be bound to avoid each other on their way to individual lives after death.
The old Yankee gave Brady a solemn look before he asked his question: “Meanwhile, what have you been doing with yourself, young man?”
Brady allowed two tears on his cheeks to answer the question. The tear on his left cheek had stopped dead, reminding Brady of the instant he saw his own face on an expired drunk driver.
Then the sliding tear on his right cheek made him think of Maureen still exercising daily and eating the healthiest foods so her mortal existence could go on as long as humanly possible.
- - -
Chris Sharp has several stories in the archives of Weird Year, Yesteryear Fiction, and Linguistic Erosion. His most-hit stories on the Internet can be found in Google and Bing under “Short Stories by Chris Sharp.”
A Memory of Death
By Chris Sharp
In the very early days of the war, before even a shot was heard, we young soldiers had no idea what Death looked like. We had no inkling that Death had trained with us, traveled with us, bathed and ate with us. We had not even thought about anything like that. We were then still joking around like we were in a kind of school together.
In our regiment, it took almost a month for Death to make its presence known. His presence took us by surprise at our very initiation into combat, the first battle of Ypres as soon as we had stepped into Belgium.
What can I say about Ypres today, but that it was a huge crazy soccer game, where tens of thousands of young and inexperienced troops ran around a big playing field, getting killed and being killed with whatever bullet or bayonet was available. It was truly “the Massacre of the Innocents,” as the pundits described it later. Yes, it was that kind of war.
The night after the battle, I had a nightmare that replayed the whole bloody scene. In the dream, we were all running around the field once again, trying to play some new murderous version of soccer. This time Death was very visible and personified while running with us. In this dream, we were all gray, while Death was brown.
In my trench the next day, I spotted a soldier among us who looked much like the Death that was in my dream. It was an older soldier pressing a conversation with four younger men in a group. The effects of my nightmare pushed me closer to hear what Death was saying.
“And who are you?” Death asked.
“And how old are you?
“And what city or town or village did you come from?”
Then he looked at me, and I turned away.
I didn’t see Death again for a while but within a month, all of the four younger soldiers of that group were dead.
Then a few of months later I saw him again, talking to another group of younger soldiers.
“Who is that lance corporal?” I asked a friend of mine.
“A messenger,” my friend told me. “You’re not the first to ask that question. Do you see he’s wearing an Iron Cross? He found an officer, our own Lt. Gutterman, to recommend him for our highest medal to carry some of our position’s messages in the trickiest terrain. On the other hand, this fellow is very tricky himself. Being a messenger, he’s missing all the direct combat we’re getting, while his job has made him the pet of our key officers.”
“You sound you don’t like him.”
“I don’t know the man. But he looks like someone no one would want to know. Look at his face.”
Then a little later, I got a better look at the man himself. One day he stepped right in front of me.
“Hail,” he said.
The first thing I saw was his eyes, if you would call them eyes. They actually looked like some kind of blue bulbs. They were eyes that you couldn’t enter, guarded by a glassy film. They were inhuman eyes, and his questions reached around me to make me his entity.
“And who are you?” he asked.
“I’m a soldier who has to be here, just like you.”
“And how old are you?”
He smiled when I didn’t answer, showing bad teeth that were not only rotted, but somehow they seemed like beings he had abandoned.
“And what city or town or village are you from?” he asked.
I coughed and used the distraction to simply walk away from him. As I looked back, I saw him turn even paler than he already was.
That was about fifteen years ago, during which I had avoided Death so successfully I began to think I had gotten rid of him.
But today, in Nuremberg, I saw him again.
It was at one of the huge political rallies our nation is now producing, seemingly to kick some life into us again after we had ignominiously lost the war. I was able to get a good start so that I got one of the best seats that a war veteran was allowed. In fact, my seat was so choice that when our new leader stepped to the podium, he walked right by me.
The first thing I noticed was his walk proceeded so slowly, even though our leader is only in his early forties. Then as he stepped by me I saw his face, which I had often seen in pictures, but in full life, he face is very different. It is the face of Death.
