Gravity

My brother always seemed to be the first. My parents came to America in 1897, leaving Ireland to start a new life. I once asked my father, why he decided to leave, and all he would tell me is “It seemed like the right thing to do.” in that thick Irish brogue of his. My brother, Rowan, was born in January of 1900, the first born, the first son, the first of a new century. My mother would tell me later that he came early, he was due in February. But Rowan, being Rowan, had to be the first. He was the first boy born in Harper county. My mother would tell me that Rowan was the first baby boy of the 1900s. That was just Rowan's way, I guess, always the first.

I was born two years later, a baby so small my father could hold me in the palm of his hand. The doctor told my parents I wouldn't last, I wouldn't survive. I like to think I proved them wrong, in a way. I've always been “frail”, in my mother's words. “A sweet, sweet boy.” My father had to have been disappointed, a strong man like himself having a son like me. My father probably expected to have many strong, hearty sons to work on the farm. He was left with just Rowan and myself, when my mother died. No more sons. Just a frail boy and the first boy.

Now, don't take to believing I thought badly of my father. Far from it. He may have been slighted to find such a weak boy as his son, but he was a Mumford, a proud man. While Rowan and my father worked on the farm, a task too strenuous for me, I was tasked with learning. “These here”, my father would say as he set down a stack of books, “Will be finished by tonight, ya' hear?” If I wasn't going to be a strong Mumford farmer, my father decided I'd be a smart Mumford. Maybe a lawyer, or doctor. He would go into town, grabbing as many books as he could. It had to have been a humbling experience, my father asking the librarian for books for myself. My mother's legacy was teaching her boys to read, something my father could never do.

I would read every day, from sunrise to sunset. I explored worlds with Gulliver, fought Indians with David Bowie, and sailed the seas with Captain Ahab. And every night, Rowan would come into our room, sore from the days work, and ask me to tell him a story.

I found out very quickly, that I had a knack for telling a story. Rowan would sit there, enamored as I told him the stories I had read during the day. The best compliment Rowan ever gave me is, after telling him a story, he looks at me and goes “Ferg', some days I wish I was you. I wish I could be you sometimes.” Now, whether or not it was meant as a compliment, I haven't a clue. But it was nice, it was nice to know the great Rowan, the first boy of 1900, felt some jealously. He felt jealous of me.

Whether coincidence or not, the next morning changed everything. “Ferg, Fergal, wake up” Rowan poked me awake, and as I rubbed my eyes awake, I couldn't help myself but chuckle.

“Rowan, what in blazes are you wearing?”

Rowan was dressed in pants and a shirt, but he was wearing a belt with all sorts of metal and bags full of sand attached to him. He just looked at me, eyes wide, and pressed his finger to his lip to quiet me. Then he took off the belt.

At first, it seemed like nothing happened. But then, Rowan started to rise, lifting into the air until he was pressed against the ceiling. At first, I thought it was some kind of trick, and I looked for strings or a platform of which he could be standing on. But there was nothing. My brother was floating in the air. His eyes were wide, Rowan looked terrified. He grabbed the bannister of the bed, and pulled himself back down to earth, putting the belt on himself once more. Then he looked at me, looking for answers.

“Is it the Devil, Fergal?” By brother asked, sucking air in a panic.

“Rowan, you can levitate.”

“Ferg'?”

“Remember that book, about the genies and the Arabians? Remember the flying carpet? That's you!”

“But I don't want it to be me!”

My father must've heard the ruckus, and came to our room, asking us what all the fuss was about. This time, I didn't watch Rowan, I instead watched my father. As Rowan took off the belt once more, my father's eyes lit up, as he watched his sixteen year old son rise to the ceiling. At first, I thought it was fear, but then I realized what it was: Amazement. Wonder. Envy.

Things moved pretty fast after that. It took me a few days to convince my father and brother, but eventually the agreed with me. People would want to see my brother and what he could do, and they'd be willing to pay.