He no longer wears that brush mustache he sported in the war. Now the mustache has turned into the square block under his wide nose that has become a trademark of his national presence. But he still prominently wears on his brown uniform the Iron Cross he had connived to earn so undeservedly from the officers he served and yet manipulated.
Then when he took his place on the podium, he stood still and silent for what seemed like an eternity. At last he began his much-awaited speech slowly, in a low voice with his thick Austrian accent. Then he turned up the volume.
Everyone in Germany is afraid of him now. They give him everything he asks of them. And I am probably more afraid of him than anyone. I am so afraid that I will never reveal my real fears anywhere outside this journal that I am now writing, and then I will soon hide this journal carefully. Because today, at the podium, I saw Death give everyone at this Nuremberg rally the look he once gave me in the middle of a war that was totally needless and insane. The look asks:
“And who are you?”
- - -
Chris Sharp has had several flash-fiction stories published in Daily Love, Linguistic Implosion, Weirdyear and Yesteryear Fiction. His book, “Dangerous Learning: The New Schooling in California” is being distributed by Barnes & Noble and Amazon.
By Chris Sharp
In the very early days of the war, before even a shot was heard, we young soldiers had no idea what Death looked like. We had no inkling that Death had trained with us, traveled with us, bathed and ate with us. We had not even thought about anything like that. We were then still joking around like we were in a kind of school together.
In our regiment, it took almost a month for Death to make its presence known. His presence took us by surprise at our very initiation into combat, the first battle of Ypres as soon as we had stepped into Belgium.
What can I say about Ypres today, but that it was a huge crazy soccer game, where tens of thousands of young and inexperienced troops ran around a big playing field, getting killed and being killed with whatever bullet or bayonet was available. It was truly “the Massacre of the Innocents,” as the pundits described it later. Yes, it was that kind of war.
The night after the battle, I had a nightmare that replayed the whole bloody scene. In the dream, we were all running around the field once again, trying to play some new murderous version of soccer. This time Death was very visible and personified while running with us. In this dream, we were all gray, while Death was brown.
In my trench the next day, I spotted a soldier among us who looked much like the Death that was in my dream. It was an older soldier pressing a conversation with four younger men in a group. The effects of my nightmare pushed me closer to hear what Death was saying.
“And who are you?” Death asked.
“And how old are you?
“And what city or town or village did you come from?”
Then he looked at me, and I turned away.
I didn’t see Death again for a while but within a month, all of the four younger soldiers of that group were dead.
Then a few of months later I saw him again, talking to another group of younger soldiers.
“Who is that lance corporal?” I asked a friend of mine.
“A messenger,” my friend told me. “You’re not the first to ask that question. Do you see he’s wearing an Iron Cross? He found an officer, our own Lt. Gutterman, to recommend him for our highest medal to carry some of our position’s messages in the trickiest terrain. On the other hand, this fellow is very tricky himself. Being a messenger, he’s missing all the direct combat we’re getting, while his job has made him the pet of our key officers.”
“You sound you don’t like him.”
“I don’t know the man. But he looks like someone no one would want to know. Look at his face.”
Then a little later, I got a better look at the man himself. One day he stepped right in front of me.
“Hail,” he said.
The first thing I saw was his eyes, if you would call them eyes. They actually looked like some kind of blue bulbs. They were eyes that you couldn’t enter, guarded by a glassy film. They were inhuman eyes, and his questions reached around me to make me his entity.
“And who are you?” he asked.
“I’m a soldier who has to be here, just like you.”
“And how old are you?”
He smiled when I didn’t answer, showing bad teeth that were not only rotted, but somehow they seemed like beings he had abandoned.
“And what city or town or village are you from?” he asked.
I coughed and used the distraction to simply walk away from him. As I looked back, I saw him turn even paler than he already was.
That was about fifteen years ago, during which I had avoided Death so successfully I began to think I had gotten rid of him.
But today, in Nuremberg, I saw him again.