We went town to town, all over Kansas. Pay a nickel, and see the amazing levitating boy. My father fashioned a tent for us to use. People would pay, and come in. After a few choice words, by myself, Rowan would come in. He would stand in the middle of the tent, as we had set the chairs up in a circle. Rowan would do it slowly, untying one bag of sand attached to him at a time. And slowly, slowly, he would rise. To the very top of the tent, and then he would float there, looking down on the people. They would gasp, they would blame it on the Devil, then call Rowan an angel. And then, once my father and I pulled Rowan down, they would pay to see it again.

“Rowan, what's it like? Floating, I mean?” I asked him once, after a show. We were taking down the tent, getting ready to head off to the next town.

“It's comfortable. Wearing these weights”, he said pointing at his belt with the sand bags, “Just don't feel right. Sometimes I wonder, if I took the belt off in the middle of the field, how far up would I go.”

“I think you'd go all the way, Rowan.”

“All the way to Heaven, right?”

“That's right, Rowan. That's right”

It was at the next town, at the edge of Kansas, that my father said good-bye. It must have been hard, to admit that it was just too much work for him. Going town to town, the constant travel of it all. He looked at us and told us he was proud. Proud of his boys. “I raised myself two good men.” He smiled when he said this, something I rarely saw from my father. He gave Rowan a bear hug, and then squeezed my shoulder, and he left. Sometime later, in the house my father had built with his own hands, he died in his sleep. I guess he knew what was coming, and wanted to do it at home.

It was later that night, after my father left, that Rowan and I started to discuss the future. We had done two shows that day, and decided to reward ourselves with something to drink. The little tavern was dirty and cramped, but it suited us just fine. Rowan drank whiskey, while I stuck to water. I wanted to keep traveling, go to other states and towns. Maybe, one day, the white house, I suggested. Rowan just chuckled, and took a sip.

“Fergal, why does it matter? I think we should've gone home with Pop. All of Kansas has seen me, and we've taken a dime from them all. What more is there? More money?”

“You don't get it do you. Rowan, it's not the money. You can do something no one else can,. You're special. Shouldn't the world see that?”

“I don't care about the world, and I don't care about being special.”

“Then what is it, then, for you Rowan?”

“My wee lil' brother, that's what” He laughed, and ruffled up my hair. “Fergal, as long as you want to keep doing this, I'll do it. I ain't got no one else in this world anyway, mine as well spend it with you, eh, little brother?”

So we continued the show, we traveled all the way to Georgia even. Rowan was 22 at the time, a splitting image of my father. We did a show in a little town called, funny enough, Century. Just like the other shows, the townspeople filled up the tent, got quiet as Rowan began to take off the belt, then exploded in gasps and shock when they him float to the very top. I never got tired of watching it, the look in peoples eyes. That look of amazement. I could never get enough of it. Sometimes I wonder, if I knew this was going to be the last show, would I have appreciated it more? Or would have it taken away from the enjoyment of it all? I guess I'll never know.

I was beginning to pack up things after the show, already thinking of the next night's show, when I noticed Rowan. He was talking to a fair, dimunitive girl. She had blond hair and freckles all over her face. She was smiling, almost as much as Rowan.

In my later years, I regretted how I felt at that moment. I should have been happy for my brother, but instead I was jealous. I was hurt. It had always been Rowan and Fergal. I don't think I could imagine another person taking my brother's affections. I felt betrayed, and I left. I left that night, I didn't even say good-bye to Rowan. I'm sure at first, he was surprised. But Rowan, was smart, he had to have realized why I left.

It wasn't until years later, that I saw my brother again. I had returned to Kansas, and was living in the house I grew up in. I figured my father would want it that way, one of his boys living there. I had no need for the farm, and the land around the house grew wildly. As I got older, things became harder for me. On my good days, I could make it into town. But most days, I stayed in the house. A stray dog found his way into my home, one day. A mangy, frail looking scamp. He had wide, brown eyes though. He reminded me of myself, in my younger days, and I decided to keep the little thing. I named him Conor, after my father.

Sometime around my 29^th birthday, 29 more years than the doctor had given me, and I heard a knock on my door. I opened the door and found my brother standing there.

“Hey Fergal.” Rowan said to me, his smile weak. It isn't a lie to say that his hug hurt me, as I was much weaker than last he had seen of me. But it was worth it.

I motioned him inside, but he declined. “I like it outdoors.” He said, softly. He looked off into the wild fields, and began to tell me what had happened since I left.