It was at one of the huge political rallies our nation is now producing, seemingly to kick some life into us again after we had ignominiously lost the war. I was able to get a good start so that I got one of the best seats that a war veteran was allowed. In fact, my seat was so choice that when our new leader stepped to the podium, he walked right by me.
The first thing I noticed was his walk proceeded so slowly, even though our leader is only in his early forties. Then as he stepped by me I saw his face, which I had often seen in pictures, but in full life, he face is very different. It is the face of Death.
He no longer wears that brush mustache he sported in the war. Now the mustache has turned into the square block under his wide nose that has become a trademark of his national presence. But he still prominently wears on his brown uniform the Iron Cross he had connived to earn so undeservedly from the officers he served and yet manipulated.
Then when he took his place on the podium, he stood still and silent for what seemed like an eternity. At last he began his much-awaited speech slowly, in a low voice with his thick Austrian accent. Then he turned up the volume.
Everyone in Germany is afraid of him now. They give him everything he asks of them. And I am probably more afraid of him than anyone. I am so afraid that I will never reveal my real fears anywhere outside this journal that I am now writing, and then I will soon hide this journal carefully. Because today, at the podium, I saw Death give everyone at this Nuremberg rally the look he once gave me in the middle of a war that was totally needless and insane. The look asks:
“And who are you?”
- - -
Chris Sharp has had several flash-fiction stories published in Daily Love, Linguistic Implosion, Weirdyear and Yesteryear Fiction. His book, “Dangerous Learning: The New Schooling in California” is being distributed by Barnes & Noble and Amazon.
Volunteer Deputy Taylor
By Chris Sharp
There was something so chunky and nice about the mayor’s jowls that it took all of Volunteer Deputy Taylor’s will power and frowning to resist pulling them out further with his fingernails.
“You see, Mayor, these boys are my boys,” said the mayor to Elk City’s previous mayor. Everyone was celebrating and smiling over the city’s new building. Volunteer Deputy Taylor was chosen to stand to the immediate left of the mayor, an honor he held over three younger volunteer deputies.
After some minutes of handshaking and political groveling, Volunteer Deputy Taylor felt he had done all he could to stifle the impulse to pull out the mayor’s left jowl. He finally rerouted these rebel instincts with a statement that simply said the rebel words “yada, yada, yada.”
The mayor took the rebuke in stride. “Yes sir, it’s a fine day. A fine day for everyone in Elk City.”
As soon as the ceremony ended, Volunteer Deputy Taylor jumped onto his little Honda motorcycle and flew to the restaurant named Group Therapy.
The place had been founded by a former psychologist who had at one time let his license be taken away and had even allowed himself to be clamped into a year of prison.
These days, the former psychologist led his lunches and dinners as a master of an entertainment known as “group therapy.”
“Once again, we are happy to have Volunteer Deputy Taylor among us,” said the ex-psychologist. The motorcycle helmet and the boots brought the usual hand-clapping. “Volunteer Deputy Taylor, what is the latest on Tourette syndrome?”
“Sir, I had a strong direction today to pull off the left side of the mayor’s face, but I redirected it to just saying ‘yada, yada, yada.’”
After the lunch, Volunteer Deputy Taylor zoomed his motorcycle to the high school where he was volunteer for the rest of the day.
“Volunteer Deputy Taylor, it’s great to have you with us in the afternoon. No one understands our perennial troublemakers like you.”
The principle was so totally tucked in that Volunteer Deputy Taylor had to fight the urge to reach out and pull out his shirt on every side. Again he redirected his urge to saying “yada, yada, yada.”
“Yes, it’s basically another ‘yada, yada, yada’ day,” said the principal to Volunteer Deputy Tayor.
At Volunteer Deputy Taylor’s house, his wife greeted him with the words “No dinner tonight – too sad.” – written backwards on her forehead with the charcoal she sometimes used in her job as a house painter. He circumvented her by making his own dinner.
When he went into the bedroom she asked him to lie on the floor.
“There are demons under the bed doing all this stuff to mess up our heads. Not just our heads, but the mental state of every painter and peace officer in these United States. Could you just look for them, Dan?”