Her name was Mary. It was simple, yet fitting, he told me. She had come to the show that night, and it was love at first sight. For the both of them.

“Her voice, Ferg', God, do I wish you had talked to her. Her voice was angelic.”

It had hurt him, he told me, when I left. But he knew why, just as I had known he would. With nowhere to go, he stayed in Century. Within three months, he had asked Mary for her hand in marriage. She, of course, said yes.

This was the life Rowan had always wanted but never had. A wife, a home, a simple life. These days, I feel guilty. Rowan lived the life I had wanted, for me. I sometimes wonder if that was wrong of me, to take him on the road, town to town. Did I make him a side show freak? But when I start to feel too guilty, when I start to get tight in my chest, I just remember what Rowan had told me that day: “Fergal, if we hadn't gone on the road, I'd never met her. Thank you.”

For a time, everything was perfect. Rowan and Mary were married, and with the money we had made, they didn't have too many worries. They spend some days walking in the grass, hand-in-hand, he told me.

As Rowan got older, though, it took more and more weights to stay on the ground. By the time Rowan was 27, it took 88 pounds of sand to keep him on the ground. He had become like me, spending most of his days in a chair. It must have felt horrible, like being in prison. His body was strong and healthy, and yet, confined.

Mary fell sick, in the wintertime, a sickness she never recovered from. I asked him, what was the last thing Mary had told him.

His eyes went moist, and he began to sob. “An angel”, Rowan said softly, “She told me I was her angel.”

I had never seen my brother like this. I could never imagine him this sad, it broke my heart. I told him, I wish I could take it back. Wish I hadn't left that night. Then I asked him what he planned on doing now.

“I feel...” He began, before drifting off, thinking about it all, “Everything feels so heavy, Fergal. I just want to to let go. Walk with me, please?”

I nodded yes, and walked with my brother, to the middle of a field. The walk took everything out of me, and I was ready to collapse by time we stopped. Rowan looked at me and smiled.

“I love you, Fergal.” He told me, as he slowly took off the sand bags on his belt. I was too weak to do anything to stop him, and sometimes I wonder if that was his plan. Slowly, he began to rise off the ground. I looked in amazement, just like every person who had ever paid a dime to see the show. I fell to the ground, weak, as Rowan rose in the air. He looked at me, below him, and gave me a smile, before looking upwards, to the heavens. I sat there, and watched as my brother floated into the air, until all that was left was the sky above me.

This Little Thing

(This was originally meant to be a much, much longer story about two young expectant parents going home for the holiday. I may still write a story about that, but I liked this as a short, sweet little slice of flash fiction. Boy on train with his pregnant girlfriend, thinking back to the first moment he met her. )

“She has a tail, y'know? Right now.”

Abby looks up from the baby book, and smiles at Charlie. The freckled little smile of yours that Charlie fell for 7 months earlier.

“Ab, why do you keep saying her? What if it's a boy?” Charlie asks her.

“I've just got a feeling. Plus, now we can name her after my grandmother, Marie.”

“Marie?”

“Non-negotiable, Charlie.”

Abby turns her attention back to the book, while Charlies looks out the train's window. Snowy Pennsylvania whizzes by, en route to Connecticut. Charlie had never met Abby's family, but heard good things. Regardless, he was nervous. It's always a nervous thing, meeting the parents. But meeting the parents and telling them they're now grandparents? Scary. Very scary.

Charlie feels Abby's hand grab his own, her soft skin warming him. Charlie thinks back to that first day. The first time he had ever seen Abby.

Charlie had been in Borders bookstore, looking at dog training books. His new dog, a hyperactive Akita Shepherd named Bentley, kept peeing all over the apartment. Charlie hit his last nerve when he came home to find his Magnetic Fields record covered in piss. Charlie scowled at the dog, and yelled at him. Bentley just turned his head ton the side, and gave Charlie a dumbfounded look. That's when Charlie knew he needed help.

There are over a thousand different kinds of methods to training a dog, from the mundane(treats and positive reinforcement) to the outlandish(enabling the help of a pet psychic to determine why Bentley was peeing). Four books, four methods later, Bentley was still peeing all over Charlie's apartment.

It was on his fourth trip to the dogcare aisle, that he saw her. Dirty blond hair, blue eyes, adorable freckles. She was wearing tight jeans and a brown shirt, and she was kneeled down looking at dog training books of her own. Charlie noticed the book she was looking at, and laughed. She looks over at Charlie, and gives him a perplexed look.

“The book”, he says walking over to her,”It didn't help me at all. I mean, honestly, none of these books have helped.”

“No?”,She stand up, “I just got this basset hound. Cute girl, but she just won't stop barking! I haven't gotten any beauty sleep lately, can you tell?”

“Can't say that I do, no.”

“You're nice to say that. Total liar, but nice.”

“Must be why I'm such a good lobbyist, right?”

“You're a lobbyist?” Her mouth drops at the very idea.

“No, no, but I would be a damn good one, huh?”

“you had me going there. Though I'm pretty sure a lobbyist dresses better than jeans, flip-flops, and a Baltimore Beer Week t-shirt.”

“It's wash day. My Armani is at the dry cleaner.” Charlie says to her, making Abby bust out giggling in an incredibly embarrassing, yet cute, manner. At least, that's how Charlie saw it.

“Oh, oh, wow. That's bad. That was a lot of giggles.” She says, her face going red.

“Yeah, that maxed out the giggle quota.”

“I'm going to go ahead and walk away, now that I've made myself look foolish and a mess. Best to leave now before I do something even more embarrassing, like schploiken myself.”

“Schploiken?” Charlie asks, confused.

“Very glad you didn't get that.” Abby says, shaking her head . She looks up at Charlies.

“Well, Mr. Lobbyist, it was...”

“Charlie. My names Charlie.” Charlie says, interrupting her.

“Abby.” She says softly.

“Would you like to grab a cup of coffee, Abby?” Charlie asks.

“I would love to.” She says, smiling.

Charlie nods his head toward the door, and they walk through the book aisles.

“Hey Abby, what's schploiken?”

“Oh, oh we're not at that level yet, sorry.”

(If this looks funny, still trying to figure out formatting. -K)

Odds and Ends

Right, so, let's try this again.
I'm a starter, not always a finisher. I have three journals I've written in over the last few years, countless mid-way through stories, proposals, projects, etc. I generally write every single day, but I don't write every single day about the same thing.

I think it's about time I started finishing things.

SO, giving the the blog thing another try. I read countless blogs about all my interests, so writing a blog about those same things should be doable, yes? Yes.
In terms of those interests, and what will (hopefully) be written here: Stories, writing, comics, food, Crazy nights with my roomies, movies, music, and whatever else catches my fancy.

Right now my fancy is on an oft-mentioned topic of mine: Digit distribution, specifically of comic books.
The direct market for comics is a niche and incestuous marketplace. Growth is the comic book industry and slim to nil, and the demographic has shifted upwardly the last twenty years. The kids that grew up with comics, wanted "edgy" in the 90's, which gave way to Image comics, foil covers, and Rob Liefield drawing big tits on Captain America.

Those mid-twenties kids became mid-thirties, the near forties, and the now the comic industry is all about nostalgia: Bringing back the Silver Age of comics. Lets bring back dead characters such as Hal Jordan, Barry Allen, and the like. DC relishes in nostalgia these days. It's like watching an old man masturbate to pictures of his wife when she was young and had perky tits.

Marvel is no better, relying less on nostalgia, and more on "Hey you like this character? Awesome. Here's 50 comics he is starring in. Oh, and we're jacking up the price."

I wrote something about comic prices last year, and I'll sum it up here: $3.99, for a 22 page comic with advertisements, is not worth it. It's not. And I thought, once the companies went to digital distribution, they would alter prices. $.99 for a digital version of a comic sounds reasonable, and yet, the companies are still charging up to $4 for a digital version. Sometimes, I feel like the comic companies want digital distribution to fail, to protect the direct market. That's some serious bad hat, Harry.