“Again, Danielle?”
“Please. At least until they get tired of us decent-living Americans and go away, go away and let us alone at last.”
He went low on the floor to find demons – any demons – under the bed. But again, the demons were brilliantly hidden. “Brilliantly,” Volunteer Deputy Taylor said to himself.
He had to close his eyes to rest up and just hope the demons would be satisfied in his nightmares where they were supposed to be, where they would never again keep his poor Danielle up so late into the nights.
- - -
Chris Sharp has had short fiction in Aphelion@webzine.com, Kalkion.com, West
Ranch Beacon.com and DailyLove.net (Oct. 24, 2010). He is a 1997 Fresno
State graduate and winner of the 2003 West 35st Street Award for best new
American private-investigator short fiction.
By Chris Sharp
There was something so chunky and nice about the mayor’s jowls that it took all of Volunteer Deputy Taylor’s will power and frowning to resist pulling them out further with his fingernails.
“You see, Mayor, these boys are my boys,” said the mayor to Elk City’s previous mayor. Everyone was celebrating and smiling over the city’s new building. Volunteer Deputy Taylor was chosen to stand to the immediate left of the mayor, an honor he held over three younger volunteer deputies.
After some minutes of handshaking and political groveling, Volunteer Deputy Taylor felt he had done all he could to stifle the impulse to pull out the mayor’s left jowl. He finally rerouted these rebel instincts with a statement that simply said the rebel words “yada, yada, yada.”
The mayor took the rebuke in stride. “Yes sir, it’s a fine day. A fine day for everyone in Elk City.”
As soon as the ceremony ended, Volunteer Deputy Taylor jumped onto his little Honda motorcycle and flew to the restaurant named Group Therapy.
The place had been founded by a former psychologist who had at one time let his license be taken away and had even allowed himself to be clamped into a year of prison.
These days, the former psychologist led his lunches and dinners as a master of an entertainment known as “group therapy.”
“Once again, we are happy to have Volunteer Deputy Taylor among us,” said the ex-psychologist. The motorcycle helmet and the boots brought the usual hand-clapping. “Volunteer Deputy Taylor, what is the latest on Tourette syndrome?”
“Sir, I had a strong direction today to pull off the left side of the mayor’s face, but I redirected it to just saying ‘yada, yada, yada.’”
After the lunch, Volunteer Deputy Taylor zoomed his motorcycle to the high school where he was volunteer for the rest of the day.
“Volunteer Deputy Taylor, it’s great to have you with us in the afternoon. No one understands our perennial troublemakers like you.”
The principle was so totally tucked in that Volunteer Deputy Taylor had to fight the urge to reach out and pull out his shirt on every side. Again he redirected his urge to saying “yada, yada, yada.”
“Yes, it’s basically another ‘yada, yada, yada’ day,” said the principal to Volunteer Deputy Tayor.
At Volunteer Deputy Taylor’s house, his wife greeted him with the words “No dinner tonight – too sad.” – written backwards on her forehead with the charcoal she sometimes used in her job as a house painter. He circumvented her by making his own dinner.
When he went into the bedroom she asked him to lie on the floor.
“There are demons under the bed doing all this stuff to mess up our heads. Not just our heads, but the mental state of every painter and peace officer in these United States. Could you just look for them, Dan?”
“Again, Danielle?”
“Please. At least until they get tired of us decent-living Americans and go away, go away and let us alone at last.”
He went low on the floor to find demons – any demons – under the bed. But again, the demons were brilliantly hidden. “Brilliantly,” Volunteer Deputy Taylor said to himself.
He had to close his eyes to rest up and just hope the demons would be satisfied in his nightmares where they were supposed to be, where they would never again keep his poor Danielle up so late into the nights.
- - -
Chris Sharp has had short fiction in Aphelion@webzine.com, Kalkion.com, West
Ranch Beacon.com and DailyLove.net (Oct. 24, 2010). He is a 1997 Fresno
State graduate and winner of the 2003 West 35st Street Award for best new
American private-investigator short fiction.