Warren Ellis, a creator who always tends to be ahead of the curve, touched on this topic in a recent post here. FreakAngels, anyway you look at it, has been a success. Giving free, weekly chapters of a serialized story, then making the money back on the collected edition. This, to me, is how the comic industry should move forward with. It's a proven model, with PVP and Penny Arcade leading the way in how to make money with webcomics. The popularity of Ipads and the advancement in e-readers, such as Kindle and Nook, will make this an even more popular method of distribution.

There were other things I wanted to touch on, but I'll save that for later. I don't want to make this blog post too long.

Since I talked about Warren Ellis, if you haven't, check out his work. Crooked Little Vein is a fantastic novel, and if you are at all interested in comics, then just grab any comic with his name attached. They're all that damn good.

More later.

-K

Way to take an eleven day break, Kris...

Sorry for lack of updates. There was a confluence of various things the last week or so, but God-willing, I'm back on track.

Quick Hits: 2/1/2010

What randomly flashed before my eyes in the last week or so.

Rest Stop 1 & 2: The first one was a pretty damn good little movie. It built up the tension, made the gore worthwhile, fleshed out the character of Nicole(and to a lesser extent, the cop whose name I forget), and gave us a simple, gritty horror movie. The finger biting scene and the death of the cop scenes, in particular, where quite well done. The 2nd movie took everything that worked in the first, and flushed it down the shitter. Annoying comedic relief, one-note characters("Hi, I'm a nerd!" "Hi, I'm a drunk slut!" "I simmer with brotherly rage!")somehow less gorey, and a horrible end. I do appreciate the ghost sex though, I do.

Transiberian: It started off as a good, atmospheric thriller set on the Transiberian railroad, with a solid cast(Ben Kingsley, Woody Harrelson, Emily Mortimer) but turned into a mindless, predictable schlock. Characters act without any reason, and Kate Mara wasn't nearly naked enough.

Second Skin: A documentary about people who play MMORPGs with a religious fervent. While it do a good job explaining why people like games such as World of Warcraft and Everquest, it really focused on the negatives of that subculture. Game addiction, Gold-farming Chinese sweat shops, and a son's suicide are the main threads of the movie. If it wasn't for the quirky love story(yes, there is a love story) and the section about a group of hardcore gamers preparing for the Burning Crusade expansion, the movie would be a total downer. But those two story threads keep it afloat, the fractured love story(Boy & Girl meet over online game, fall in love, then finally meet in real life) being the highlight of the entire doc.

Zombiemania: A short(less than an hour) little documentry about the resurgence of zombie popularity. It hits all the usual notes, spends a good deal of time on why Romero's movies still work today, and delves a little bit into how the zombie f/x has evolved over the years. Pretty much a light, fluffy little doc, but anytime you get interviews with George Romero, Tom Savini, and Max Brooks, you have yourself a good time.

Joe The Barbarian: A comic book by Grant Morrison(writer) and Sean Murphy(artist), is essentially the Lord of the Rings-meet-Home Alone. And it is amazing. The first issue, as this is, is a little slow, laying the groundwork for the rest of the series, But Murphy injects life into each page, that it is really worth getting, even if you aren't a comic fan.

Books Will Never Go Away

And by books, I mean actual, real books. In your hand books. The Kindle, the iPad, the eReader, etc., all have real merit, but books will still be around, in some fashion. Certain mediums, such as newspapers and magazines, I can see becoming completely digital.Books, though, will stay paper, to an extent. Even comics, which I primarily read digitally, will be around in paper form. There is something about reading a story in your hands, putting it on the shelf, just having it, that will keep them around. I read Grant Morrison's Joe the Barbarian last week, on my laptop. Then I went to the comic shop, and bought the issue. When I read it, the exact same story I had read on my laptop, is was much better. There's something about having the story, seeing the art in your hands, that cannot be replicated on a screen. Maybe it's my collector mentality, but if I like something, I want it in my ahnd. I downlaod movies, but if I love a movie, I need a copy of it on my shelf. I can go to a website and read Dylan Thomas poetry, but I'd rather have the book in my hand, to go through the pages of his poetry. It just isn't the same on screen.

With that said, I think the Kindle and devices like it have merit. People don't read anymore, especially kids, and that's criminal. But publishing companies don't help themselves at all. A non-discounted book can run you anywhere from $15 to $50. Even a relatively cheap book, say Animal Farm, is $10(via amazon.com). While not expensive, most people wouldn't elect to spend $10 on a novel. Especially a kid. They'll go and buy a DVD, a video game, fast food, etc. Comics, a medium that should be aimed at getting young kids to read, is even worse. The averahge price for a Marvel/DC comic book is $2.99, and they have already begun the process of getting readers used to paying $3.99 for comics. Comics, generally, vary between 22 to 32 pages of content, including advertisements. There is a distinct lack of content to price, there.

This technology gives me hope, that we can get books into the hands of kids. Most schools already use laptops in the classroom, the next step is to go completely digital. Maybe not a full-fledged Kindle, but one streamlined for students, filled with required reading and/or novels for them to read. Comic publishers could drastically reduce their prices, since the cost of paper has been their excuse for raised prices. The comic book demographic has shifted in the last 20 years, from young kids/teenagers to men in their 30s & 40s, who grew up on comics and collect them. This is not sustainable at all. Get those comics in kid's hands at an early age, give them a love for the characters and reading, and you have a new batch of consumers for the next 20 years or so.

I doubt what I want will ever happen, but I'll stay cautiously optimistic. Either way, I'll keep buying my books, and putting them on my shelves.

Fragments of a Dead Story 3

In simplest terms, this is a brief conversation between an old man and a young man about love. I will go back to this story eventually, but with a different approach. Originally about a young man finding a purpose, I think it should become more about the relationship. An old, lonely writer dying and a young man figuring everything out. Of course, it comes down to love and whiskey. The two most important things there are, am I right?

"The next few hours are a blur. We sit, and we talk. About life, about love, everything. At various intervals, Barano jots something down in a notebook.

“My first story, well, I was a little boy, obsessed with cowboys, so my first story was a cowboy story. I must've been eight or nine. But I wrote a story about this masked avenger, riding the plains on a stallion, righting wrongs. I may have been influenced by the Lone Ranger.”

“I was different, my first story...well, see I took a creative writing class in high school, I needed an english elective and this girl I was into was taking it. So I take the class and the very first day, we have to write a short story. I've never done this before, I've got nothing, so I just start writing what is happening. You know “Nick is stuck in class...” etc. I ended up writing a story about how I was writing a story ad nausem.”

Barano starts laughing, a hungry laugh, lifting his head up to the sky.

“Yeah. I got a C+ on that one.”

“So how'd it end up with the girl?”

“We dated for a while, a few years.”

“It's her, isn't it?

“Who?”

“The girl, the one you always write about. She pops up in everything you write.”

“Yeah, yeah I guess she does.”

“Nicholas, you never get over love, but you do have to accept when it's over.”

He looks at me, his glasses outlining his eyes.

“Yeah, I know, Professor. It's just...I don't know if it should've ended.”

“If you still love her, do whatever it takes.”

“I mean, yeah, you can say that, but who's to say this is even love? You said it yourself, young men don't know what love is.”

“I met my wife thirty years ago, when I lived in Europe for a spell. She was breathtaking, long brown hair, caramel eyes. And the way she looked in a dress...she broke necks. I met her through a friend, and we went on dates, and eventually I was able to call her my girlfriend. We took a weekend trip to Italy one time, exploring the vineyards in the countryside. It was a nice trip, the perfect kind for new couples to go on. One afternoon, while we were walking around one of the vineyards, it started pouring raining. So we run up to this gazebo, but of course we're soaked by time we get there. We laugh at this, at our dumb luck, when I look at her, and she just looks...I couldn't help myself, I went right to her, and I kissed her. I knew at that moment I loved her, and always would. We stayed under that gazebo as it rained, just her and I, and it was wonderful. We eventually got married, went through all the pains husbands and wives go through, and then she died. Cancer, five years ago. A year after her death, I returned to Italy, and drove around the countryside, lost in my thoughts. Out of nowhere, I see it:that gazebo, from that night. It looked like it hadn't changed a bit. I get out of my car, and walk onto it, the wood creaked beneath my feet but this was it, it was the exact same gazebo. I close my eyes, and I tell you Nicholas, I was there, on that gazebo, kissing her. It'd been years and years but I could still...I could still taste the rain on her lips."